Flashback Friday: The Gods' Own Keeper

I'm off celebrating my youngest son's university graduation. While I'm busy, I hope you enjoy this story from 2015!

 

The Gods' Own Keeper

Osbert Godskeeper scurried across the Great Hall of Chaotica. Orgo and Hempto were fighting again, and Osbert had no desire to get caught between those two. Neither had learned the control proper to a god, and Orgo tended to leak lightning when he got mad. Hempto was worse. He smoked. Not his pipe, which was bad enough--the gods’ herb of choice stunk, as far as Osbert was concerned. But when Hempto was upset, smoke came out of every orifice. It stunk even worse than his pipe, or Chacto the Great's cigars, and it burned. Hempto was a fire god, and nothing but trouble.

 

When he had reached the far end of the hall and the safety of his office, Osbert’s manner changed. No longer a frightened, scurrying figure, he stood erect and took firm hold of his microphone, scowling fiercely at the battling behemoths.

 

"Orgo and Hempto! You two will stop that NOW!" His amplified voice boomed across the hall, and the battling gods screeched to an abrupt halt, abashed. “Now, clean up the mess you made, then go to your rooms and behave yourselves,” Osbert continued, and watched, arms crossed, until the blushing gods started to right the overturned furniture, and put out the fires Orgo’s lightning had caused. Someone opened a window high on the wall—one of the bird gods, Osbert thought—and let the smoke out until the air cleared enough to see across the hall.

 

His job done for the moment, Osbert slumped back onto his desk chair, waving away a mosquito that buzzed by his ear. There were insects all over Chaotica, there being so many kinds of them on earth. They drove him mad, as if the larger and more boisterous gods weren’t doing a good enough job of that. Every kind of being on earth had to have its own god here in Chaotica, plus all the extras like Orgo and Hempto. The humans added to the chaos by inventing gods by the dozen, one for every neighborhood, Osbert sometimes thought. Chacto was one of those, god of some little island where they grew a lot of tobacco.

 

Keeping this menagerie of gods in order was tough. When the Church of Eternal Peace had made him their head priest and told him he was the one who would manage the gods, he hadn’t understood that they had meant it literally. For the last century, he’d been stuck here in Chaotica, breaking up fights between gods, keeping the predator gods from eating the prey gods, and always sleeping with a fire extinguisher and a bucket of water by his cot, because Orgo had far too little self-control for a lightning god.

 

When Osbert opened his eyes again, he saw the divine prototype of the gastropods had left a thick slime trail across the great hall. Sna the god of slugs and snails lacked a great deal more than self-control, though he lacked that, too. Like the creatures who worshiped him, he was just a slimy blob, and shed that slime wherever he went, like some kind of drooling infant. By now he was, as usual, somewhere halfway up the far wall. The raccoon god stood below him, a shaker of chocolate sprinkles in paw. Where did the gods get this stuff, anyway? Osbert had a feeling that if he ever got time to return to his kitchen, he’d find he was missing his chocolate sprinkles.

 

Osbert groaned and levered himself to his feet. Back at his microphone, he commanded the masked god to back off.

 

“But slugs are good if you roll them in the dirt to cover the slime,” Forbol protested. “I thought they’d be even better if you rolled them in chocolate sprinkles!”

 

“You will have to find a mortal slug to test that on. Leave Sna alone. And Sna, you will have to clean the floor, because I am NOT going to do it again! Oh, drat it!” Osbert spotted the great cat goddess Fluffy. She had the mouse god Squeak in her mouth again. “Fluffy! Put him down! Now!” The gods’ keeper let his head fall into both of his hands. It was going to be one of those days. The gods were worse than a class of kindergarteners.

 

A lot worse, and he lacked the managerial skills of Miss Cornflower, the woman who had molded Osbert and his classmates into a group of rational beings capable of learning at least a little bit. The gods refused to learn manners or common sense.

 

What would happen if he just let them fight it out? What happened to a god if another god ate it? They were immortal, right? So they’d just come right back, right? But how did that work when a god had been masticated by another and passed through the digestive tract? Osbert moaned again. His head hurt. A lot.

 

Maybe if a god died, nothing would happen. After all, most people got on just fine with no gods, or no gods that they took seriously. And with all the new gods the humans had been producing, Chaotica was getting crowded.

 

That mosquito was back, buzzing around Osbert’s ear. This time, he slapped at the creature, not thinking. The buzzing stopped.

