600 words a day ...

I'm starting this crappy experiment again.
Why?
Well, mainly because it feels like I'm trying to cut through a steak with a crayon every time I sit down to write.
The wheels just aren't turning. And the prose? Yeah ... totally lame.
This being the Internet, however, I feel inclined to share my lameness with the whole world five readers here.
Enjoy. Remember: be abusive in the comments.

Note ... all this is unedited, stream of consciousness drivel. But the mental head trips are fun, kids. Write! Don't do drugs.

-1-

“How do you feel about turning into a clownfish for a few hours?” asked Deputy Minster Anderson.

President Gorman paused and sat back in his chair. “There’s something about this my rivals are just going to love.”

“It would only be for a few hours,” Anderson replied. “We could probably run cover on it. Besides, there are thousands of scientists out there who’d kill for the chance.”

“Too bad I’m not one of them.” Gorman said. “And how exactly are you going to run cover on it? Remember Prime Minster Brown? The tabloids are still all over the 'minister goes monkey' debacle. How do you live down eating your own feces, Anderson? Explain that to me.”

“Look, I get it. You're concerned. But we'll cover this. And if you want to deal with the Shawnee those are the terms.” Anderson said. “And believe me, we want to deal with the Shawnee.”

-2-

Alexander Blu didn’t want to go camping with his son.

It wasn’t that he was a bad Dad, he was just busy. And Jason asked a lot of questions.

“You’re a journalist Alex,” Mariana would say. “He asks questions because he’s trying to imitate you.”

After four days Alex was just about questioned out. And as the pair doused the fire and settled in for their last night camping Alex nearly ignored his son’s query.”

“What’s that light?”

Then Alex heard the boom.

-3-

Alex and Jason waited until dawn to leave their campsite to investigate the disturbance of the preceding night.

Three miles later they were at the crash site. It looked as if nothing had been disturbed. And for an instant, Alex wondered if maybe Jason had somehow tricked him into investigating the crash as a way to lengthen their trip.

Then he spotted the carriages. There were four of them, all wooden and adorned with cheesy advertisements similar to the magazine ads Alex’s dad used to collect back in the 1950s. Three women were setting awnings over the open carriages as two men focused on a copper cylinder in the middle of the wagon train.

“Heck of a place for the carnies to shack up,” Alex said.

“What’s a carny?” Jason asked.

Alex sighed. “Nevermind. Just follow me.”

The pair walked toward the wagons. The women hanging the awnings didn’t seem to notice them. The two men with the copper tube knelt near the device, one extending his hand as the other held up a gray stone. A bolt of blue suddenly streaked out of the man’s hand, connecting with the tube. It vanished. The air filling with a crack into the previously occupied space.

“Dad … how?” Jason said.

-4-

Alexander Blu was lucky to wearing his wool hat.

The Shawnee briefly glanced around the wagon train. “We could turn you into … that.”

“A deer?” Alexander asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It’s … uh … complicated.” “But we’ll change you back. You just have to give us that.”

Alexander followed the Shawnee’s finger. It was pointing right above his head.

The horrifying revelation settled in. “You want to steal my brain?!?”

“Uh … no. That.”

Alexander grabbed his wool hat. “You want my hat?”

The alien nodded vigorously.

-5-

Alexander Blu would later describe the “deer experience” in his book Sharing with the Shawnee thusly:

It was an altogether incorporeal journey – the center of which I have no recollection. My human consciousness ebbed away as the reality of the deer’s mind pranced forward. My arms lengthened into legs as my feet kicked back, slamming my face into the ground before reoritneing my self in my new quadrapedal manner …”

Alexander wasn’t the world’s greatest writer. But he was the first human to experience a Shawnee transformation and that made him and expert.

Uh ... that's about 600 words, right????

Flash Fiction: Jane likes guitar

It had to be raining for Jane to play her guitar.
Otherwise, she'd say, it just didn't feel right.
It was a funny thing, her always playing in the rain. Especially since Jane would write some of the happiest songs you ever heard. Her fallbacks were major chords, upbeat and vibrant, and some of her best songs - "Valerye Man," "Garnished Pages" "Total" - all used them.
But don't get me wrong, Jane's songs were never simple. In fact, they were some of the most beautifully complex things I'd ever heard.
Jane played the guitar like a piano. The chords were always just a backing. And as she gently caressed the frets of her worn twelve-string her fingers always managed to pluck out some sort of melody. Sometimes you'd expect what she'd play. Sometimes you wouldn't. Sometimes it be light and slow and sometime the music would be so hard and fast it really did sound like rain. And Jane liked that.
She was a musical genius. But of course you've never heard of her. That's OK, don't feel bad. No one outside of King River has. But here she's something of a legend, that's for sure. Go ahread, say the name "Jane Simmons" down at the Coffee Bean and I gaurentee some latte-sipping music nerd will chime up with a story about how Jane almost scored that life-changing contract with Virgin Records for "Baby, Shake Your Band." Or about how she almost opened for Crosby Stills and Nash on their world tour of '83. Or how she almost joined Bob Dylan's backing band. Or how she almost ...

Tonight Jane took the stage without any fuss. Quiet and reserved, as always. Her twelve string sat next to a birch bench and she uttered not a word before flying into "Darker Coils," one of the Coffee Bean's crowd favorites.
Jane never spoke in between songs. She never spoke at all on stage, in fact. It was part of her persona. Disembodied.
And you never saw her face on stage either. Sure you'd see it when she walked out. Those glinting green eyes looking equally bored and thrilled as she walked out on the stage to thunderous applause. But after the music started, her face disappeared. Auburn hair cascaded wildly over all her features, wrapping itself around her head and neck and forming a makeshift mask. Jane on stage. Disembodied.
And playing some of the best damn stuff you ever heard.
"Garnished Pages." "Total." "Valerye Man." And she ended with what we always assumed was her favorite, since she always ended with it - "Nigel's Rain."
The piece started out slowly, ethereal melodies layered over tapped bass notes. She made it seem easy, but it was some of the toughest stuff she played all night. As the song picked up so did her fingers, flying wildly over all stretches of the fretboard and coaxing a universe of sounds. You got transfixed. You got transported. Her hands were mesmerizing and the music a thing of enchantment. The melodies flew and flew and by the end, it really did seem like it was raining. And maybe that was why Jane was so damn good. She had to simulate the beauty of nature to play. She had to make it rain.
How else could she play?

Flash Fiction: Shady Brook

I'm getting a little self-conscious about posting all this writing on here, but hey, a promise is a promise. If nothing else, this flash fiction experiment is teaching me the value of free writing.
I just hope the stories (which are all unplanned at the beginning, by the way) are at least comprehensible. Anyway, enough bickering. Here's today's entry. Enjoy!

The two boys crept through the dense thicket of ferns, paused for a moment and let their arrow fly.

“Whop! A direct hit! Nice shot Marcus!”

Marcus adjusted the crow feather he’d found earlier and plunked into his ear to block out the sun.

“Thanks Nick. I wonder what we hit. Let’s go check it, huh?”

Nick nodded enthusiastically and the pair pushed their way through the ferns. The forest was thick, but their prey had fallen in an easy clearing. As the boys stepped into it they were surrounded by rays of golden sunlight, piercing down in near-parallel rays from above the high tree canopy. It was noon, or thereabouts.

The pair scanned the ground and their eyes fell to the struggling form pinned to the side of a tree by a vicious looking arrow. The legs were still kicking and a small pool of crimson blood was forming underneath.

“A rabbit! Whop! Right through the heart, I’d say. You hit a rabbit Marcus! Nice shot!”

“Thanks. Makes me feel like one of them folks Father’s been talking to. They shoot the rabbits, you know. Use every part of them too. The fur for gloves and the legs for meat. Probably even find some use for the bones and teeth, but I don’t know.”

“What do you think Father will say when he sees it?”

“I don’t know. It’s supper at least. That will make him happy.”

While the boys were talking the rabbit stopped its struggle. The pool of crimson had filled out nicely. Nick reached for the rabbit, picked it up and plucked the arrow out from the creature’s still heart. A squirt of blood shot onto Marcus’ face and he smeared it into three slashes, pantomiming a native dance he’d observed back at the Indian’s camp one night.

Whop! Whop! He screamed.

“Come out of it now, Nick. We need to get back to camp.”

The boys began their march back through the fern bush, carefully navigating around a cluster of rocks before hopping on the old log and crossing over the Shady Brook stream.

“Father says this place wasn’t always called Shady Brook,” Marcus said. “He says it used to have another name. Its true name before the White Man came and changed it. What do you think of that?”

“What do I think of what?”

“Of the name. Of us changing it. Do you think it changes things any?”