 

Osbert looked at his hand, and froze. The mosquito god was a little smear on his palm, and it didn’t seem to be popping back to life.

 

In a few minutes, the prayers of praise and thanksgiving began to roll in. The mosquitoes that had plagued so many parts of the earth with everything from annoyance to deadly diseases had vanished.

 

Now Osbert knew what would happen if a god died. And he began to look about the great hall of Chaotica, a thoughtful look on his face.

 

The Gods’ own Keeper finally understood what power he had been given. And he never had liked rodents…

 

 ©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2021

 As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated.

Enjoyed this post? Avoid missing out on future posts by following us.

 

Flashback Friday: Random Theories (2012)

Continuing my search through my earliest blog posts, I found this one from November, 2012, and it tickled my funny bone. In the intervening 9 years, the kids who wore me out have grown into wonderful adults who will carry some of my stuff if we are backpacking, but the issues with gravity have grown more troublesome.

Friday, November 2, 2012

Random Absurd Theories

Revisions are on track!  I've finished the first rewrite, aside from some typing.  Bouncing between that and my activities aimed at getting a bond measure passed for our suffering local schools has me exhausted but feeling like I'm at least doing something.

So, for amusement, I'll offer some of the random thoughts that occupy my brain at off moments.  Sometimes, just for fun, I like to invent absurd theories to explain things.  Here we find a few:

Pay the Gravity Bill  There's an old Calvin and Hobbes comic strip in which Calvin discovers his Dad didn't pay the gravity bill, and he floats away.  Well, it turns out that after a certain age, if you forget to pay the gravity bill. . . they turn UP the gravity.  Way up.  This explains those days when working out is just torture.  You didn't pay the bill, you get to suffer.

Too Many Athletes in Colorado  The reason there isn't enough oxygen for a good run in Colorado is that there are too many athletes and they have sucked all the oxygen out of the air.

Kids' energy supplies  We figured this one out well over a decade back.  Kids have separate stores of energy for different things.  For hiking, one source, and not a very big one.  For playing: some other, nearly infinite, source.  You arrive in camp after a three-mile hike with your 8-year-old so exhausted he can't even set his pack down, has to drop it with a crash in the dirt.  Two minutes later he's running up a mountain in pursuit of whatever it is that kids run up mountains to pursue, and doesn't stop until you force him to.
Corollary:  Kids get their energy by sapping it directly from their parents.  Ask any mother of toddlers.

Today you're a dophin, tomorrow a sea slug  Okay, this one isn't a theory.  More of an observation.  It's based on my swimming workouts, but the same thing is true for any kind of workout.  When a swim goes really well, I say I'm a dolphin--swimming smoothly and easily and could go on forever (or at least for a mile).  But other days, I'm lucky if I'm a sea cow, ponderous but not ungraceful.  I'm just as apt to end up a developmentally-disabled sea slug, whose limbs (do sea slugs have limbs?  Never mind) pay no attention to commands from the brain (I don't think sea slugs have brains, either. This may be the problem).  Anyway, it's generally true that if on Wednesday I'm a dolphin, on Friday I'm nearly certain to be. . . something less desirable. 

For biking, I guess you could say that if on one ride I feel like the winner of the Tour (ha!), the next ride I could be ridden into the ground by an Edwardian spinster on a one-speed with a wicker basket and a giant hat.

All of this may be related to theory #1 about not paying the Gravity bill.  

Kids engaging Energy Source 2.

 ©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2021

 As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated.

Friday Flash: How Does a Dragon Blow Out Candles?

I got the idea for this story from a meme a friend posted, about the things you lie awake worrying about. How, he asked, does a dragon blow out the candles on a birthday cake? This is my answer to that vexing conundrum.

 

How a Dragon Blows Out Candles 

There was no way to dodge the problem. Every time one of Flick’s fellow students had a birthday they had a party, and at every party there was a cake. Flick liked cake, especially chocolate cake with lots of frosting. The cake wasn’t the problem.

 

The problem was the candles. Every one of those cakes came with a bunch of candles burning on top, and the excited birthday ogre, gargoyle, gremlin, elf, fairy, or human child made a wish—and blew out the candles.

 

Flick’s birthday would be one of the last, but it would come, and he couldn’t concentrate in class on account of the one, all-important question: How could a dragon blow out candles?