Nick’s eyes crunched up, squeezing the blood war paint into a frightening pattern of intricate lines dancing on his cheeks. He seemed to be thinking. “I don’t know, it does, I suppose. But things always change. That’s the way. Just look at what Father’s doing, he’s trying to change the Indians, isn’t he? Give them religion? Who says they want it?”

The boys walked back in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

It was near dusk by the time they reached the camp. Father was sitting with one of the Indians when the boys walked into the camp, the rabbit proudly slung over Nick’s bloodied shoulders.

“Father! Father!” Nick exclaimed. “Look what we killed out there today! All by ourselves! Can we cook it?”

The conversation with the Indian broke of and the boys’s father made his way over to the two youngsters.

Nick thought he noticed a flicker of momentary disgust pass over the Indian’s eyes before he turned his head to the ground and walked quietly back toward the burning fire at the center of the camp.

Nick’s Father knelt down in front of the boy and sternly asked, “Why did you bring this here?”

Puzzled, Nick answered “We brought it for you.”

“Well, I don’t want it. Can’t you see you’ve insulted Chakotay? I’m surprised he didn’t walk over here and tell you off himself. It’s not good what you are doing, bringing a dead animal in here and asking if we can cook it when there’s already plenty of food.”

Marcus, feeling pity for his brother chimed in. “We thought you’d be proud of us. You always say a man needs to make it for himself. He needs to stand on his own two feet and get his own food.”

“That might be true, but not here. Can’t you boys see? These here Indians, they see us as takers. Takers who consume all that’s around them. We’re like blight to them. That’s why they need religion. That’s why they need us here. We’re not takers, but we’ve got to show them that. Now get rid of that rabbit Nick. And for the love of God, loose the war paint and the feather!”

Confused, the boys scampered off into the woods, depositing the rabbit into Shady Brook.

“I just don’t get it,” Nick said, after a long silence.

“Get what?”

“How we’re the takers.”

Marcus couldn’t answer. “Come on, let’s go back and ask Chakotay what they used to call Shady Brook. I think he’d like that.”

Flash Fiction: Betamax Implants

SysCorp announces closure of BrainAssist Line, cites competition from BrainBoost

Washington, D.C. - Bioengineering firm SysCorp announced today it would cease production of its floundering BrianAssist line, effectively conceding defeat in the five-year "augmentation war" to rival Aperture's popular "BrainBoost" implant series.
Last month, SysCorp President Cynthia Bow announced massive losses in the company's fourth quarter earnings, a reality experts predicted spelled doom for the pioneering line of brain augmentation technologies.
"Syscorp is remarkably proud of the pioneering spirit of its doctors, scientists and engineers," Bow said in a statement. "We take pride in being the first to introduce augmentation technology to the consumer market and are happy to have opened new cognitive horizons for our customers around the globe."
With BrainAssist discontinued, however, many customers are finding themselves left with an obsolete implant. And there's more bad news. They'll be no more updates.
"These guys reformatted my entire brain to make room for the augment," said Scott Schmidt, a BrainAssist user. "It cost me a fortune. Now they're just stopping production? What about updates for my BrainAssist? I'm stuck with this thing in my head and it's useless. Already I've lost my job to a BrainBoost user. How am I supposed to compete?"
Bow acknowledged customer frustration, but responded saying: "We made it clear to all users that indefinite updates were not a part of the contract."
BrainBoost user Thadius Clinton agreed saying: "BrainAssist users knew they were taking a risk when they jumped aboard the augment wagon five years ago. I understand the need to be first and all. To you know, impress your friends with your whiz-bang gadgetry. But, me, I was a rationalist. I waited out to see who won the augmentation wars and boy, am I ever glad I did. Don't get me wrong, I feel sorry for the BrainAssist folks. I mean, that's a lot of money for a useless piece of hardware, but do I feel bad for them? Not really. The smart ones among us were cautious. It's their own fault, really."
No statement has yet been released from Aperture Science.
SysCorp says they will fight any litigation demanding compensation.
"If they want to upgrade to a BrainBoost, that's their decision," Bow said. "We're just happy to have served our loyal customers for so long."

Flash Fiction: Dusty Cowboy!

Even by the river, the dust was incredible.
It got into everything. Your boots. The tip of your hat. The lapels of your coat.
The dust was a part of everything, but after a while, you just didn't really notice it anymore. That was the Valley. And the dust was part of it. It was part of you. It was part of home.