 

Flick sat in a desk an extra three feet away from all his classmates, because while he didn’t flame—much—when he breathed normally, there were sparks when he got excited. And once he sneezed and burned up his own homework. He was working on it, but it was hard. It was why dragons lived in bare, rocky places. Huffing and puffing like the others did to blow out their candles would be a disaster, because huffing and puffing was how Flick lit fires.

 

Grown dragons could control their flames. Some could even sneeze without so much as a spark. But controlling flame was an advanced level of dragon studies, and not something you learned in primary school. Grown dragons might travel and even live in forests and fields, but young dragons kept to the barren places. Flick attending school with the other young of the region was a daring experiment. It was important.

 

The experiment was important to the grown dragons because they wanted to prove they could be part of society. Managing his cake without disaster was even more important to Flick, because he liked cake and didn’t want to burn it up and disappoint the other students. Flick’s flammable sneezing fit had already raised some doubts about the experiment. If he incinerated his birthday cake, it would be all over, plus there would be no cake.

 

Mother was no help. She just said, “What’s cake?” When she found out, she said he shouldn’t be eating that stuff and had he done his math homework.

 

Dad was more sympathetic, having once eaten cake. He offered some very complicated explanations of how dragons controlled their flames. Flick couldn’t understand the directions at all, and couldn’t follow them even if he tried.

 

It was Grandfather Dragon who at last listened to Flick, really listened, and determined to solve the problem.

 

“It won’t be easy,” Grandfather said. “But you can learn. All of us do, though it’s easier after we reach, hmmm, a certain age.”

 

Flick didn’t care what “a certain age” was. He wanted to control his flame.

 

Grandfather tried to explain the mechanism. He tried to teach Flick the way grown dragons did it. None of that worked. But school was on a holiday, and Grandfather had nothing better to do—they’d thrown him off the Draconic Council for arguing that gargoyles were people. He was interested to learn that the gargoyles weren’t convinced dragons were people. He became as determined as Flick that the birthday cake should be a success.

 

They experimented. Flick tried puffing through a damp cloth, but if it was wet enough not to burn, it blocked too much breath and the candles wouldn’t go out.

 

He tried blowing on a spot near the “cake” they had made out of sticks and mud, but again, if he blew hard enough to put out the candles, the cake got singed.

 

“It’s no use,” Flick said, two boiling tears running down his face.

 

“There’s always a way. But it looks like you’ll have to do it the hard way.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’ll have to learn to meditate, then to control all your bodily functions, and that will teach you to stop the flame when you don’t want it. You’ve started learning that, though you might not know it. What you do with Master Smoke on Saturdays.”

 

“But Master Smoke said it takes years to learn control!” Flick cried, setting fire to the fake cake.

 

He started crying harder as he thought about all the birthday cakes he wouldn’t get to eat after they threw him out of school. And he liked being with the other children, even if they did all have to keep a safe distance from him. Some of them were brave enough to play with him, and he was getting pretty good at tag, though he still sometimes forgot to keep his tail out of reach.

 

The more Flick cried, the more flames came out, and the more tears boiled from his eyes. When they grew too hot to bear, Flick dunked his head in the bucket of water they’d kept handy in case of fire. He kept it there until he couldn’t hold his breath another second.

 

Raising his head, Flick let out his held breath in a great whoosh—and nothing happened. There was no flame.

 

“I put out my flame!” Flick didn’t know if he was pleased or scared. He wanted to control his flame; he didn’t want it to go away altogether. A dragon without a flame was just a big flying snake.

 

“Try the candles,” Grandfather urged, hastily setting up and lighting the “cake.”

 

Flick gave a great puff. The candles went out, and not a flame escaped his nose or mouth. A few minutes later, while they weighed the plusses and minuses of a dragon of having no flames, Grandfather noticed a trickle of smoke leaking from Flick’s nose. A few minutes after that, Flick sneezed and set the cake on fire again. Grandfather handed him a flame-proof handkerchief. Flick grinned a little uncertainly as he and Grandfather stomped out the fire.

 

And that is why dragons always bob for apples at birthday parties right before they blow out the candles.

 

### 

 ©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2021

 As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated.

WEP: The Kiss

  

What could be more appropriate for Valentine month than Gustav Klimt’s  The Kiss?

This shimmery, early 20^th century painting of a couple embracing in a patch of wildflowers has riveted art afficionados  across the world for decades.

Use this amazing painting to kick off  a romantic love story of star crossed lovers. Or maybe a much married pair who’ve been together for years. Of unrequited or lost love. Or any love of the other gazillion types.

For unValentinish souls, remember that there are kisses other than romantic ones.  The kiss of life, the kiss of death, the kiss of betrayal, the angels’ kiss in spring. The mystical thousand ways of kneeling and kissing the ground.

One golden artwork, a zillion directions to go. Pick yours and run with it. We’re cheering for you. And can't wait to see what you come up with!

That's the February challenge. And this is my response. I struggled a bit, until I remembered something my boys told me about their experience at 5th Grade "Outdoor Ed" at a camp near San Francisco.

The Kiss

“Do it! Do it!” All the kids were looking at him, chanting, as they had for every other camper in the group, “Do it! Do it! Kiss the slimy lips!”

Jordan looked from his campmates to the forest floor, hoping for some way out. Some way that wouldn’t mark him as a spoilsport or a chicken. Maybe it would be gone. It might have gotten away while they were urging him to pick it up.

“C’mon, Jord,” Callie urged. She was his best friend, but right now he hated her along with all the others. “You’re the only one who hasn’t. If you just do it, we’ll be the first team to complete the Banana Slug Challenge!”

The Banana Slug Challenge. Jordan winced. It meant a lot to the other campers. The first cabin-pair team to present photographic proof that every camper had kissed a banana slug would win the right to go first in line at every meal left in the week. That sort of thing mattered, especially with those bigger kids who always seemed to push ahead and get the best desserts.

Reluctantly, Jordan turned his gaze on the large, greeny-yellow gastropod at his feet. Of course it was still there. It was a slug. It couldn’t run away and hide. It probably didn’t know enough to run anyway. The slug wouldn’t care about what was about to happen. It was just Jordan who was grossed out by the thought of picking up a slug, let alone kissing it.

Not that it would be a real kiss. They’d all been coached on how to do it without hurting the animals. A little peck on the top of the head, avoid the antennae and the funny hole on the side of the head, if you could even call it a head.

Taking a deep breath, feeling Callie’s hand on his shoulder—was she pushing him or trying to reassure him?—Jordan slowly bent and ran his hand through the loose forest-floor duff. His scoop came up with the slug still resting on the mass of fallen redwood needles. He closed his eyes, then forced himself to open them. He’d had to look to make sure he got this right, or he could end up with a mouthful of banana slug. Definitely not what he wanted.

Hoping he wouldn’t puke, Jordan lowered his face to the unsuspecting creature in his hand.

Back at the camp, Jordan washed his mouth again and again, shuddering. He’d been fine until, not far from camp, they had come on a pile of horse poop with a banana slug nosing about for tasty bits. At least he hadn’t been the only one to puke.

The horror of that day would never leave him.

His lips rubbed almost raw, he left the bathroom when he heard the dinner bell, and began to run. He was a hero! They’d be first in line for dinner!

#

The life of a banana slug happens in slow-motion. Movement, dining, defense against predators—all depend on slime and patience, not speed or ferocity. And don’t even ask about mating, which can take all day. It might take half the day for a slug to decide if it will be male or female (answer: both).

The slug therefore hadn’t started or panicked when surrounded by large, noisy animals. It had simply continued to ooze along in search of the pile of delectable horse droppings it sensed lay somewhere nearby. Experience had shown that two-leggers left slugs alone.

The slug was dimly aware that the pile of duff it over which it slid was rising. The magnitude of the disaster became clear only when a vast face loomed in the slug’s view.

Then the slug would have fled at high speed, had such been possible. It made every effort to gather itself and writhe out of the way of the immense pinky-red arcs that curved closer and closer. Surely this couldn’t be happening. To be touched by such a disgusting creature, all dry and raspy and covered with neither fur nor the more sensible slime! The slug shrunk into itself, turned away, would have cried out if it had anything with which to produce a noise.

There was no escape.

The giant fleshy bits descended on the slug’s head, touched its skin. The slug was certain the touch would burn, leave a mark for all to see.

Then it was falling, along with the pile of duff it had rested on in security such a short time before.

The dreadful contact ended, the slug endured a new horror, the discovery of gravity.

Long after the loud, thumping herd of two-leggers was gone the slug lay there. When at last it dared to move, its body stretched out of the mess of dirt and redwood needles that had fallen with it, much of the forest detritus still clinging to head and back.

The horror of that day would never be forgotten, but life must continue. Slowly, cautiously, the slug began to move, gaining purpose and direction.