****
Clarence brushed off his coat and along the Ake River bank. He'd worn two of his best Colts for the occasion, holstering them in the Smith-Worthington holster his Daddy got him when he turned 10 all them years ago.
Daddy'd been the one who'd taught Clarence how to shoot, but it was his mother who taught him how to steal. It was tough being a kid in the dustbowl. Sometimes you had to steal to survive and hope that the more fortunate would simply look the other way.
Clarence's Momma didn't like stealing, but sometimes it was just necessary, she'd say. A harsh reality of life, as it were.
So as a kid Clarence sometimes snuck onto old man Godfry's farm and lifted a chicken or a few ears of corn. It was nothing major. His Momma needed it, after all.
But raising a child to steal can be a dangerous thing. And it didn't take long for young Clarence to fall in with the wrong crowd.

***
Clarence spent three years with the self-proclaimed "Wild Boys" before his first duel. The Wild Boys were a rag-tag group, made up of a bunch of teenagers from the Valley who were just getting their first shadows of beards. They weren't bad kids. In fact, some in the valley, called them heroes. It was the Wild Boys who weren't afraid to rob a bustingl farm and give the spoils to a hungry family.
It didn't take long for people around town to have an idea who'd done it. The crops would disappear at almost the same time every month (and always at night, after the dust settled) but most everyone just looked the other way. The harsh reality of the Valley was many did have it better than others. So why not share?
Besides, farming was a matter of dumb luck. Just because Mother Nature decided to throw Old Man Godfry a little extra rain meant that Clarence's mother had to go hungry? Not likely.

***
Fadius Hiker moved into Godfry's plot in May, after the old man finally died.
It didn't take long for Hiker to develop an acute aversion to the Valley's "Wild Boys." Hiker was a stern man and a fastidious businessman who counted every last penny. But more importantly, he was an outsider.
And having come from New England, he wasn't used to the dust.
"It gets everywhere," he'd tell whoever would listen. "I just can't get used to it. A man can't even steal a yawn out in them fields without getting a mouthful."
So Hiker wasn't here for the scenery, that was sure. He was here for the money. And while old man Godfry might have tolerated Clarence and the Wild Boys' occassional thefts, Hiker did not.
The first time the Wild Boys hit the farm Hiker was in Sheriff Jenkin's office the following morning, blazing mad.
"It's them boys, it's gotta be," Hiker said. "What do you call em? Them Wild Boys! I tell you, I heard voices out in the fields last night. Laws, I shoulda know it was them! But here's me half asleep and dreaming, thinking I'm hearing the ghost of old man Godfry or something like that. I didn't pay it no heed. Then I wake up this morning and guess what? Three chickens gone missing! Whadda you say to that? That's robbery, plain and simple. That's what it is. Now you gonna see they get caught for this, right Sheriff? You gotta punish them boys, show 'em what's what!"
Of course Sheriff Jenkins wasn't about to arrest the Wild Boys, the Boys were a mennace sure, but they were widely ignored. Heck, in some circles, they were even liked. But Hiker wouldn't never understand. And Jenkins didn't expect him to.
So he just kept nodding.
"Three chickens, you say? No! Well, we'll take care of it, Fadius, don't worry none."

***
Next month Clarence and the Wild Boys snuck back on Hiker's farm, lifting four corn stalks and three more chickens.
The following morning Hiker gave the same dog and pony show to Sheriff Jenkins, who greeted the man once again with the same smiling nod.
"We'll take care of it, Fadius. Don't worry."

***
The following month Hiker was ready when the Wild Boys came. He'd has his gun at the ready, but of course that was more just for a scare. Hiker wasn't no murderer. He wasn't about to shoot anyone on site, but the thefts of Clarence and the others had gone to far.
Those were four of my best chickens! Hiker thought. Think of all the eggs I coulda had!
So Hiker made his stand. When the Wild Boys came he casually walked out, eyed Clarence and challenged the shocked young man to a duel.
"Bring your friends if you like, but I only challenge you. Old man Godfry may have turned his eyes away from your treachery, but I won't. I don't care who you're stealing for, fact is you're stealing. And that ain't going to crackle. Meet me at the Ake riverbank, tomorrow, 1 o'clock."

***
Clarence adjusted his Smith Worthington holster and walked down to the river. With a strong swat he kicked up some of the residual dust clinging to his poncho and gently scattered the arid cloud with his cold breath.
Hiker was waiting with his flask.
"A drink before it all, son?"
"No, thank you."
"Right. Well then, let's get to it, shall we?"

***
The other Wild Boys where there, but Clarence told them not to bring any weapons. If things went bad he didn't want a war on his hands. Sure the Wild Boys stole when necessary, but they weren't killers. Clarence told them they needed to remember that, no matter what happened.