There was still that pile of horse droppings to be explored.

###

 

Banana slugs range in color from almost an olive drab to bright yellow, and some have black spots while others don't. I'm pretty sure the spots/no spots variations are regional--SF Bay Area slugs never seemed to have them--but the other shadings seem to have more to do with local conditions and what blends in well. The photos below all convey pretty accurate color. These are all my photos, all taken within 50 miles of San Francsico, accompanied by some fun slug facts.

The yellow end of the spectrum. Note the hole in the side, which is for breathing, but also gives access to the genetalia.

A poor photo but at the other end of the color spectrum, almost olive drab. The pneumostome (the breathing hole) is pretty wide open.

Banana slugs in flagrante delicto. Squirmy fact: banana slug phalluses can get stuck, in which case the will gnaw through them in order to separate. Some sources say it grows back, others that it does not.

Banana slugs at the diner (they will eat anyway; presumably they appreciate the partially-digested vegetation in horse poop). Note the mucus plugs at the back ends. Slugs generate a special mucus from the tail (as opposed to the slime they generate all over to prevent drying out and to make it easier to slide over rough surfaces) that can actually be used like a line to allow a safe descent from on high. I never caught them at it.

Hope you've enjoyed this little info drop on banana slugs!

Visit the WEP to see what others have made of this prompt!

 

 ©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2021

 As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated.

Don't forget--my third volume of short fiction is out! Pick up your copy of Wizard Libraries and Dragon Archives for just 99¢! Smashwords  Amazon

And pre-orders are open for Death By Donut!  

Amazon  Smashwords  Kobo B&N iTunes

 
 

 

WEP: Grave Mistake

 It's time for the October WEP challenge, and after missing several this year, I'm back with a tentative offering. I couldn't do any of the horror-type stories that the prompt and badge suggest. It's humor, and I hope you all enjoy it as a sort of palate-cleanser after all the spooky stories out there this month. But be sure to pop on over to the WEP and check out the other stories in the hop!

As for me--I'm back on the road again, and will be reading the stories when and as I  can, probably continuing into next month. If you leave a comment I *will* get back to you. Just don't hold your breath, okay? I don't want to be responsible for anyone turning blue in the face.

686 words.

FCA

Grave Mistake

“It’s a lovely piece, don’t you think, dear?”

“Mmm, yes. Is that the one you want, then?”

“I’m not sure. This has a lovely color, and the fine grain would look well, I think.”

“WIll it do the job?”

“Well, any of them will be cold enough. And I presume we can get whatever size we want, so I think I mostly need the right look.”

“Right, Dear.”

The salesman spotted the well-dressed couple studying the marble samples, rubbed his hands together, and approached the shoppers with anticipation in his eye.

“Is Madam looking for a slab or a stone?”

“Oh, not a slab. We could never afford to do the whole thing in marble. But for an accent—yes, I think this would do nicely.” She laid her hand on a piece of fine-textured pink-tinted marble. “Can it be cut?”

“Of course. Madam has particular dimensions in mind?”

“Well, naturally.”

“And is this for yourselves, or...” The salesman let the question drift off into a vague query.

“Oh, it’s for me,” the woman laughed. “I’m really the only one who needs it, you know.”

“I see.” The salesman assumed a solemn expression, and murmured something about regrets. The woman, distracted by another marble slab, didn’t hear. Her companion did, and a faint hint of interest, the first he’d shown since entering the showroom, crossed his face. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.

“Allow me to get your specifics, then, Madam,” the salesman said in a hushed and respectful tone. “Would you be having it engraved now, or, ah, after?”

“Engraved?” The woman appeared startled. Her companion pulled out a large handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. She gave him a dirty look.

“It is customary, my dear,” the man said, when he had his sinuses under control. He appeared to suffer from a curious tic that kept his mouth twitching.

“Oh, of course,” she said, not looking at all as thought it was “of course.” “What do you think would be best, dear? Dates? Some kind of wise or witty saying?”

“The dates, of course,” the salesman put in. He pulled a notebook from one pocket, a gold pen from another. “I’ll just note it down. Date of birth?”

“Oh!” The woman looked confused. “I don’t think that’s relevant. I was thinking more like, ‘Blessed be all that springs from this slab.”

Her husband considered that. “How about, ‘What is laid out on this stone will rise in the flames?’”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” his wife exclaimed. “It captures the spirit exactly!”

The salesman appeared ill. He had turned pale, and beads of sweat glistened on his face. “Are you quite certain?” He asked faintly.

“Of course we are,” the woman said.

Her husband said, “Engraved on the unpolished side, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” The salesman really didn’t seem to know what he was saying. His head was spinning. He collected the relevant billing information from the couple, and saw them to the door.

“Oh,” the woman added before they left. “How soon can you have that ready?”

“Um, we work quickly. Is Madam expecting to need it soon?”

“Oh, yes,” she said happily. “By the end of next week, if everything goes well, don’t you think, dear?”

“Rather. I’ll arrange to have the contractor pick it up.”

The salesman, thinking that rather a strange way to to speak of the usual sort who picked up his stones, headed to his office. He needed a drink.

Outside, the sleek black Audi pulled out of the parking lot. The wife, driving, was absorbed by the need to find a gap in traffic, and her thoughts about finally winning the prize for the best pie crust once she had her marble slab in place in the kitchen they were remodeling. Only her husband could spare the attention to the elegant sign for Simmon’s Granite and Marble, and to see the part of the sign they hadn’t noticed on the way in, perhaps because someone had bumped it with a truck and knocked it askew.

The part that read, “Headstones and Monuments.”    

###

All images and text ©Rebecca M. Douglass, unless otherwise indicated.
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!

Check out the other entries in the hop!

Friday Flash: The Space Explorer is back!

That's right--I'm back with a bit of new flash fiction after all these months, and it's everyone's favorite Space Explorer! It ran a little long, at 1175 words, including the title.

Xavier Xanthum and the Galactic Sandwich

Xavier Xanthum, Space Explorer, relaxed aboard his good ship Wanderlust. Kitty Comet hovered over his lap in the zero-g living space. For the moment, Xavier was content to let Larry drive the ship.

Comet mewed, and Xavier stroked the cat’s back, pressing it into his lap. Immediately the mewling changed to a roaring purr. Cat and spaceman alike relaxed, content.

“Captain, your presence on the bridge.”

Xavier groaned. The AI only got formal when something was wrong. Xavier set the cat gently aside and shoved off toward the control room. Comet continued to float in a curled position, drifting slowly with the air currents until she came to rest against the ventilation grate.

Xavier shot into the control room, which Larry had so grandly called the bridge. “What’s gone wrong now?”

“What do you make of this, Captain?”

Still with the “captain” thing. Xavier peered at the vidscreen. “It looks like… a sandwich?” He fiddled with the controls, zooming in on the strange object.

Not a sandwich. A holographic picture of a sandwich, projected from a nearby moon. Xavier was approaching an inhabited planet. That was according to plan. He needed supplies.

Suddenly, he also desperately needed a sandwich.

“’Bob’s Galactic Sandwich Shop,’” Xavier read from the holographic billboard.

“There is no such business listed in the directory,” Larry said. For an AI, he was pretty good at the doubt-filled voice.

“It’s new. How out of date must that directory be, anyway?”

“About three hours.” Larry’s voice went full artificial, as usual when Xavier was about to do something the AI considered foolish.

“Never mind. So this Bob fellow didn’t register with the authorities. Doesn’t mean he can’t make a sandwich. Take us down to the moon.”

“Redirecting.” The AI had little choice when Xavier issued a direct order, though Larry had been trying to get some new programing to allow him to stop Xavier from making big mistakes. He manifested, a pair of glowing eyeballs drifting around the room and pinning Xavier with a disapproving glare. But he obeyed orders.

Wanderlust shifted direction, bringing the billboard into better focus. The sandwich contained layers of meats, cheeses, and vegetables, though Xavier couldn’t name all of them. His mouth watered.

“What’s wrong?” Xavier didn’t like to be bossed by his own AI, but he knew that Larry had reasons for any opinion, voiced or not. After all, an AI couldn’t have hunches, so if Larry didn’t like the sandwich shop, something must be wrong.

“Why does this Bob advertise with an extra-planetary banner?”

“All the big outfits in the major ports do it.”

“Shiva isn’t a major port. It’s a minor moon around a modest colonial outpost.”

“I want that sandwich.” Which was all the answer Xavier needed to give.

###

They docked smoothly at the moon, which admittedly seemed a little too small and shiny to fit the usual run of extra-planetary orbs. Xavier had seen all kinds, but he’d never seen a moon-sized sandwich shop. The place was huge, and ships were docked at nearly all the fly-up portals.