***
The duelists met on the riverbank. Hiker was mumbling something about the dust, which was choking the cool breeze coming off of Ake.
Both men had agreed it should be Sheriff Jenkins who should call the draw. Clarence had known the sheriff for years and trusted him. Hiker was just happy Jenkins was finally helping to take care of the Wild Boys problem, like he'd always promised.
The Sheriff cleared his throat, tried one last time to talk them both out of it and when neither relented, reluctantly called the draw.

***
"On three boys ..."
The dust stirred and Clarence suddenly felt an awarness of the entire valley creep into him.
"One!"
The mesas, the Ake River, old man Godfry, his mother, his home. The dust ...
"...Two!"
Clarence sighed and thought of the Wild Boys. They'd done good work and he was sure they'd continue to do it. His thoughts turned back to flashes of his mother and then the Valley, his home ...
"Three!"
Which he never saw again.
Even by the river, the dust was incredible.

Flash Fiction: I'm NOT on a boat

The three workers retreated to the factory's upstairs level while the flood waters continued to rise.
They'd been lucky enough to move most of the smaller machines and woodworkings from the lower level the night before, but even then, spindles of clear river silt seeped in through the bay doors, ominously foreshadowing what was to come.
For his part, Mike Reed just hoped the factory would survive.
He'd worked there for the past 15 years, taking over as owner three years back after Kip Dalanger died.
Mike was a tough worker -- Kip always said so -- and he never shied away from putting in extra hours to make sure the job got done right. For five years Mike apprenticed under Kip and the crusty old man had shown him everything he'd known.
Now, as the three men sat staring out at the pale reflection of the moon in the rising flood waters, Mike found himself thinking of Kip.
What would the old man have done in this situation? Would he have gone down with the ship? Risking his own life and the life of his men to save some of the few furniture pieces on the first floor?
Probably, Mike thought.
"Man, oh. It sure it getting dicey out there," Guy Fogel said. "Them's water's just keep on coming. Lords yes!"
Mike liked Guy. In many ways he treated him like Kip had treated him many years ago. Guy was a hard worker. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was loyal and a boarderline genius when it came to woodworking. He'd produced nearly 500 chairs in the past year, nearly double his closest rival.
So it wasn't terribly surprising that Guy was the first man to volunteer for flood preparations when last week's weather report revealed not one, but two severe hurricanes coming to hit the state in the coming week.
"We should be fine as long as we stay up here" Mike told Guy. "Besides, it's too dangerous to leave now. The water is still rising, and it must be at least 10 feet deep all around here. I ain't never seen nothing quite like this."
The water was indeed something. After the first appearance of leaks under the doors last night it had only taken 30 minutes for the entire lower floor to be covered in muddy, ankle deep water. They'd been fortunate enough to remove most of the finished woodpieces and hastily deposit them upstairs, but some of the exposed electrical wiring and heavier, more expensibe machinary was going to eat it for sure. The three of them simply didn't have the time, nor the manpower to save em'.
In under three hours the water was at all of their shoulders. And when Mike saw Guy struggling to keep his head above the brown filth as he hauled an antique desk above his head he decided it was time to call it quits. The three men made their way up the stairs, closing the door and hoping for the best. They were going to have to rife this one out.
They waited for the entire night.
The rain kept coming.
At dawn the downpour broke for several hours, but the percipitation remained constant. The water levels had risen to a few inches below the second floor windows and the trio was seriously beginning to wonder if they would be forced to evacuate to the roof.
But their shared silent reveire was then interrupted by a distant sound.
Closer and closer the sound apporached, before eventually distinguishing itself as the sound of an apporaching motorboat, the Fire Dept's old shanty, by the sound of it.
The men pressed their faces to the window and sure enough it was the fire department. Gus Farks at the helm stroking his beard absently as he scanned around the factory for any survivors.
Mike threw open the window. "Hey! Gus! We're over here! Gus! Hey!"
Gus turned, startled, and threw the throttle of his boat forward. Eventually coming to a quiet rest a few inches below the men perched out of the factory's second story window.
"Well I'll be damned! If it ain't Mike and his crazy crew. How are you boys doing? We better getcha outta there. Flood waters are continuing to rise. Fifteen homes have up and disappeared already. Nobody knows where old man Jenkins is, neither. It's bad Mikey, real bad."
"Well, where's that rope, anyway?" Guy asked
Gus tossed the thick line out ................