It wasn’t until he left the ship for a closer look that Xavier began to share Larry’s unease.

There were no people about. All those ships, all those sandwiches… where were the customers? It was unnerving, but the smells of the roasting meats and toasted breads made his mouth water. Xavier wandered out in search of a menu. A gate closed behind him, cutting him off from return to the ship.

Xavier’s head jerked from side to side as he sought another route back to the Wanderlust, even as he cursed himself for not listening to Larry. He had a nasty feeling that he knew why he didn’t recognize the meat in that billboard sandwich. There were enough alien ships docked at Bob’s Sandwich Shop to provide a lot of unknown proteins.

He resigned himself to the loss of that imagined sandwich. Even if he got out of there, he wouldn’t be eating anything prepared on Shiva.

For the moment, the corridor was empty. Gates blocked both ends, and he made his way systematically down the hall, testing doors. If a knob turned under his hand, he planned to open it just enough to peek through before committing himself. Who knew what might lie behind an unsecured door in a place like this?

He needn’t have worried. Xavier found no doors that yielded to his touch. About to give up in despair, he heard a voice in his ear and whirled around. No one was behind me.

“It’s me, you idiot.” The voice came from his communicator, still clipped to his jumpsuit, and Xavier’s AI was annoyed with him.

“I'm trapped,” the intrepid space explorer whined.

“I know. I saw it happen. I’m scanning for a way out. Be patient.”

Be patient? Xavier didn’t see much future in that. How long before some machine came to turn him into a sandwich? He scanned the walls again, spotted a grate-covered opening midway along.

The ventilation system, Xavier reckoned. He moved toward the potential escape route, digging in a pocket for the tool kit he carried everywhere. Removing the screws should be a piece of cake, and then he just had to find his way back to the ship, with some guidance from Larry.

Heck, it wouldn’t even require tools. The cover had a latch and hinges.

“Don’t do it,” Larry’s voice warned.

“Don’t do it?” Xavier fought to keep from yelling. If no one had noticed him yet, he wanted to keep it that way.

“It’s not an air system.” Larry didn’t elaborate, which made Xavier think. He shuddered and headed as quickly as he could back toward the point where he’d entered the hall.

“Ah. I have it. I can’t raise the grates that block the hall, but I have unlocked the first door. It will take you through two more rooms, and a door into the hall by our docking port. I recommend haste, as I may have triggered an alarm.”

Xavier didn’t need urging. Xavier twisted the doorknob, ran through the next room, barely aware he scattered a couple of workers at desks and computers, passed through the second room the same way, and burst out into the hall as alarms sounded.

“Right ten paces, then left through your boarding port.”

Several clerks in hot pursuit, Xavier dove through his port just ahead of another gate, meant to block access. It caught his left shoe. He abandoned it, wriggled through Wanderlust’s port, and lay in the lock as Larry secured the doors and separated from the dock.

Only when the acceleration alarm sounded did Xavier manage to pull himself together and head to the control room. He strapped in just as the ship hit max pre-warp acceleration, and let Larry pick a new destination for a bit of R&R dirtside. One far from the deadly moon Shiva.

“Larry, make it someplace where they’ve never heard of sandwiches, okay? I seem to have lost my taste for them.”

###

All images and text ©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2020, unless otherwise indicated.
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!

Middle Grade fiction: Castle Hangnail

 

Title: Castle Hangnail

Author: Ursula Vernon

Publication Info: Penguin Young Readers Group, 2015. 386 pages.

Source: Library digital collection

Publisher’s Blurb:

When Molly shows up on Castle Hangnail's doorstep to fill the vacancy for a wicked witch, the castle's minions are understandably dubious. After all, she is twelve years old, barely five feet tall, and quite polite. (The minions are used to tall, demanding evil sorceresses with razor-sharp cheekbones.) But the castle desperately needs a master or else the Board of Magic will decommission it, leaving all the minions without the home they love. So when Molly assures them she is quite wicked indeed (So wicked! REALLY wicked!) and begins completing the tasks required by the Board of Magic for approval, everyone feels hopeful. Unfortunately, it turns out that Molly has quite a few secrets, including the biggest one of all: that she isn't who she says she is.

This quirky, richly illustrated novel is filled with humor, magic, and an unforgettable all-star cast of castle characters.

My Review:

Oh, this was just what I needed! Reality has been pretty horrific lately, so I wasn't inspired to read a truly scary book for our Great Middle Grade Reads October BOTM. I was happy my choice won, and when I started reading I knew we'd gotten it right. The description of Castle Hangnail which opens the book plays delightfully off every gothic pile you've ever read of, with the minor distractions of cheery dandelions in the "blasted heath" that surrounded it and a stray teacup by the front door. 

And the minions! They are the most delightful collection of misfits to wander the pages of absurd fiction, topped only by the absurdity of the 12-year-old Wicked Witch who shows up to become master of the castle.

The book, in my opinion, found exactly the right balance between the laugh-out-loud moments and some real peril, not to mention some very grown-up threats to Castle Hangnail (frozen plumbing? It takes a genius to make that both a hilarious problem and an existential threat). Yes, there are incredibly serious problems facing Molly and the castle minions. But the author doesn't let that stop her making the solutions as absurd as the idea of a minion made of steam. I didn't even think that the nod to mean-girl issues damaged the story, and I hope very much that Molly will be returning to the castle in a sequel.

My Recommendation:

A perfect Halloween read for kids from 7 or 8 up. I think it would be wonderful to read it aloud to the kids. Maybe I'll have to set up a Skype session with my boys... think they'd like that in their college dorms? (In fact, this kind of reminds me of the Hank the Cowdog books we used to read to the boys, with their mix of slapstick little-kid humor and more sophisticated jokes that the parents can get without comment).

Full Disclosure: I borrowed an electronic copy of Castle Hangnail from my library, and received nothing from the author or the publisher in exchange for my honest review. The opinions expressed are my own and those of no one else. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."    

Friday Flash—The Boyfriend of Truth

It's been a long time, so I thought I'd take an hour or so to give you some flash fiction. This one's more like half a flash, or maybe half-flashed, because it's just over 500 words, and I wrote it in a hurry. I went to the random title generators (about 4 of them) and collected a pretty good list of titles that might interest me at some point, but weren't right for a fast and barely-edited flash. This one did it. Enjoy the flash fiction, and enjoy your weekend!

The Boyfriend of Truth

It was all due to a simple misunderstanding. If my ears hadn’t been full of water from swimming, I’d have heard her name correctly, and I’d never have gone near her. 

But my ears were blocked, and when Hilary introduced us I thought the girl’s name was Ruth. That’s what I called her the whole time we were going out, and she never corrected me. Which, when I think about it, is kind of weird, because she wasn’t Ruth, which means sorrow or pity. She was Truth, which can be rather pitiless. 

I don’t mean that was just her name, which would have been an affliction to any girl but not the end of the world for her boyfriend. She WAS Truth, and once we got that straightened out, it explained a lot.

Unfortunately, by that time it was too late. I was fathoms deep, because she was beautiful. Come to think of it, that’s odd, too, because the truth may set you free, as they say, but it isn’t always pretty. It wasn’t in my case.

I fell in love hard and fast. When I told “Ruth” that I loved her and asked if she loved me, she said “no,” but I understood. I was moving too fast. I didn’t ask again. I realize now that things went on so long because I didn’t ask much of anything of her. I was too absorbed in my own feelings and desires, and that was what I talked about. If I’d asked her more about herself things mightn’t have gone on so long.

It was later, when I settled down a little and began to think, that I realized her reactions to me weren’t always what I’d hoped. I began to ask questions.

“Am I coming on too strong?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” But she didn’t kiss me back.

I didn’t get that one until Hilary pointed out, later, the difference between “can” and “may.” 

I’d been kissing her for a week when I asked the worst question. “Why won’t you let me do more than kiss you once in a while?”

“Because you do it so poorly, and you smell bad.”

“How can you say that?” That really hurt, because I’d spent a lot on a new cologne when I started seeing her. I wanted to impress her with my sophisticated taste, and she thought I stank?

“What do you mean, how can I say it? You asked a question. You get the true answer, because I am Truth.”

“Wait—what? I thought your name was Ruth. I’ve been calling you Ruth.”

“You can call me anything. I’ve told you what I am. I am Truth. If you want to hear only things you like, you should join all the other men hanging around Flattery.”

“Flattery?” I couldn’t remember any girl by that name. I looked where Truth was pointing, and saw a group of men clustered around a gorgeous blonde, whom I vaguely recognized from the same party where I met Truth. “I thought her name was Hattie.”

“You should get your hearing checked.”

It was the truth. Of course.

***

©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2018

As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated.