Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Generation (Part 1 of 2)
The farmer pitched hay from the bed of his farm cart up through the loft door in a steady rhythm. His son Dale forked it left and right, filling the loft with summer’s golden bounty. The twelve-year-old boy loved his father and their farm, but chafed silently at the slow pace. Though the sun was still high, the Bakene brothers might already be fishing at the irrigation dams, mostly thanks to the hired wizard their father kept.
The problem was that his father would have nothing to do with wizards or magic, no matter that their farm was the least productive in the county. Dale had hinted, asked, and even begged, to no avail. Magic was the only thing his father was completely unreasonable about. The boy knew there was nothing else to do but continue and hope they’d get done early enough for him to join his friends without too much teasing. In distraction Dale sang a play-time rhyme he’d learned at the monastery school.
Old Man lies, Black Man rides.
Round and round, Vengeance bound.
Good Man dies, Little Boy cries.
Round and Round, All fall down.
The boy looked up when a wildcat screamed in the distance.
“Papa!” Dale dropped his pitchfork and pointed west. “Two riders!” Sudden, howling wind threatened to buffet the boy from the hayloft in a whirl of straw. When he recovered, he saw something unexpected – fear on his father’s face.
“Dale, go inside.” Ray pointed back into the barn.
“But, Papa--” Further words failed the boy, choked back by fear and excitement.
“Hide, now!” He glared until Dale reluctantly retreated into the shadowed loft. Ray then jumped down from the cart and faced west as boiling clouds rose to swallow the sun. Unable to resist curiosity, Dale edged back until he could see his father standing in the muddy farmyard.
“I’m sorry, son.” The man’s voice was almost too low for Dale to hear, as if speaking to himself. “I should have told you.”
The boy watched as the riders swept into the yard, dark cloaks beating in the now gusty wind. One rider threw back his hood, revealing a youthful face filled with old hate.
“You are Ray, the murderer.” He pointed at the farmer. “You should have hidden in the Faded Lands. I’ve come for revenge!”
Full panic clutched Dale. He wanted to cry out a warning or go to his father’s side, but could not seem to speak or move.
“Have at it,” Ray yelled back, shaking his pitchfork at the riders, “for what good it does!”
In response the cloaked man shouted words that shook the earth. Dale watched in dumb horror as his father was gruesomely crushed into the yard by invisible violence that cracked the ground and rattled the barn.
The sight of the broken, partly buried corpse freed the boy’s tongue.
“I’ll kill you!” Dale’s voice cracked. “You hear me?” Grief drove the boy into uncontrolled sobs, fear forgotten.
The stranger looked up, surprised to see Dale in the loft. Emotions raced over the man’s angular face – shock, regret, and resignation.
“Gyles,” he said, and wheeled his horse. “My name is Gyles. Remember it.” He rode into the growing storm without another word. The other rider raised a hand and drew luminous symbols in the wind, symbols that fluttered to circle the bawling child. Satisfied to see them spin and fade around Dale, the mysterious second man rode away. Rain sheeted then as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.
Grief had no time to pass before the rest of Dale’s life tumbled away. Foreclosure took the farm, and helpful neighbors moved him to the monastery when they could locate no other family. The boy threw himself into lessons at the school, but try as he might he could not bury his pain under books. Magic sparked his interest for a time. The idea of bending the elements to his will intrigued him, though magic also reminded him of what was lost. It seemed magic might lead the boy out of his grief, yet nothing could banish the recurring image of his father’s crushed body.
Instead, simmering anger turned deliverance to downfall. Young Dale came to realize that he hated magic, hated the people who used magic – people like the man who murdered his father. Soon the gentle Brothers were forced to foster him out. In a last ditch effort to save the boy, they sent him to a family far outside the borders of magic, to the Faded Lands.
At first Dale was almost happy, back on a farm with people who cared for him. Here in the Faded Lands there were no wizards, no magic at all. Without magic the farm work was as hard as he remembered, but that was fine. For a year Dale was almost happy thinking he’d never have to see magic again. He was almost happy, but something held him back from true happiness.
That something increasingly kept after him, pulling at the grief, tugging at painful memories. Strange dreams plagued his nights and tainted his days with weariness. Some of the dreams were about a familiar tower he’d never seen. Others were violent, in which Dale fought strangers to the death or killed whole families he somehow knew were evil. In all the dreams a great mystical wheel spun above. He worried about his sanity.
Then one night he dreamed in gruesome detail of hacking up his foster family, only to wake up in the kitchen holding a butcher’s knife. Dale left the next day over tearful objections, fearing too much for their safety to stay. Moving seemed to help, and for a time the dreams stopped as Dale wandered from village to village. He began to hope normalcy might return, but the dreams redoubled on his seventeenth birthday.
Like the moth to a lantern, he was drawn back to the land of his father’s death and the magic he hated. There anger finished the destruction of Dale’s youth. For Dale, desperation and petty crime on the streets of the big city just seemed to be part of his unalterable downfall. He gave up hope of changing his luck.
Change found Dale flat on his back. Tonight was his initiation into a street gang, his first robbery. He’d chosen an old man as his victim – a skinny, bearded oldster leaning heavily on a cane as he limped along the ill-lit street. Dale’s demand for money had been met with laughter, and a threat with his knife had abruptly landed him in this reeking sewage ditch.
Dale struggled against the magical force that pinned him. It held him down like a stream of water; invisible, relentless pressure slowly choked the boy.
“Now what, punk?” The old man cackled, his clawed hand over the boy. “Picked the wrong fella, eh?”
The situation was too frighteningly similar to his father’s death. Rage boiled over in Dale, anger and despair held back for years. He thrashed wildly, but could not get free.
“Go ahead little fish, wiggle and flop.” The old man leaned over close to Dale’s face. “You’re weak and useless, punk, like a fish out of water.” He shook his head. “A wasted life, you are. Think your family is proud of you, punk?”
The memories of the murder came clear; Dale even recalled the murderer’s voice. He raised a hand against the pressure and uttered the best mimicry he could muster of the murderer’s spell. The old man was shoved back a few steps and the pressure broke, letting Dale gasp a deep breath.
“Well,” said the old wizard, rubbing his thin beard as he moved back to stand over the panting Dale. “Well. A vagabond wizard boy?” He poked the glaring Dale with his cane. “Punk, ya got a choice to make. You can pursue your oh-so-successful career of crime.” The old man cackled until he coughed to a stop. “Or I show you a path that’ll let you cash in on all that bile.” He dropped a card on Dale’s chest. “You want to make your family proud, right? Go see this man.”
The old man hurried away, only to stop under a shadowed awning and intently watch the miserable boy crawl from the filth. Satisfied, he drew phosphorescent symbols in the air and blew them toward Dale before striding away.
Anger prompted Dale to throw down the card, but curiosity led him to pick it back up. The card guided him to a man at the local Duelist Arena, an independent duelist manager named Brint. The boy was soon squinting under harsh witchlights while the scarred man inspected him like an auction-house mule. Dale felt he should protest the indignities, felt he should be irate, but something about this place stirred other emotions.
Beyond the locker room smells, damp stone walls, and junk yard décor, Dale heard the intoxicating voice of the crowd. He also felt the prickle and snap of magic as Duelists battled on the Arena floor above. Although he wanted to hate it, a part of him found it fascinating.
“So, yer the kid, eh?” Brint swiped blunt fingers through thinning hair. “Look, I gotta tell ya straight, kid. I’m not seein’ much here.”
“My name is Dale.” His decision came suddenly. “I want to be a duelist.”
“Lotta folks ‘want to’ but it takes more’n that, kid.” Brint moved to a large leather bag hanging from a rafter. “Show me whatcha got, kid,” he said then braced his shoulder behind the bag and slapped the leather. “Right here.”
Dale spoke the words as best he could while he held his hands like the old wizard had earlier The force drove Brint back a couple of steps.
“My name is Dale, not kid.”
Brint signed the ragged boy into a Junior Duelist Tournament event that very night. Dale smashed his way to first place, and his new life as a wizard duelist began.
For twelve years Dale ruthlessly sought out and learned the most dangerous secrets of magic. He just as ruthlessly applied his knowledge in the Arena, the most popular entertainment in both the Faded Lands and Central Kingdoms. Fame, riches, and a beautiful girlfriend followed his success as a wizard duelist. Dale also earned the respect and fear of peers in the business. They called him Ice Man, partly for his affinity to elemental cold, partly for his disdainful anger in battle.
For those twelve years he also searched for his father’s murderer. After a considerable fortune spent on investigators, months of his own searches, Dale was no closer to finding Gyles. The years failed to blunt Dale’s anger, the vain search simply adding to his bitterness. In the twelfth year, change came again.
Spinning
Coincidence: a striking occurrence of two or more events at one time apparently by mere chance.
Conspiracy: an evil, unlawful, treacherous, or surreptitious plan formulated in secret by two or more persons.
Coincidences are interesting, shocking, and often amusing. Conspiracies are interesting, shocking, and almost never amusing. Both are bread and butter for writers, especially the television kind. And it's no coincidence I mention writers and television together.
Police caught committing violence escalates and television is flooded with new cop shows. Wall Street, CEOs, mortgage companies, and politicians are caught in massive frauds and television is flooded with new lawyer shows. Powerful, rich men like Blagovitch and Madoff are proven to be con men and television is flooded with caper shows.
The question that comes to mind is how much is coincidence and how much is conspiracy? Are writers simply reacting to current events? Or are networks receiving incentives to air programming that will sway the public? Is the message "cops are the good guys, so they can bend the rules a bit" coincidence or conspiracy? How about "lawyers are good guys just like everyone else and deserve your sympathy?" Or "expensively dressed con-men are really good guys and shouldn't need to follow the rules?"
Network executives deny such accusations regularly. The denial is predictable, in fact, going something like, "Goodness, it's impossible to do such a thing; these shows take YEARS to get through the pipe from pitch to program." Of course they neglect to mention it is themselves who control the spigot at the end of the pipe and decide what comes out when.
Sadly, such collusion probably wouldn't even be unlawful. After all it is the business of the media to sway the public for advertisers. In fact, television was originally created by big business for just that purpose. It's not much of a step to shill for big spenders whose desire is to buy public opinion instead of sell soap.
Then again, I could be writing this while hoping someone would bribe me to stop being mean to the networks. Coincidence?
I think I just gave myself a headache.
Conspiracy: an evil, unlawful, treacherous, or surreptitious plan formulated in secret by two or more persons.
Coincidences are interesting, shocking, and often amusing. Conspiracies are interesting, shocking, and almost never amusing. Both are bread and butter for writers, especially the television kind. And it's no coincidence I mention writers and television together.
Police caught committing violence escalates and television is flooded with new cop shows. Wall Street, CEOs, mortgage companies, and politicians are caught in massive frauds and television is flooded with new lawyer shows. Powerful, rich men like Blagovitch and Madoff are proven to be con men and television is flooded with caper shows.
The question that comes to mind is how much is coincidence and how much is conspiracy? Are writers simply reacting to current events? Or are networks receiving incentives to air programming that will sway the public? Is the message "cops are the good guys, so they can bend the rules a bit" coincidence or conspiracy? How about "lawyers are good guys just like everyone else and deserve your sympathy?" Or "expensively dressed con-men are really good guys and shouldn't need to follow the rules?"
Network executives deny such accusations regularly. The denial is predictable, in fact, going something like, "Goodness, it's impossible to do such a thing; these shows take YEARS to get through the pipe from pitch to program." Of course they neglect to mention it is themselves who control the spigot at the end of the pipe and decide what comes out when.
Sadly, such collusion probably wouldn't even be unlawful. After all it is the business of the media to sway the public for advertisers. In fact, television was originally created by big business for just that purpose. It's not much of a step to shill for big spenders whose desire is to buy public opinion instead of sell soap.
Then again, I could be writing this while hoping someone would bribe me to stop being mean to the networks. Coincidence?
I think I just gave myself a headache.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Silly Question
Piracy. Is it a crime? Seems a silly question, doesn't it? Yet experts are asking this question quite seriously.
Their reasoning is that financial, social, and morale differences in places like Somalia make it a valid question. When extreme poverty and lack of governance force the people to extreme acts, is it criminal or natural?
In Somalia, tribal elders of poverty-stricken seaside villages broker deals with outside criminals from interior cities or even other countries to fund piracy missions. Then they "invest" with a local crew.
For the criminals it's another way to launder money from drugs, gunrunning, or bank robbery. For tribal elders it's a way to get money into the local economy and make a profit while giving them deniablity. For the impovershed and jobless young men it's an adventurous way to make some quick money. For people aboard the taken ships it's a deadly nightmare.
Some people are calling out for a solution that doesn't involve another war effort. The say it would be cheaper and more effective to help the Somali economy and break the cycle than send in a fleet.
This is rubbish, of course. There will always be criminals with dirty money, greedy elders, and disenfranchised young men ready to conduct piracy.
If a mother steals bread for her starving family, is it a crime? The right to survive in adversity is a recognized dilemma. But extortion, torture, and murder are clear steps over a line. Stolen bread causes little harm and clearly helps the family; piracy routinely causes great harm and benefits those who would do more harm.
The final test is simple. If the criminal or the elder were robbed at gunpoint, would they protest? Would they call it a crime? Seek revenge and restitution? Of course.
Piracy, like all illegal gang activities, is a crime. It's not war, not natural, and not a financial disease to be cured. Patrol, arrest, and prosecution is the only answer.
Their reasoning is that financial, social, and morale differences in places like Somalia make it a valid question. When extreme poverty and lack of governance force the people to extreme acts, is it criminal or natural?
In Somalia, tribal elders of poverty-stricken seaside villages broker deals with outside criminals from interior cities or even other countries to fund piracy missions. Then they "invest" with a local crew.
For the criminals it's another way to launder money from drugs, gunrunning, or bank robbery. For tribal elders it's a way to get money into the local economy and make a profit while giving them deniablity. For the impovershed and jobless young men it's an adventurous way to make some quick money. For people aboard the taken ships it's a deadly nightmare.
Some people are calling out for a solution that doesn't involve another war effort. The say it would be cheaper and more effective to help the Somali economy and break the cycle than send in a fleet.
This is rubbish, of course. There will always be criminals with dirty money, greedy elders, and disenfranchised young men ready to conduct piracy.
If a mother steals bread for her starving family, is it a crime? The right to survive in adversity is a recognized dilemma. But extortion, torture, and murder are clear steps over a line. Stolen bread causes little harm and clearly helps the family; piracy routinely causes great harm and benefits those who would do more harm.
The final test is simple. If the criminal or the elder were robbed at gunpoint, would they protest? Would they call it a crime? Seek revenge and restitution? Of course.
Piracy, like all illegal gang activities, is a crime. It's not war, not natural, and not a financial disease to be cured. Patrol, arrest, and prosecution is the only answer.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Losing Edges
6th grade. What I remember most is watching the Apollo program. My life was changed by witnessing that great adventure. By the time I was an adult (around the age of 45) Mankind seemed on the verge of another such step. Never had I thought we might be where we are now. Where is that?
The United States of America - the nation that put the first astronauts on the Moon, who made the
International Space Station even possible - will after next month be renting spaceships from Russia. We will have no capability to resupply the ISS or exchange crewmembers. No new large satellites, no servicing satellites already in orbit; in fact, after July, NASA can't put a man in orbit at all.
For the first time in over 40 years Americans can't go to space without the help of someone else.
While it's not the only situation in which the USA lags behind other nations, I find it something of a
landmark. NASA and our space program is part of what defined us as a superpower. We no longer had a lead in manufacturing, science and technology, or medical care for our citizens, but we still had nukes and astronauts. Apparently our only claim to world power now is the ability to invade or destroy everyone else.
Why would that bother me? Well, for one, history shows that a country that rules with its military will often be ruled by the military. Furthermore America has developed the bad habit of failure, and here is a truly significant example. Last, I was kinda hoping to get rich one day and buy a spaceship ticket to Mars, so I'm bummed.
What do you think?
The United States of America - the nation that put the first astronauts on the Moon, who made the
International Space Station even possible - will after next month be renting spaceships from Russia. We will have no capability to resupply the ISS or exchange crewmembers. No new large satellites, no servicing satellites already in orbit; in fact, after July, NASA can't put a man in orbit at all.
For the first time in over 40 years Americans can't go to space without the help of someone else.
While it's not the only situation in which the USA lags behind other nations, I find it something of a
landmark. NASA and our space program is part of what defined us as a superpower. We no longer had a lead in manufacturing, science and technology, or medical care for our citizens, but we still had nukes and astronauts. Apparently our only claim to world power now is the ability to invade or destroy everyone else.
Why would that bother me? Well, for one, history shows that a country that rules with its military will often be ruled by the military. Furthermore America has developed the bad habit of failure, and here is a truly significant example. Last, I was kinda hoping to get rich one day and buy a spaceship ticket to Mars, so I'm bummed.
What do you think?
Famous Wrong Words
Should a movie or TV character utter any of these phrases, we can be certain it was the wrong thing to say.
Know some more? Please share them in the comments below. Who knows, if we get enough we can publish a book. 8D
We can end this thing once and for all.
Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you.
Don't worry, my lord. There will be no futher delay.
You have no chance of escape!
It'll be alright now!
Victory will soon be mine!
What's the worst that could happen?
It could be worse.
Could this get any worse?
This couldn't get any worse.
I have an Idea!
Stay in the car.
Stay in the car, you'll be safe.
Stay in the car, I'll be right back.
If I don't come back. . .
They'll never find us here.
We have them now!
Run! I'll slow them down.
Stay here, I'll lead them away.
We have them trapped, sir.
After him, you fools!
Sir, someone sent you this gift.
You will serve me better than your predecessor.
Know some more? Please share them in the comments below. Who knows, if we get enough we can publish a book. 8D
We can end this thing once and for all.
Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you.
Don't worry, my lord. There will be no futher delay.
You have no chance of escape!
It'll be alright now!
Victory will soon be mine!
What's the worst that could happen?
It could be worse.
Could this get any worse?
This couldn't get any worse.
I have an Idea!
Stay in the car.
Stay in the car, you'll be safe.
Stay in the car, I'll be right back.
If I don't come back. . .
They'll never find us here.
We have them now!
Run! I'll slow them down.
Stay here, I'll lead them away.
We have them trapped, sir.
After him, you fools!
Sir, someone sent you this gift.
You will serve me better than your predecessor.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Queen of Shadow (part 4 of 4)
Minutes later she was still pondering the meanings of shadow men and spirit curses when a familiar voice pulled at her across distant memory. Flustered, Gina looked up to see that the Sheriff was trying to get her attention. She was startled to find more familiar about the man than just his voice.
"Regina, I don't know if you remember me? I'm – "
"Danny?” She stood up, fearing a trick of memory. The shadows were gone, or at least hiding. “Danny Grasmuck?" In her mind’s eye she saw the Danny she’d left behind: a round-faced, slightly overweight youth full of dreams and earnest humor. The man in front of her now was taller and heavier, but maturity had squared his jaw and the khaki uniform looked natural on him. She suddenly choked up.
"You're the Sheriff." Oh, crap, how stupid, she thought.
"I am?" He looked down at his uniform. "Oh, look, I'm the Sheriff." His smile held that bit of mischief and honesty that Gina had loved about Danny.
She burst into tears.
"That was. . .” He paled in embarrassment and half-turned, as if seeking escape. “I'm sorry, seriously." He faced her again. “The paramedics said the guy got lucky, just some broken bones. Let me give you a ride to the hospital?”
She had her tears back under control and Danny convinced it wasn’t his fault by the time they were in his SUV.
“I need to call in,” he said, keyed the handset. “Dispatch, unit one ten-ten en route to County Hospital.” He waited for a reply as the ambulance roared away with sirens and lights, but no response came. Glancing at Gina, he shook his head.
“Sorry. Temp dispatcher.” He keyed the mike again. “Hank, I can’t hear you. Change the frequency back to channel one.” After a few more difficulties the dispatcher got it sorted out and Danny drove them after the ambulance.
“Sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad to see you. Sorry it has to be like this. Your father was a good man. I know you guys weren't speaking, but he never gave up. It might help you to know he went quickly, without much pain. The paramedics called it a silent heart attack. They were surprised he was able to call 911 at all."
Gina couldn’t help but smile. It sounded like he’d practiced that for a while.
"It does help. You can't know how much." Grief still weighed on her, but relief and hope made it more bearable.
"Well, I know a little. We talked about your shadows, me and your Dad." Danny took his eyes off the road for an instant to meet her shocked look. "What I want to know, between you and me, is whether or not I need to worry about more problems like this."
"What? I don't . . . understand?" She was afraid that she did understand.
"Ste Genevieve is the oldest town in Missouri. Voodoo clans moved up here from Louisiana a hundred years ago, and witches from Salem hid here before that. Indians made magic here long before white men set foot on this continent.” He paused, blipped the siren and ran the red light at 4th Street. After a thoughtful moment he continued.
“What I'm trying to say is that we have more than our share of weirdness around here, and part of my job is keeping a lid on it." He chuckled. “You might say I’m the King of Weird.”
“And I’m the Queen of Shadows. So?” A nervous chill goaded her into looking at the passing night. She couldn’t tell if she glimpsed a coyote, or just a mongrel hiding in the coursing shadows.
"I know this seems like a bad time to talk about this, but honestly, it's better.” His voice flattened. “Your fiancé claims you tried to kill him."
"Fiancé?” She looked back at Danny, worry gone. “Is that what he told you?"
"Yes, he did.” He held up a hand, quickly returned it to the wheel. “Let me finish, please? So maybe it looks like I'm doing my job?"
She surprised herself with a giggle.
"Your alleged fiancé was a little incoherent, but he says you had someone drive the truck into him. I don't believe it, but since there were no other witnesses, I have to ask. Did you try to kill him?"
"First, he's not my fiancé. In fact, he's a violent, abusive jerk, and we're not together any more.” She felt empowered just saying the words. “Second, there were witnesses, and third, I didn't try to kill him.” Something gave her unexpected courage. “Shouldn't you be reading me my rights before questioning?"
"Only if I wanted the answers admissible in court." His voice was cheerful. "No Miranda for you tonight. I have other questions, but they're more personal and we're out of time." He pointed to the lights of the hospital ahead.
“Danny, I’m frazzled and tired. Could you just say what you mean, please?”
“You’re right, of course. Sorry.” He turned the truck into the hospital driveway. “The Shadow Queen has come home, bringing mystery and danger. Do I need to worry about your family shadows attacking other people?"
It was out in the open now. Another burden lifted from her heart.
"No, I don't think you have to worry." The hospital was an uneven stack of giant blocks gleaming in the night. “Not after tonight.” Her eyes narrowed as her tongue found a cut inside her cheek. Not after tonight.
"Just the answer I was looking for. I've got plenty to worry about already, like hiring a new dispatcher and paying for the overtime until we do." Danny parked under the Emergency Care entry awning, gave Gina a business card. "Don't bother to call dispatch, he's confused enough. Call my cell when you're done and I'll fetch you home."
In the glaring floodlights under the awning Gina saw his care and sincerity. She didn’t need to make a decision; it seemed to simply be waiting for her to recognize it.
"Could you wait? I won't be staying.” She resisted the urge to lick suddenly dry lips. “Five minutes, please?"
“Think there’ll be a problem?” He reached to touch her hand and Gina’s heart jumped. “I could come up.”
"That's sweet, but no thanks.” She unbuckled and opened the door. “This is liable to be ugly and I'd prefer you didn't see it. Please?"
"Five minutes?" He shrugged. "I'm on duty, but I got five minutes for the Queen." He held up the radio handset, gave her a weak smile. “Heck, I’ll probably have longer than that.” He was patiently trying again to explain radio procedure as she left the SUV and entered the hospital.
Five minutes later, Danny gave Gina a startled look when she opened her door and got in.
"Wow, that was quick.” He put the idling SUV in gear and eased along the hospital driveway.
"No need to drag it out." She took a deep breath, caught herself looking out at slipping shadows. Resolutely she looked back at Danny. "You said you needed a dispatcher, right?" She watched his reactions closely as he drove.
"Yes, that's true. Why? You interested?"
Parking lot lights passing overhead made his changing expressions hard to read, so she looked at his hands. Tendons stood out with the force of his grip on the steering wheel. There was no wedding ring.
"Yes. Yes, I am." Her face felt locked in a smile. "I’m going to move back here, I think. I got a lot to deal with right now, the funeral and all, but it helps to have purpose."
"You know we'd be working together? The King of Weird and Queen of Shadows?" His tone was more serious than his words.
"So you don’t think I should be on the night shift?"
Their laughter attracted puzzled looks and smiles from late revelers for several blocks. In far too short a time Gina found herself back on her porch watching Danny drive off. For a few moments she simply enjoyed the chilly night, the crickets hidden but heard, and the wide sweep of stars she hadn’t really looked at for a long time. The she squared her shoulders and strode into the house. Sitting on the stairs, she summoned the shadows to her.
“I know you are glad I’m home and all.” She smiled. “Lord knows I am too, but if you want me to stay there has to be some rules, like never hurting anyone again.” Gina looked at each shadow to make sure they acknowledged her. Her breath caught when she noticed one of the shadows was missing. “Where is Monkeyboy?”
* * *
LPN Marie Weill was being cheerful, but firm.
"No, sir, you can't have more lights. We’ll be taking you to X-ray again soon, so you should rest while . . .” Hershel cut her off with a stream of curses. She tucked both hands into the pockets of her pale blue sweater and waited patiently for him to run down. Nurse Weill felt some pity for the fellow; multiple broken bones tended to make patients cranky.
"I'm sorry. You need something to help you sleep." She didn't wait for a response, just squeaked around on her sneaker's heel and strode out the door. There came a crash and more curses from his room before she got back to the nurses' station. The nurse saw her PCT standing at the desk and snapped her fingers to get the girl's attention.
"I need some help with the patient in Two. Call for an orderly or security, and get Dr. Lorenzo to stat an order for sedation."
Hershel was not their first difficult patient, and the night staff worked together like performing a choreographed stage number. In moments they had Hershel strapped back down in his bed and methohexital in his IV.
His eyelids already fluttered as Nurse Weill thanked everyone for their help and shooed them from the room. With a satisfied final look around she stepped out herself, snapped off the light, and softly closed the door.
Monitors and readouts each cast their own tiny illumination, painting a complex of shadows around the room. Black shapes oozed from under the bed and curled like claws above the injured man. Hershel's screams echoed down the cold, white hallway until the drugs put him out.
The End
"Regina, I don't know if you remember me? I'm – "
"Danny?” She stood up, fearing a trick of memory. The shadows were gone, or at least hiding. “Danny Grasmuck?" In her mind’s eye she saw the Danny she’d left behind: a round-faced, slightly overweight youth full of dreams and earnest humor. The man in front of her now was taller and heavier, but maturity had squared his jaw and the khaki uniform looked natural on him. She suddenly choked up.
"You're the Sheriff." Oh, crap, how stupid, she thought.
"I am?" He looked down at his uniform. "Oh, look, I'm the Sheriff." His smile held that bit of mischief and honesty that Gina had loved about Danny.
She burst into tears.
"That was. . .” He paled in embarrassment and half-turned, as if seeking escape. “I'm sorry, seriously." He faced her again. “The paramedics said the guy got lucky, just some broken bones. Let me give you a ride to the hospital?”
She had her tears back under control and Danny convinced it wasn’t his fault by the time they were in his SUV.
“I need to call in,” he said, keyed the handset. “Dispatch, unit one ten-ten en route to County Hospital.” He waited for a reply as the ambulance roared away with sirens and lights, but no response came. Glancing at Gina, he shook his head.
“Sorry. Temp dispatcher.” He keyed the mike again. “Hank, I can’t hear you. Change the frequency back to channel one.” After a few more difficulties the dispatcher got it sorted out and Danny drove them after the ambulance.
“Sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad to see you. Sorry it has to be like this. Your father was a good man. I know you guys weren't speaking, but he never gave up. It might help you to know he went quickly, without much pain. The paramedics called it a silent heart attack. They were surprised he was able to call 911 at all."
Gina couldn’t help but smile. It sounded like he’d practiced that for a while.
"It does help. You can't know how much." Grief still weighed on her, but relief and hope made it more bearable.
"Well, I know a little. We talked about your shadows, me and your Dad." Danny took his eyes off the road for an instant to meet her shocked look. "What I want to know, between you and me, is whether or not I need to worry about more problems like this."
"What? I don't . . . understand?" She was afraid that she did understand.
"Ste Genevieve is the oldest town in Missouri. Voodoo clans moved up here from Louisiana a hundred years ago, and witches from Salem hid here before that. Indians made magic here long before white men set foot on this continent.” He paused, blipped the siren and ran the red light at 4th Street. After a thoughtful moment he continued.
“What I'm trying to say is that we have more than our share of weirdness around here, and part of my job is keeping a lid on it." He chuckled. “You might say I’m the King of Weird.”
“And I’m the Queen of Shadows. So?” A nervous chill goaded her into looking at the passing night. She couldn’t tell if she glimpsed a coyote, or just a mongrel hiding in the coursing shadows.
"I know this seems like a bad time to talk about this, but honestly, it's better.” His voice flattened. “Your fiancé claims you tried to kill him."
"Fiancé?” She looked back at Danny, worry gone. “Is that what he told you?"
"Yes, he did.” He held up a hand, quickly returned it to the wheel. “Let me finish, please? So maybe it looks like I'm doing my job?"
She surprised herself with a giggle.
"Your alleged fiancé was a little incoherent, but he says you had someone drive the truck into him. I don't believe it, but since there were no other witnesses, I have to ask. Did you try to kill him?"
"First, he's not my fiancé. In fact, he's a violent, abusive jerk, and we're not together any more.” She felt empowered just saying the words. “Second, there were witnesses, and third, I didn't try to kill him.” Something gave her unexpected courage. “Shouldn't you be reading me my rights before questioning?"
"Only if I wanted the answers admissible in court." His voice was cheerful. "No Miranda for you tonight. I have other questions, but they're more personal and we're out of time." He pointed to the lights of the hospital ahead.
“Danny, I’m frazzled and tired. Could you just say what you mean, please?”
“You’re right, of course. Sorry.” He turned the truck into the hospital driveway. “The Shadow Queen has come home, bringing mystery and danger. Do I need to worry about your family shadows attacking other people?"
It was out in the open now. Another burden lifted from her heart.
"No, I don't think you have to worry." The hospital was an uneven stack of giant blocks gleaming in the night. “Not after tonight.” Her eyes narrowed as her tongue found a cut inside her cheek. Not after tonight.
"Just the answer I was looking for. I've got plenty to worry about already, like hiring a new dispatcher and paying for the overtime until we do." Danny parked under the Emergency Care entry awning, gave Gina a business card. "Don't bother to call dispatch, he's confused enough. Call my cell when you're done and I'll fetch you home."
In the glaring floodlights under the awning Gina saw his care and sincerity. She didn’t need to make a decision; it seemed to simply be waiting for her to recognize it.
"Could you wait? I won't be staying.” She resisted the urge to lick suddenly dry lips. “Five minutes, please?"
“Think there’ll be a problem?” He reached to touch her hand and Gina’s heart jumped. “I could come up.”
"That's sweet, but no thanks.” She unbuckled and opened the door. “This is liable to be ugly and I'd prefer you didn't see it. Please?"
"Five minutes?" He shrugged. "I'm on duty, but I got five minutes for the Queen." He held up the radio handset, gave her a weak smile. “Heck, I’ll probably have longer than that.” He was patiently trying again to explain radio procedure as she left the SUV and entered the hospital.
Five minutes later, Danny gave Gina a startled look when she opened her door and got in.
"Wow, that was quick.” He put the idling SUV in gear and eased along the hospital driveway.
"No need to drag it out." She took a deep breath, caught herself looking out at slipping shadows. Resolutely she looked back at Danny. "You said you needed a dispatcher, right?" She watched his reactions closely as he drove.
"Yes, that's true. Why? You interested?"
Parking lot lights passing overhead made his changing expressions hard to read, so she looked at his hands. Tendons stood out with the force of his grip on the steering wheel. There was no wedding ring.
"Yes. Yes, I am." Her face felt locked in a smile. "I’m going to move back here, I think. I got a lot to deal with right now, the funeral and all, but it helps to have purpose."
"You know we'd be working together? The King of Weird and Queen of Shadows?" His tone was more serious than his words.
"So you don’t think I should be on the night shift?"
Their laughter attracted puzzled looks and smiles from late revelers for several blocks. In far too short a time Gina found herself back on her porch watching Danny drive off. For a few moments she simply enjoyed the chilly night, the crickets hidden but heard, and the wide sweep of stars she hadn’t really looked at for a long time. The she squared her shoulders and strode into the house. Sitting on the stairs, she summoned the shadows to her.
“I know you are glad I’m home and all.” She smiled. “Lord knows I am too, but if you want me to stay there has to be some rules, like never hurting anyone again.” Gina looked at each shadow to make sure they acknowledged her. Her breath caught when she noticed one of the shadows was missing. “Where is Monkeyboy?”
* * *
LPN Marie Weill was being cheerful, but firm.
"No, sir, you can't have more lights. We’ll be taking you to X-ray again soon, so you should rest while . . .” Hershel cut her off with a stream of curses. She tucked both hands into the pockets of her pale blue sweater and waited patiently for him to run down. Nurse Weill felt some pity for the fellow; multiple broken bones tended to make patients cranky.
"I'm sorry. You need something to help you sleep." She didn't wait for a response, just squeaked around on her sneaker's heel and strode out the door. There came a crash and more curses from his room before she got back to the nurses' station. The nurse saw her PCT standing at the desk and snapped her fingers to get the girl's attention.
"I need some help with the patient in Two. Call for an orderly or security, and get Dr. Lorenzo to stat an order for sedation."
Hershel was not their first difficult patient, and the night staff worked together like performing a choreographed stage number. In moments they had Hershel strapped back down in his bed and methohexital in his IV.
His eyelids already fluttered as Nurse Weill thanked everyone for their help and shooed them from the room. With a satisfied final look around she stepped out herself, snapped off the light, and softly closed the door.
Monitors and readouts each cast their own tiny illumination, painting a complex of shadows around the room. Black shapes oozed from under the bed and curled like claws above the injured man. Hershel's screams echoed down the cold, white hallway until the drugs put him out.
The End
Friday, June 24, 2011
Queen of Shadows (part 3 of 4)
With the stair’s light out, the handrail’s shadow was now visible against the wall, angled upward to her right. Shadows of vertical bars every few inches were overlapped by her own shadow. She seemed to be seeing double, though, because another shadow perched on the rail above her.
The shadow waved cheerfully. It was like the lights suddenly came on in another wing of her memory, dazzling her. She looked up, already knew she wouldn’t see anyone perched on the handrail, but the experience was still creepy. She looked back at the wall. The disembodied shadow danced along the shadow handrail, arms akimbo. Gina smiled despite pounding pulse and aching tush, cocked her head in thought.
Gina had always seen shadows differently than others. They were her imaginary friends when kids at school weren’t. They’d danced for her, pushed at the light to make different shapes, and played scary tricks on her. At night darkness wrapped arms around her and told stories that always made her feel safe. Gina never felt alone when friends weren’t there, because the shadows were always there. Even as a teenager, long after she’d learned to believe they were imaginary, the shadows remained some of her best friends.
“Monkeyboy?”
The shadow jumped in glee. The buzzing in her ears resolved into many voices whispering her name, and she saw other shadows rise. From the chaos of her memories there came one of her, sitting almost exactly here, laughing at Monkeyboy’s antics. Daddy had caught her and scolded her for turning off the stair’s light. Gina had a dizzying moment as perceptions flipped.
Her imaginary friends hadn’t been imaginary at all. Nor, now that she thought about it, had they been entirely friendly. She remembered thrown toys, pinches, and being tripped. As a kid it was all fun and games, but tonight they seemed more sinister. What if Daddy had been right and the shadows had something to do with her mother’s death? What if they’d done something to Daddy?
She jumped at a loud crash, heard Hershel call her name. Monkeyboy and the rest were gone when she looked back.
Heart racing and stomach twisting, Gina rushed to the kitchen and reluctantly opened the door. Unlike the rest of the house, the dingy basement had only a tiny light over the stairs and a single bulb for the rest of the space. Hand on the wall, she slowly entered the basement. Before reaching the bottom of the steps, she could see Hershel standing amid a clutter of doors, sinks, and other items.
“What the hell?” he snarled. “I been yellin’ my head off.”
“Are you okay? I heard something fall.” She could see he wasn’t too hurt, but there was anger in his voice that let Gina know she was in trouble. For a change she didn’t much care.
“Yeah, well, I yelled so hard I must have knocked something off.” He touched his scalp; the finger showed a smudge of blood. “Where were you?”
“Upstairs.” She took in the mess, anger warming. “If you’re not hurt, what’s all this?”
“I’m glad I came along, now. We got us a damn fortune down here. Some of this stuff is probably a hundred years old.” He gave a tight smile. “The biggest thing ever happened to us and you’re lost somewhere.”
Gina took a breath, bit back her first response.
“Couldn’t we just get through the funeral first? Before worrying about other stuff?”
“That’s right, change the subject.” He glared, pointed a finger at her face. “Look, when I yell for you, that means I need you now, got it?”
“What?” Her anger boiled over. “Screw you. You can kiss your fortune goodbye, ‘cause you and me are done!” She could see the rage burning in his face, rage directed at her this time. For the moment adrenalin overrode her fear and everything else.
She could see shadows on the shelves behind him, darker shapes moving in the dimness. They gathered behind a heavy-looking crock on the top shelf. The basin inched stealthily forward over Hershel’s head and she had a flash of sure knowledge. Unless she acted, something bad was about to happen, something she found herself unwilling to be responsible for. On impulse she turned and ran back up the stairs. No plea or command from her would move Hershel, but nothing could keep the man from following to continue the fight.
Running through the kitchen she remembered that long-ago fight with her father, another time she’d run away. She’d believed the shadows weren’t real, that all her father’s rules were some kind of punishment. Her stomach knotted tighter as she accepted that her father may have been right about the shadows.
She reached the front hall, hesitated. Now what? Things were moving too fast, her brain felt thick and slow. Upstairs or face him right here? Confronting him after such provocation scared Gina. Maybe if they were outside he’d be less likely to lose control. Decision made, she ran to the front door.
“Hey!” Hershel’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Stop, goddammit.”
Gina’s heart was banging in her ears as she slid into the jamb. She could hear his boots on the wood floor as she fumbled back the lock and threw open the door.
Three boys in Halloween pirate costumes were just starting up the walk to the porch. Oh, God, she thought, Halloween. Unwilling to go out the door and involve innocent kids, but too terrified for retreat, she involuntarily paused. An instant later Hershel’s hand slammed the door shut. He jerked her around, slapped her, shook her, sprayed spit as he ground out a string of curses.
The left side of her face was numbed, her ear rang, and panic strobed her vision. The man ranted about his ‘share’ just inches from her face. She shoved him away with all her strength, but only managed to push herself into the corner of hallway and doorframe. Gina had never physically been backed into a corner. Fear squeezed her lungs, her legs trembled, and she had a sick feeling Hershel was about to go much further than face slaps. Worse, there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Three loud knocks shook the front door as Hershel loomed over her. He stopped like a paused video, mouth open and eyes squinted. They both watched the door until the knock came again. He put his right fist inches from her nose.
“We’re not done here, bitch,” he whispered. “Don’t move.” He stepped back and opened the front door, ugly frown on his face.
“Trick or Treat, Mr. Calder,” sounded a chorus of boyish voices. “Hey, where’s Mr. Calder?” asked one young voice.
“The old man’s dead.” He seemed to enjoy saying that. “Get lost.”
Gina moved as quickly as she ever remembered moving, dancing around Hershel and blocking the door open before he could slam it shut.
“Hey, yeah, I’m sorry but my Daddy is gone.” The boys were dressed as a pirate crew, with the tallest wearing a captain’s long coat. “Let me get you some candy.” She snatched a handful out of the bowl by the door. The three boys held their bags open, but the young captain watched Hershel with fearful suspicion. Gina could see he knew something was going on. The other two kept looking into the hall behind her.
A tinkle of breaking glass came from the driveway.
“What the . . .?” Hershel shoved Gina aside, scattering the candy. “You punks better not a’ messed with my truck!” He pushed past the kids, trotted down the steps and to the driveway.
“We didn’t do nothin’,” said the pirate boy-captain, worry clear on his face.
“I know,” Gina answered, “don’t worry. How about some more candy and you boys can go to the next house?” She worried these kids might attract Hershel’s anger, wanted them out of harms way. Reaching to the candy bowl again, she caught movement from the corner of her eye. She turned, watched in stunned horror as shadows streamed past her and out into the deeply shaded yard.
“Ooh, cool. You got the shadow show going,” said one of the pirate crew. “Told ya so.” The other boys watched with wide eyes.
She spun back around, stepped out on the wide porch with the boys to look toward the driveway. Hershel had unlocked the driver’s door, left the keys hanging in the lock. He glanced around the cab for damage, leaned over and turned on the headlights. Only one circle of light appeared on the rock retaining wall.
“That’s it. You punks are goin’ to jail.” Hershel moved around to the front of the truck to inspect the damage.
Gina’s reassurance to the protesting boys never left her mouth. As Hershel stepped into the light, she saw other shadows uncurling from his. More shadows raced over the lawn to the truck, a shadowy figure rose in the driver’s seat. Her heart gave a thud when she saw that the keys were gone from the door. She wanted to scream ‘no,’ wanted to tell the shadows to stop, but the rage on Hershel’s face made her pause too long.
“Look at this!” He cursed and bent over to look closer. Shadowy arms reached out, wrapped around Hershel, pulled him back against the short rock wall. “Hey.” He tried uselessly to jerk loose. “Hey!”
The engine started, roared to full rpm’s. Hershel’s cursing was drowned by the noise, but his violent struggle had Gina’s petrified attention. The shifter dropped into gear and, for a short time that seemed very long, the wheels spun in a smoking, shrieking burn-out.
Tires regained traction and the Silverado lunged across the few feet into Hershel, pinned him against the wall in an explosion of roaring engine, breaking glass, and crumpling metal. By luck, the upright horns of the homemade push bumper passed to either side of Hershel and shattered the rock wall. The top crossbar drove him into the rubble as the lower crossbar caught him just below the knees, snapping both shins. The engine died with an ugly rattle.
Gina couldn’t bring herself to approach Hershel; he slumped over the hood, unconscious or dead. Either way, she told herself, there was nothing she could do. Instead she called 911 and tried to send the boys home. Fascinated by the macabre scene, they refused to go until Gina promised to give their names on the police report. Then she sat on the porch, eating Halloween candy straight from the bowl as full night settled over the town.
The ambulance arrived quickly but paramedics could not free the now conscious Hershel. In a very few minutes the Fire Department Rescue Unit arrived, followed by a police car. Neighbors were out watching the show, now. Trick-or-treaters paused to take in the flashing lights, crackling radios, and suffering victim before moving on to the next sugar bonanza.
While responders struggled with the rescue, Gina thought about what one of the boys had said. Apparently her father had put on a Halloween ‘shadow show’ for them before. That seemed to show he’d come to an accommodation with the shadows after she’d run away. While promising, it failed to allay her growing fear of what else the shadows might have done.
A gentle touch made her jump. Dark shapes stretched across the porch; Monkeyboy performed a silly wiggle dance. Another long, matronly shadow stretched out a hand and touched Gina’s shoulder.
“Glad you’re home,” said the shadow, her voice a whisper that Gina easily heard over the noise from the driveway.
“Why did you do this?” She wanted to feel angry, but sad is all that came.
“Bad man hurt you, we hurt bad man.” Monkeyboy added his opinion by changing shape into something horned and clawed.
Gina asked the next question that made sense to her.
“Did you kill my Mom?”
“No. Sad she fell, but she saved you.” The shadows twisted into a warped illustration of the stairs inside. Gina watched a woman throw her baby to the shadows as she fell down the pictured stairs. “We saved you, all together.” The shadow stretched to touch the rest.
The next question popped out without thought.
“What about Daddy?” Gina knew the answer as soon as she asked.
“After you left, good to us. Could not save him, sorry, so sorry.”
“What happened?” Her voice was choked.
“Sick, so quick.” The shadows reformed to show a man in a chair struggling unsuccessfully to rise. “Broke the rules, talked to phone. Too late, too late.” All the shadows bowed sadly.
For the first time, Gina bawled in her grief. Shadows held her, comforted her, whispered solace as they had when she was a child.
More sirens announced the arrival of a tow truck escorted by a green and tan County Sheriff SUV. Freeing the moaning Hershel from the wreckage finally took four men on crowbars prying as the tow truck yanked the pickup away from the wall. Over an hour had passed before paramedics finally got Hershel into the ambulance.
Gina had herself more or less together by then. Paramedics prepared to leave, and the time was coming for explanations or lies. She found herself unprepared.
“Why is this happening?” She put her face in her hands. “Why are you here?”
“You want to hear the First Story? Long ago . . .”
The shadow waved cheerfully. It was like the lights suddenly came on in another wing of her memory, dazzling her. She looked up, already knew she wouldn’t see anyone perched on the handrail, but the experience was still creepy. She looked back at the wall. The disembodied shadow danced along the shadow handrail, arms akimbo. Gina smiled despite pounding pulse and aching tush, cocked her head in thought.
Gina had always seen shadows differently than others. They were her imaginary friends when kids at school weren’t. They’d danced for her, pushed at the light to make different shapes, and played scary tricks on her. At night darkness wrapped arms around her and told stories that always made her feel safe. Gina never felt alone when friends weren’t there, because the shadows were always there. Even as a teenager, long after she’d learned to believe they were imaginary, the shadows remained some of her best friends.
“Monkeyboy?”
The shadow jumped in glee. The buzzing in her ears resolved into many voices whispering her name, and she saw other shadows rise. From the chaos of her memories there came one of her, sitting almost exactly here, laughing at Monkeyboy’s antics. Daddy had caught her and scolded her for turning off the stair’s light. Gina had a dizzying moment as perceptions flipped.
Her imaginary friends hadn’t been imaginary at all. Nor, now that she thought about it, had they been entirely friendly. She remembered thrown toys, pinches, and being tripped. As a kid it was all fun and games, but tonight they seemed more sinister. What if Daddy had been right and the shadows had something to do with her mother’s death? What if they’d done something to Daddy?
She jumped at a loud crash, heard Hershel call her name. Monkeyboy and the rest were gone when she looked back.
Heart racing and stomach twisting, Gina rushed to the kitchen and reluctantly opened the door. Unlike the rest of the house, the dingy basement had only a tiny light over the stairs and a single bulb for the rest of the space. Hand on the wall, she slowly entered the basement. Before reaching the bottom of the steps, she could see Hershel standing amid a clutter of doors, sinks, and other items.
“What the hell?” he snarled. “I been yellin’ my head off.”
“Are you okay? I heard something fall.” She could see he wasn’t too hurt, but there was anger in his voice that let Gina know she was in trouble. For a change she didn’t much care.
“Yeah, well, I yelled so hard I must have knocked something off.” He touched his scalp; the finger showed a smudge of blood. “Where were you?”
“Upstairs.” She took in the mess, anger warming. “If you’re not hurt, what’s all this?”
“I’m glad I came along, now. We got us a damn fortune down here. Some of this stuff is probably a hundred years old.” He gave a tight smile. “The biggest thing ever happened to us and you’re lost somewhere.”
Gina took a breath, bit back her first response.
“Couldn’t we just get through the funeral first? Before worrying about other stuff?”
“That’s right, change the subject.” He glared, pointed a finger at her face. “Look, when I yell for you, that means I need you now, got it?”
“What?” Her anger boiled over. “Screw you. You can kiss your fortune goodbye, ‘cause you and me are done!” She could see the rage burning in his face, rage directed at her this time. For the moment adrenalin overrode her fear and everything else.
She could see shadows on the shelves behind him, darker shapes moving in the dimness. They gathered behind a heavy-looking crock on the top shelf. The basin inched stealthily forward over Hershel’s head and she had a flash of sure knowledge. Unless she acted, something bad was about to happen, something she found herself unwilling to be responsible for. On impulse she turned and ran back up the stairs. No plea or command from her would move Hershel, but nothing could keep the man from following to continue the fight.
Running through the kitchen she remembered that long-ago fight with her father, another time she’d run away. She’d believed the shadows weren’t real, that all her father’s rules were some kind of punishment. Her stomach knotted tighter as she accepted that her father may have been right about the shadows.
She reached the front hall, hesitated. Now what? Things were moving too fast, her brain felt thick and slow. Upstairs or face him right here? Confronting him after such provocation scared Gina. Maybe if they were outside he’d be less likely to lose control. Decision made, she ran to the front door.
“Hey!” Hershel’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Stop, goddammit.”
Gina’s heart was banging in her ears as she slid into the jamb. She could hear his boots on the wood floor as she fumbled back the lock and threw open the door.
Three boys in Halloween pirate costumes were just starting up the walk to the porch. Oh, God, she thought, Halloween. Unwilling to go out the door and involve innocent kids, but too terrified for retreat, she involuntarily paused. An instant later Hershel’s hand slammed the door shut. He jerked her around, slapped her, shook her, sprayed spit as he ground out a string of curses.
The left side of her face was numbed, her ear rang, and panic strobed her vision. The man ranted about his ‘share’ just inches from her face. She shoved him away with all her strength, but only managed to push herself into the corner of hallway and doorframe. Gina had never physically been backed into a corner. Fear squeezed her lungs, her legs trembled, and she had a sick feeling Hershel was about to go much further than face slaps. Worse, there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Three loud knocks shook the front door as Hershel loomed over her. He stopped like a paused video, mouth open and eyes squinted. They both watched the door until the knock came again. He put his right fist inches from her nose.
“We’re not done here, bitch,” he whispered. “Don’t move.” He stepped back and opened the front door, ugly frown on his face.
“Trick or Treat, Mr. Calder,” sounded a chorus of boyish voices. “Hey, where’s Mr. Calder?” asked one young voice.
“The old man’s dead.” He seemed to enjoy saying that. “Get lost.”
Gina moved as quickly as she ever remembered moving, dancing around Hershel and blocking the door open before he could slam it shut.
“Hey, yeah, I’m sorry but my Daddy is gone.” The boys were dressed as a pirate crew, with the tallest wearing a captain’s long coat. “Let me get you some candy.” She snatched a handful out of the bowl by the door. The three boys held their bags open, but the young captain watched Hershel with fearful suspicion. Gina could see he knew something was going on. The other two kept looking into the hall behind her.
A tinkle of breaking glass came from the driveway.
“What the . . .?” Hershel shoved Gina aside, scattering the candy. “You punks better not a’ messed with my truck!” He pushed past the kids, trotted down the steps and to the driveway.
“We didn’t do nothin’,” said the pirate boy-captain, worry clear on his face.
“I know,” Gina answered, “don’t worry. How about some more candy and you boys can go to the next house?” She worried these kids might attract Hershel’s anger, wanted them out of harms way. Reaching to the candy bowl again, she caught movement from the corner of her eye. She turned, watched in stunned horror as shadows streamed past her and out into the deeply shaded yard.
“Ooh, cool. You got the shadow show going,” said one of the pirate crew. “Told ya so.” The other boys watched with wide eyes.
She spun back around, stepped out on the wide porch with the boys to look toward the driveway. Hershel had unlocked the driver’s door, left the keys hanging in the lock. He glanced around the cab for damage, leaned over and turned on the headlights. Only one circle of light appeared on the rock retaining wall.
“That’s it. You punks are goin’ to jail.” Hershel moved around to the front of the truck to inspect the damage.
Gina’s reassurance to the protesting boys never left her mouth. As Hershel stepped into the light, she saw other shadows uncurling from his. More shadows raced over the lawn to the truck, a shadowy figure rose in the driver’s seat. Her heart gave a thud when she saw that the keys were gone from the door. She wanted to scream ‘no,’ wanted to tell the shadows to stop, but the rage on Hershel’s face made her pause too long.
“Look at this!” He cursed and bent over to look closer. Shadowy arms reached out, wrapped around Hershel, pulled him back against the short rock wall. “Hey.” He tried uselessly to jerk loose. “Hey!”
The engine started, roared to full rpm’s. Hershel’s cursing was drowned by the noise, but his violent struggle had Gina’s petrified attention. The shifter dropped into gear and, for a short time that seemed very long, the wheels spun in a smoking, shrieking burn-out.
Tires regained traction and the Silverado lunged across the few feet into Hershel, pinned him against the wall in an explosion of roaring engine, breaking glass, and crumpling metal. By luck, the upright horns of the homemade push bumper passed to either side of Hershel and shattered the rock wall. The top crossbar drove him into the rubble as the lower crossbar caught him just below the knees, snapping both shins. The engine died with an ugly rattle.
Gina couldn’t bring herself to approach Hershel; he slumped over the hood, unconscious or dead. Either way, she told herself, there was nothing she could do. Instead she called 911 and tried to send the boys home. Fascinated by the macabre scene, they refused to go until Gina promised to give their names on the police report. Then she sat on the porch, eating Halloween candy straight from the bowl as full night settled over the town.
The ambulance arrived quickly but paramedics could not free the now conscious Hershel. In a very few minutes the Fire Department Rescue Unit arrived, followed by a police car. Neighbors were out watching the show, now. Trick-or-treaters paused to take in the flashing lights, crackling radios, and suffering victim before moving on to the next sugar bonanza.
While responders struggled with the rescue, Gina thought about what one of the boys had said. Apparently her father had put on a Halloween ‘shadow show’ for them before. That seemed to show he’d come to an accommodation with the shadows after she’d run away. While promising, it failed to allay her growing fear of what else the shadows might have done.
A gentle touch made her jump. Dark shapes stretched across the porch; Monkeyboy performed a silly wiggle dance. Another long, matronly shadow stretched out a hand and touched Gina’s shoulder.
“Glad you’re home,” said the shadow, her voice a whisper that Gina easily heard over the noise from the driveway.
“Why did you do this?” She wanted to feel angry, but sad is all that came.
“Bad man hurt you, we hurt bad man.” Monkeyboy added his opinion by changing shape into something horned and clawed.
Gina asked the next question that made sense to her.
“Did you kill my Mom?”
“No. Sad she fell, but she saved you.” The shadows twisted into a warped illustration of the stairs inside. Gina watched a woman throw her baby to the shadows as she fell down the pictured stairs. “We saved you, all together.” The shadow stretched to touch the rest.
The next question popped out without thought.
“What about Daddy?” Gina knew the answer as soon as she asked.
“After you left, good to us. Could not save him, sorry, so sorry.”
“What happened?” Her voice was choked.
“Sick, so quick.” The shadows reformed to show a man in a chair struggling unsuccessfully to rise. “Broke the rules, talked to phone. Too late, too late.” All the shadows bowed sadly.
For the first time, Gina bawled in her grief. Shadows held her, comforted her, whispered solace as they had when she was a child.
More sirens announced the arrival of a tow truck escorted by a green and tan County Sheriff SUV. Freeing the moaning Hershel from the wreckage finally took four men on crowbars prying as the tow truck yanked the pickup away from the wall. Over an hour had passed before paramedics finally got Hershel into the ambulance.
Gina had herself more or less together by then. Paramedics prepared to leave, and the time was coming for explanations or lies. She found herself unprepared.
“Why is this happening?” She put her face in her hands. “Why are you here?”
“You want to hear the First Story? Long ago . . .”
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Queen of Shadows (part 2 of 4)
For a breath the four-barrel carburetor sounded like a deranged vacuum cleaner, then the big V-8 gulped and roared, drowning out all other sounds. The old Silverado closed up behind the smaller car quickly. Hershel held down the horn as the push bumper rode inches from the sedan’s rear.
Hershel had built the push bumper himself, from heavy steel pipe. Four equidistant uprights were welded top and bottom to crossbars, one just below the truck’s bumper, and another just above the hood. He’d told her it was for emergency help with stalled or stuck cars, but the only thing she’d seen him use it for was to drag scratches in vehicles parked too close at Wal-Mart.
Then Hershel swung the truck left into oncoming traffic. Gina gave a yelp and forgot her resolve, reflexively clutched the dashboard. Horns blared as cars dodged onto the shoulder. He ignored the danger, squeezed the Lexus between his fenders and the shoulder.
Eyes closed, she tried to think of something besides imminent death. Of things she didn’t like about Hershel, his driving was top of the growing list. He could sometimes be personable, even charming, but behind the wheel he changed. She’d told herself it was just while he drove, but more and more that rage seemed to affect their relationship. Rather than dwell on that further, she opened her eyes and looked back out her window.
The Chevy Silverado towered over the Lexus, a cliff of flat-black side panels over slick pool of gray roof. The driver of the luxury sedan made the right decision and braked. Hershel swerved in front of the car and roared through the exit, flipping the bird all the way. Satisfied with his victory, Hershel slowed and lit a cigarette.
“Don’t be such a damn crybaby,” he said. “That’s why I’m drivin’, remember? If you don’t like it, drive yourself.”
She just nodded, refused to answer aloud. He was right, she didn’t like driving, but she was about fed up with his redneck crap. The rest of the drive was made in uneasy silence while she stared out her window. She could see her own face dimly reflected in the glass, a ghostly overlay of someone she hardly knew – a black eyed, black haired woman who looked older than her years, an addict twenty months clean, a girl who’d left her own father behind to die alone.
Something on the side of the road attracted her eye. She found herself exchanging stares with another coyote, a twin to the first. The animal perched on a roadside tilted rock, head cocked sideways, tongue lolling through a predator’s grin. It seemed to watch her as long as she could see it. With a shiver she turned her eyes forward and watched the road.
As they entered the city limits, a green sign caught her attention: “MoDOT Adopt-a-Highway, Ste Genevieve High School.” It had been a long time since she’d thought about this town, much less the times in school. She’d never really enjoyed school, but regretted not graduating. Of course, her biggest regret of high school was missing prom with Danny Grasmuck.
They’d called her Reggie at school, or worse sometimes, but Danny had always called her Regina. Even after she’d blabbed to him about her imaginary shadow friends he’d been cool. After that he would privately call her Regina Umbra, Latin for Queen of Shadows.
There had never been a question of who she would go to prom with; the only question was how far she’d been prepared to go after. She’d run away after that last, big fight with Daddy and never found out – more regrets she didn’t want to face right now.
Out the window, trees and Halloween decorations swept by as they drove up Seraphin Street. One of the oldest streets in Ste. Genevieve, it climbed a mile from the Mississippi flood plain, ending on 4th Street, atop Stonewall Bluff. Her strongest recollections of this street were watching it pass from a moving car just like this. She’d had few friends to wander around the neighborhood with, and her father had rarely allowed her out after sunset.
Gina could see the town had bloomed, sprouting coffee shops and fast food places, but the hill was eerily unchanged. Some houses looked older, and a few trees might be gone, but the feeling of age and history was still there.
“Hey,” Hershel said, hand shielding eyes from setting sun’s glare, “this it?” He turned the truck’s nose into a gravel drive and stopped.
Dim memories of the old house brightened. The outside was shabbier, the yard more grown over, but every window and each shadow was clear in memory. She could almost see her own face in the second floor bedroom window, looking longingly back out to the world. The century-old house had been her home and playground as a solitary child, and seemed a prison to a lonely teenager. Now it was her legacy.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Every window was lit, and she knew every lamp and room light was on. There were no curtains, no shades, nothing to cast a solid shadow, just the way her father had always insisted. She took a couple of deep breaths. Daddy never liked shadows.
“Nice places around here. Gonna be worth a pretty penny.” Hershel eased the truck up the steep drive, parked with the bumper a couple of yards from the native stone retaining wall rather than in the circle. “Need to work on this yard, though.” He got out, still talking about market improvements. Thanks to his occasional employment in construction, Hershel thought he was a real estate expert.
Gina forced herself to get out of the truck and follow Hershel up the walk. Tricks of the sunset light or her emotional distress made shadows flicker in her peripheral vision. Nothing was moving when she looked, of course. As she reached the porch she smelled bitter smoke, but the next breath it was gone.
Dealing with Hershel, seeing the house, and facing tomorrow’s funeral, Gina wondered if the stress was affecting her. She rubbed her eyes, resolved to keep it together. Maybe she could find a meeting tomorrow.
“Look at this.” Hershel was already on the wide porch, holding the white-painted front door open. “Wasn’t even locked. What the hell?”
“That’s not too strange around here, hun.” She waved her hand at the neighborhood. “It’s a nice town. Probably nobody’s been here since. . .” She decided not to finish that.
“Since the old man kicked Thursday.” He shook his head at her wince. “Well, let’s see if anything’s left.”
If the outside of the house was neglected, the inside was pristine. Wood floors gleamed with polish and the walls looked freshly painted. The Prairie style house was over one hundred years old, copied from Frank Lloyd Wright designs. Gina remembered the furnishings as sparse, but place felt empty now.
“Damn. Looks like it’s been cleaned out.” His eyes went to the door-less hall closet. “Even the doors.”
“No, I don’t think so.” There was an antique bowl full of Halloween candy on the wicker phone stand beside the door, evidence to Gina there’d been no burglary. She lowered her voice, not liking the echoes. “Daddy kept some of the inside doors down in the basement. That’s probably where the extra furniture is, too.” She gave a weak smile and shrugged her shoulders at Hershel’s quizzical frown. “Don’t ask me, that’s why I left.” She knew exactly why her father pulled down the doors; to avoid the shadows cast behind them. Gina just didn’t want to admit to some of the crazy things her father did.
“Well, better check before we call the cops. How do we get down there?”
She led Hershel through the house to the kitchen, showed him the basement door. She hung back as he opened it.
“You coming?”
One of her father’s rules was that she could never go into the basement, which had always been fine with her. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but the basement was a dank and dirty maze. A hundred years of junk was piled on rickety shelves, covered with layers of cobwebs. The only time she remembered being down there, she’d been hurt when something fell on her as she played hide-n-seek with her imaginary shadow friends. She’d had a cast for weeks.
“No. I’d like to check things out upstairs, y’know, see my old room.”
“That’s my girl, looking for a bedroom.” He winked. “I’ll hurry up, don’t worry.”
His normal crudeness struck a nerve. She managed to keep smiling until he started down.
“My God,” she muttered, moving back to the front of the house, “where’s my head been? What a jerk. And what does that make me?” Something about being home had cleared her thoughts. Hershel was good in the sack, but he was always good when he got what he wanted. She started up the stairs to the second floor, mind racing back ten years. . .
“Daddy, please. You're just doing this to be mean. Is there one good reason why I can't go out tonight?”
“That's why, don't you understand? The shadows are too dangerous.”
“The shadows?” Incredulous shock made her repeat. “The shadows? They’re imaginary! They couldn't kill Mom. Are you crazy?”
“I saw it, exactly what I just told you.”
“Don't you get it?” Gina’s voice rose with her temper. “Nobody killed Mom, nobody but God! It was an accident. She fell down the stairs -- no shadow monsters, no dark killer, just bad luck, and I'm still paying for it like I killed her myself!” She saw that strike home in his heartsick expression, but he didn't answer, just turned away. Her anger froze at a thought.
“You think I killed her?”
“No.” He turned slowly, ponderously, reluctantly, back to face her. “I think they killed her to get you.” He shook his head. “You're not going out tonight, or any other night while you're under this roof.”
A tearful retreat to her room was suitably dramatic, but too much was on her mind to keep crying. Creeping below her anger was fear, even horror. It couldn’t have been her fault, she knew, but then, why the guilt? Gina knew the shadows weren’t real, couldn’t be real, but still. . . for her? Somebody was crazy here.
She’d run away before dawn, run from being crazy and never planned to look back.
Facing facts now, she’d run away from this house, but actually tried to run from herself. Cousins in New Orleans had shown her the high life. From then on, parties, booze, and drugs had been her first choices for forgetting, for shutting out loss. Then she moved in with friends in Mobile, drug acquaintances in Georgia, a smuggler in Del Rio, whoever and wherever she could get what she wanted.
That had eventually landed her in an emergency room and very nearly in prison. She’d decided to stop using right then. There’d been reason to be proud of her progress these last two years; she’d even written to her father. Just a couple of cards with no return address, not a dialogue yet, but it was a step on the trip to recovery.
Was Hershel just the latest in a new series of self-destructive acts, Gina wondered? Instead of beating her addictions it looked like she’d just switched from bad chemicals to bad men.
“Now what?” she said to the empty stairs. “All the running and distractions and drama, just to keep from wondering if I was crazy or not?” She ground her teeth. “So much time wasted. Crap.” She was halfway up the steep steps when a flicker and tiny metallic ping drew her attention to the light at the top of the stairs.
The bulb burned out with a blinding, blue-white flash. Already distracted, Gina staggered and both heels slipped off the step. Flailing, she fell back, her right hand catching the handrail as her left clawed uselessly against the bare wall. She pivoted around her grip, slammed into the handrail. Both legs came up as she spun backwards up and over the rail. For a panicked instant she saw the toes of her suede boots against the ceiling.
Then her butt landed hard on a step. Somehow she’d spun back over the rail instead of falling on her head in the hall. Stunned, she could only stare in confusion at the shadow of the handrail on the wall, ears buzzing, butt stinging. Something was wrong with what she was seeing, but it took several seconds to focus.
Hershel had built the push bumper himself, from heavy steel pipe. Four equidistant uprights were welded top and bottom to crossbars, one just below the truck’s bumper, and another just above the hood. He’d told her it was for emergency help with stalled or stuck cars, but the only thing she’d seen him use it for was to drag scratches in vehicles parked too close at Wal-Mart.
Then Hershel swung the truck left into oncoming traffic. Gina gave a yelp and forgot her resolve, reflexively clutched the dashboard. Horns blared as cars dodged onto the shoulder. He ignored the danger, squeezed the Lexus between his fenders and the shoulder.
Eyes closed, she tried to think of something besides imminent death. Of things she didn’t like about Hershel, his driving was top of the growing list. He could sometimes be personable, even charming, but behind the wheel he changed. She’d told herself it was just while he drove, but more and more that rage seemed to affect their relationship. Rather than dwell on that further, she opened her eyes and looked back out her window.
The Chevy Silverado towered over the Lexus, a cliff of flat-black side panels over slick pool of gray roof. The driver of the luxury sedan made the right decision and braked. Hershel swerved in front of the car and roared through the exit, flipping the bird all the way. Satisfied with his victory, Hershel slowed and lit a cigarette.
“Don’t be such a damn crybaby,” he said. “That’s why I’m drivin’, remember? If you don’t like it, drive yourself.”
She just nodded, refused to answer aloud. He was right, she didn’t like driving, but she was about fed up with his redneck crap. The rest of the drive was made in uneasy silence while she stared out her window. She could see her own face dimly reflected in the glass, a ghostly overlay of someone she hardly knew – a black eyed, black haired woman who looked older than her years, an addict twenty months clean, a girl who’d left her own father behind to die alone.
Something on the side of the road attracted her eye. She found herself exchanging stares with another coyote, a twin to the first. The animal perched on a roadside tilted rock, head cocked sideways, tongue lolling through a predator’s grin. It seemed to watch her as long as she could see it. With a shiver she turned her eyes forward and watched the road.
As they entered the city limits, a green sign caught her attention: “MoDOT Adopt-a-Highway, Ste Genevieve High School.” It had been a long time since she’d thought about this town, much less the times in school. She’d never really enjoyed school, but regretted not graduating. Of course, her biggest regret of high school was missing prom with Danny Grasmuck.
They’d called her Reggie at school, or worse sometimes, but Danny had always called her Regina. Even after she’d blabbed to him about her imaginary shadow friends he’d been cool. After that he would privately call her Regina Umbra, Latin for Queen of Shadows.
There had never been a question of who she would go to prom with; the only question was how far she’d been prepared to go after. She’d run away after that last, big fight with Daddy and never found out – more regrets she didn’t want to face right now.
Out the window, trees and Halloween decorations swept by as they drove up Seraphin Street. One of the oldest streets in Ste. Genevieve, it climbed a mile from the Mississippi flood plain, ending on 4th Street, atop Stonewall Bluff. Her strongest recollections of this street were watching it pass from a moving car just like this. She’d had few friends to wander around the neighborhood with, and her father had rarely allowed her out after sunset.
Gina could see the town had bloomed, sprouting coffee shops and fast food places, but the hill was eerily unchanged. Some houses looked older, and a few trees might be gone, but the feeling of age and history was still there.
“Hey,” Hershel said, hand shielding eyes from setting sun’s glare, “this it?” He turned the truck’s nose into a gravel drive and stopped.
Dim memories of the old house brightened. The outside was shabbier, the yard more grown over, but every window and each shadow was clear in memory. She could almost see her own face in the second floor bedroom window, looking longingly back out to the world. The century-old house had been her home and playground as a solitary child, and seemed a prison to a lonely teenager. Now it was her legacy.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Every window was lit, and she knew every lamp and room light was on. There were no curtains, no shades, nothing to cast a solid shadow, just the way her father had always insisted. She took a couple of deep breaths. Daddy never liked shadows.
“Nice places around here. Gonna be worth a pretty penny.” Hershel eased the truck up the steep drive, parked with the bumper a couple of yards from the native stone retaining wall rather than in the circle. “Need to work on this yard, though.” He got out, still talking about market improvements. Thanks to his occasional employment in construction, Hershel thought he was a real estate expert.
Gina forced herself to get out of the truck and follow Hershel up the walk. Tricks of the sunset light or her emotional distress made shadows flicker in her peripheral vision. Nothing was moving when she looked, of course. As she reached the porch she smelled bitter smoke, but the next breath it was gone.
Dealing with Hershel, seeing the house, and facing tomorrow’s funeral, Gina wondered if the stress was affecting her. She rubbed her eyes, resolved to keep it together. Maybe she could find a meeting tomorrow.
“Look at this.” Hershel was already on the wide porch, holding the white-painted front door open. “Wasn’t even locked. What the hell?”
“That’s not too strange around here, hun.” She waved her hand at the neighborhood. “It’s a nice town. Probably nobody’s been here since. . .” She decided not to finish that.
“Since the old man kicked Thursday.” He shook his head at her wince. “Well, let’s see if anything’s left.”
If the outside of the house was neglected, the inside was pristine. Wood floors gleamed with polish and the walls looked freshly painted. The Prairie style house was over one hundred years old, copied from Frank Lloyd Wright designs. Gina remembered the furnishings as sparse, but place felt empty now.
“Damn. Looks like it’s been cleaned out.” His eyes went to the door-less hall closet. “Even the doors.”
“No, I don’t think so.” There was an antique bowl full of Halloween candy on the wicker phone stand beside the door, evidence to Gina there’d been no burglary. She lowered her voice, not liking the echoes. “Daddy kept some of the inside doors down in the basement. That’s probably where the extra furniture is, too.” She gave a weak smile and shrugged her shoulders at Hershel’s quizzical frown. “Don’t ask me, that’s why I left.” She knew exactly why her father pulled down the doors; to avoid the shadows cast behind them. Gina just didn’t want to admit to some of the crazy things her father did.
“Well, better check before we call the cops. How do we get down there?”
She led Hershel through the house to the kitchen, showed him the basement door. She hung back as he opened it.
“You coming?”
One of her father’s rules was that she could never go into the basement, which had always been fine with her. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but the basement was a dank and dirty maze. A hundred years of junk was piled on rickety shelves, covered with layers of cobwebs. The only time she remembered being down there, she’d been hurt when something fell on her as she played hide-n-seek with her imaginary shadow friends. She’d had a cast for weeks.
“No. I’d like to check things out upstairs, y’know, see my old room.”
“That’s my girl, looking for a bedroom.” He winked. “I’ll hurry up, don’t worry.”
His normal crudeness struck a nerve. She managed to keep smiling until he started down.
“My God,” she muttered, moving back to the front of the house, “where’s my head been? What a jerk. And what does that make me?” Something about being home had cleared her thoughts. Hershel was good in the sack, but he was always good when he got what he wanted. She started up the stairs to the second floor, mind racing back ten years. . .
“Daddy, please. You're just doing this to be mean. Is there one good reason why I can't go out tonight?”
“That's why, don't you understand? The shadows are too dangerous.”
“The shadows?” Incredulous shock made her repeat. “The shadows? They’re imaginary! They couldn't kill Mom. Are you crazy?”
“I saw it, exactly what I just told you.”
“Don't you get it?” Gina’s voice rose with her temper. “Nobody killed Mom, nobody but God! It was an accident. She fell down the stairs -- no shadow monsters, no dark killer, just bad luck, and I'm still paying for it like I killed her myself!” She saw that strike home in his heartsick expression, but he didn't answer, just turned away. Her anger froze at a thought.
“You think I killed her?”
“No.” He turned slowly, ponderously, reluctantly, back to face her. “I think they killed her to get you.” He shook his head. “You're not going out tonight, or any other night while you're under this roof.”
A tearful retreat to her room was suitably dramatic, but too much was on her mind to keep crying. Creeping below her anger was fear, even horror. It couldn’t have been her fault, she knew, but then, why the guilt? Gina knew the shadows weren’t real, couldn’t be real, but still. . . for her? Somebody was crazy here.
She’d run away before dawn, run from being crazy and never planned to look back.
Facing facts now, she’d run away from this house, but actually tried to run from herself. Cousins in New Orleans had shown her the high life. From then on, parties, booze, and drugs had been her first choices for forgetting, for shutting out loss. Then she moved in with friends in Mobile, drug acquaintances in Georgia, a smuggler in Del Rio, whoever and wherever she could get what she wanted.
That had eventually landed her in an emergency room and very nearly in prison. She’d decided to stop using right then. There’d been reason to be proud of her progress these last two years; she’d even written to her father. Just a couple of cards with no return address, not a dialogue yet, but it was a step on the trip to recovery.
Was Hershel just the latest in a new series of self-destructive acts, Gina wondered? Instead of beating her addictions it looked like she’d just switched from bad chemicals to bad men.
“Now what?” she said to the empty stairs. “All the running and distractions and drama, just to keep from wondering if I was crazy or not?” She ground her teeth. “So much time wasted. Crap.” She was halfway up the steep steps when a flicker and tiny metallic ping drew her attention to the light at the top of the stairs.
The bulb burned out with a blinding, blue-white flash. Already distracted, Gina staggered and both heels slipped off the step. Flailing, she fell back, her right hand catching the handrail as her left clawed uselessly against the bare wall. She pivoted around her grip, slammed into the handrail. Both legs came up as she spun backwards up and over the rail. For a panicked instant she saw the toes of her suede boots against the ceiling.
Then her butt landed hard on a step. Somehow she’d spun back over the rail instead of falling on her head in the hall. Stunned, she could only stare in confusion at the shadow of the handrail on the wall, ears buzzing, butt stinging. Something was wrong with what she was seeing, but it took several seconds to focus.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Queen of Shadows (part 1 of 4)
30 years ago –
Upstairs, the baby stopped crying and Blake Calder knew that little Regina was in her mother Molly’s loving arms.
Afternoon naptime was over and clearly he needed to finish this little home improvement job up. Satisfied with the marked measurements, he put aside the wall lamp and armed himself with hammer and nail. The old house was solid as a rock, but it still needed some things to make it a home.
"Oh, Daa-ddy, where are you?" sang Molly from the top of the main stairs. The toddler giggled, which always made Blake smile. He leaned over, looked through the arch between the main entry hall and the sitting room.
Molly’s long, straight hair tented over little Regina as she carried her child down the stairs. Molly’s Chickasaw heritage had come out strongly in the baby, with striking almond eyes and hair blacker than any Blake had ever seen. Little Regina was looking right at Blake as her mother carefully negotiated the stairs.
"Peekaboo!" To his delight, Regina laughed again. "Almost done, my loves." After a smile and wink he moved back to the task at hand, bringing light into their happy inheritance.
Bad times had forced them to give up their first cottage, so when the death of Molly’s obscure aunt left them this house, it had been a prayer answered.
He lined up the finishing nail on the top mark to punch a starter hole, took a gentle swing. The nail spun off and the hammer banged the tip of his thumb. He choked down a curse and shook the offended digit. There came a floor-shaking thud and the baby wailed. He leaned back out, looked at the stairs.
A black figure stood where his wife had been five seconds before, little Regina bawling in its arms. Searching eyes found his wife's body lying at the bottom of the stairs, her head grotesquely lodged between balusters, her neck obscenely twisted, her eyes staring blindly into his.
Blake didn't feel himself run and vault the handrail, didn't hear his own roars as he rushed the figure, never tasted his tears as he cradled his baby daughter and dead wife.
He never believed it was an accident, could never explain the shadow figure, could only throw himself into raising his daughter and trying to keep her safe.
700 years ago –
It was the time of year when Summer wrestled with Winter. The tribe had camped atop a nameless hill overlooking the Mississippi, above the rich but treacherous floodplain. In the hours before dawn, breath of the North Wind had frosted pole and grass throughout the camp. Utter darkness and near freezing temperature did nothing to deter the naked men muttering around one traveling lodge. In point of fact, each was armed with spear or bow and did not regard himself as naked.
“Quiet yourselves,” spoke Tsoshominko’, War Chief of the Chakla Band of Chickasaws. “You do not want to sound like old women in front of Chaklaminko’ and Old Man, eh?” The warriors growled, laughed, and shook their weapons at the insult, but when the Primary Chief and elderly tribal shaman approached, the warriors met them with respectful silence.
Primary Chief Chaklaa held a lamp in one hand and supported Old Man with the other. They had taken time to don robe and leggings, mostly in deference to the Spirit Talker’s age. Old Man had been alive so long only the spirits knew his true name, or so he claimed at the Council Fire. None living had ever heard the claim disputed.
“Chokmah, boys,” the Old Man greeted them, breath ghostly puffs, voice gravelly from years of smoke and chants. The most feared warriors in the Mississippi Valley returned the greeting like so many children at lessons. Old Man fixed his eyes on the war chief. “Tso, can you tell me more?”
“No, Spirit Talker.” Tsosho grounded the butt of his spear and ran a free hand over half-shaved scalp, kept that way to mark his readiness for battle. “A scream, like nothing I have ever heard from a man’s throat. I ran here from my bed, called for others. There came chanting from inside, in another tongue, Sioux perhaps, that faded quickly away. Nothing else.” Flame from the rendered-fat reed lamp danced from rolling eyes and shifting flint points as the gathered warriors stirred, unsettled by the story.
“None of you have entered? And none have come or gone?” Old Man grunted at Tso’s nod, turned to Chaklaa. “You were right to awaken me. This is the lodge of my apprentice and the signs are ill.”
“What will you do, grandfather?” Chaklaa patted Old Man’s hand. “And what can we do to help?”
“Try not to get in my way,” Old Man said snippily, pointed at the band of men. “And none of you boys run off, hear me?”
Pulling a turtle-shell rattle from under his robe, Old Man raised a prayer to quell angry spirits. His dance became a rhythmic shuffle toward the lodge flap. The warriors eased back, weapons casually at ready. As the Spirit Talker approached the flap, he motioned for Tso to open it. Experience had taught the war chief long ago that the careless man is soon the dead man; staying back, he reached with his spear butt and flipped back the leather flap.
Vile smoke rolled from the lodge, overpowering the smell of burning grease from Chacklaa’s lamp. The inside was red-lit by coals in the fire pit, but far brighter than outside. A young girl, perhaps six years old, lay sprawled on a buffalo rug between the door and the fire pit. Though swaddled in a burial shroud, she was clearly breathing. The Old Man was taken aback by the sight, but grimly entered the lodge. In moments he was backing out, clutching the girl in one arm as he rattled with the other.
Panting between chants from exertion, the Old Man passed the girl to Chaklaa. Without breaking rhythm he entered the lodge again, this time closing the flap behind him. Chanting soon gave way to a muted conversation. At hearing the strangeness of the other voice, the warriors huddled closer together and pointed their weapons to the lodge. Tso leaned to whisper at Chaklaa.
“Minko’, do you know what’s happening?”
“All I know is that this girl should be dead.” Chaklaa turned her sleeping face to the lamp light. “She is the apprentice’s daughter. She died of fever two days ago.” Both men watched the wispy cloud of her breath prove her life.
An unearthly howl rose from the lodge, echoed from the four directions. Then Old Man stumbled from the door and two warriors rushed to support him as he regained his wind. The rest looked like hunted buffalo, facing outwards in a ring of wild-eyed defense.
“He is gone,” Old Man said as soon as he could. “The foolish boy called on Sioux spirits to bring back his daughter when our own would not.” He opened his hand to show a carved figure – bowed back, brush tail, pointed snout raised skyward in a howl. “My idiot apprentice called on Coyote the Trickster.”
“So, then.” Chaklaa eyed the lodge. “The man is dead?”
“No,” Old Man spat, “although I imagine his plan was to trade life for life. What actually happened was far worse. Look.” He tottered to the door and pulled the flap fully open. Chaklaa could see a shadow dancing on the leather wall of the lodge, but no body was present to make that shadow.
“What is this, Old Man?” Chaklaa said in a whisper.
“Coyote took his living body.” Old Man dropped the flap. “Then left his spirit trapped in that cursed shadow yonder. He is now the black man, a Losaanakni’.”
Chaklaa was a man of kind words, but decisive action.
“Tsosho, burn that lodge. The rest of you get everyone up. We’re striking camp.” As the men eagerly sprang to their tasks, Chaklaa moved closer to Old Man and spoke quietly. “The girl. Dare we keep her?
Looking at the child in Chaklaa’s arms, Old Man saw she was now awake. Her watching eyes were darker than the night around them and raven hair glinted as if full of fallen stars.
“Dare we harm what the spirits have returned?” Old Man shook his head. “Her fate is now twined with the Other World.” He watched as flames kindled from the lodge. “We dare not meddle.”
By dawn the band was miles away down river. A trickle of smoke still rose from atop the ancient mound overlooking an uncaring Mississippi River. Days, seasons, and years passed, wiping all sign of the tragedy away, but no other people would live on Dark Man Hill.
Until the white men came.
Now -
Chill shadows of a Halloween afternoon cut across State 62, the passing shade of each tree a flickering frame of an old film. Gina rode in the black pickup truck watching the Mississippi Valley roll by, caught up tides of grainy memory. Years, mistakes, and a lifetime of miles had separated her from Sainte Genevieve, but the death of her father was rewinding the film, dragging her back to this sleepy Missouri community.
“Here we go, St. Mary’s Road.” Hershel hit his turn signal. “Not long, now.”
“Thanks, dear.” Gina slid across the bench seat, jeans catching on cracked vinyl upholstery, and leaned against his leather-clad shoulder. “I appreciate you coming, y’know?” Her eyes drifted back to the road-side shadows, imagining them moving past instead of her moving forward.
“I know you hate driving.” He slapped her thigh hard enough to sting. “Anyway, couldn’t let an easy gal like you out on her own.” His hand slid higher. “Some old boyfriend might think you were available. And who was gonna assess the property? You?”
Gina laughed with him, but the cut-downs weren’t as funny as they used to be. They’d been together over a year now, since she’d run-not-walked away from Lynn, his lies, and his drugs. Gina was a waitress the first time she met Hershel at the Waffle House in Little Rock. He’d seemed strong and wise; leathery Marlboro Man good looks had been a plus.
He’d taken her in without question, held her former friends and cohorts at a needful distance when she wavered in her resolve. He’d been hard and uncompromising, something Gina felt she’d needed to help get her life back under control. Now it seemed more and more of her life was under his control. She was grateful, she owed him, but it wasn’t love, and that bothered her lately.
She wanted to believe Hershel had come to the funeral to help her, but his interest seemed more about possible inheritance than emotional support. At least he’d dressed up a little, though the new leather jacket had cost Gina most of her saved tips.
As they slowed for the turn a gray Lexus passed, signaled for the same exit. Before Gina’s eyes a coyote appeared out of browned weeds choking the right drainage ditch and loped across the road in front of the Lexus. The driver braked hard and swerved in front of Hershel’s truck. Gina braced her feet on the floorboards, held on to Hershel’s arm as he locked up his brakes to avoid a collision.
The Chevy Silverado fishtailed at the edge of spinout, and for an instant Gina saw the coyote sitting in the other lane, lolling tongue giving her the impression of amusement. Hershel cursed and wrestled the big truck back under control.
“Rich piss-ant ain’t cuttin’ me off,” he growled and floored the accelerator.
“Hershel, please.” Gina resisted grabbing the dashboard. As sure as he would ignore her protest, he would say something ugly if she seemed to doubt his driving.
Upstairs, the baby stopped crying and Blake Calder knew that little Regina was in her mother Molly’s loving arms.
Afternoon naptime was over and clearly he needed to finish this little home improvement job up. Satisfied with the marked measurements, he put aside the wall lamp and armed himself with hammer and nail. The old house was solid as a rock, but it still needed some things to make it a home.
"Oh, Daa-ddy, where are you?" sang Molly from the top of the main stairs. The toddler giggled, which always made Blake smile. He leaned over, looked through the arch between the main entry hall and the sitting room.
Molly’s long, straight hair tented over little Regina as she carried her child down the stairs. Molly’s Chickasaw heritage had come out strongly in the baby, with striking almond eyes and hair blacker than any Blake had ever seen. Little Regina was looking right at Blake as her mother carefully negotiated the stairs.
"Peekaboo!" To his delight, Regina laughed again. "Almost done, my loves." After a smile and wink he moved back to the task at hand, bringing light into their happy inheritance.
Bad times had forced them to give up their first cottage, so when the death of Molly’s obscure aunt left them this house, it had been a prayer answered.
He lined up the finishing nail on the top mark to punch a starter hole, took a gentle swing. The nail spun off and the hammer banged the tip of his thumb. He choked down a curse and shook the offended digit. There came a floor-shaking thud and the baby wailed. He leaned back out, looked at the stairs.
A black figure stood where his wife had been five seconds before, little Regina bawling in its arms. Searching eyes found his wife's body lying at the bottom of the stairs, her head grotesquely lodged between balusters, her neck obscenely twisted, her eyes staring blindly into his.
Blake didn't feel himself run and vault the handrail, didn't hear his own roars as he rushed the figure, never tasted his tears as he cradled his baby daughter and dead wife.
He never believed it was an accident, could never explain the shadow figure, could only throw himself into raising his daughter and trying to keep her safe.
700 years ago –
It was the time of year when Summer wrestled with Winter. The tribe had camped atop a nameless hill overlooking the Mississippi, above the rich but treacherous floodplain. In the hours before dawn, breath of the North Wind had frosted pole and grass throughout the camp. Utter darkness and near freezing temperature did nothing to deter the naked men muttering around one traveling lodge. In point of fact, each was armed with spear or bow and did not regard himself as naked.
“Quiet yourselves,” spoke Tsoshominko’, War Chief of the Chakla Band of Chickasaws. “You do not want to sound like old women in front of Chaklaminko’ and Old Man, eh?” The warriors growled, laughed, and shook their weapons at the insult, but when the Primary Chief and elderly tribal shaman approached, the warriors met them with respectful silence.
Primary Chief Chaklaa held a lamp in one hand and supported Old Man with the other. They had taken time to don robe and leggings, mostly in deference to the Spirit Talker’s age. Old Man had been alive so long only the spirits knew his true name, or so he claimed at the Council Fire. None living had ever heard the claim disputed.
“Chokmah, boys,” the Old Man greeted them, breath ghostly puffs, voice gravelly from years of smoke and chants. The most feared warriors in the Mississippi Valley returned the greeting like so many children at lessons. Old Man fixed his eyes on the war chief. “Tso, can you tell me more?”
“No, Spirit Talker.” Tsosho grounded the butt of his spear and ran a free hand over half-shaved scalp, kept that way to mark his readiness for battle. “A scream, like nothing I have ever heard from a man’s throat. I ran here from my bed, called for others. There came chanting from inside, in another tongue, Sioux perhaps, that faded quickly away. Nothing else.” Flame from the rendered-fat reed lamp danced from rolling eyes and shifting flint points as the gathered warriors stirred, unsettled by the story.
“None of you have entered? And none have come or gone?” Old Man grunted at Tso’s nod, turned to Chaklaa. “You were right to awaken me. This is the lodge of my apprentice and the signs are ill.”
“What will you do, grandfather?” Chaklaa patted Old Man’s hand. “And what can we do to help?”
“Try not to get in my way,” Old Man said snippily, pointed at the band of men. “And none of you boys run off, hear me?”
Pulling a turtle-shell rattle from under his robe, Old Man raised a prayer to quell angry spirits. His dance became a rhythmic shuffle toward the lodge flap. The warriors eased back, weapons casually at ready. As the Spirit Talker approached the flap, he motioned for Tso to open it. Experience had taught the war chief long ago that the careless man is soon the dead man; staying back, he reached with his spear butt and flipped back the leather flap.
Vile smoke rolled from the lodge, overpowering the smell of burning grease from Chacklaa’s lamp. The inside was red-lit by coals in the fire pit, but far brighter than outside. A young girl, perhaps six years old, lay sprawled on a buffalo rug between the door and the fire pit. Though swaddled in a burial shroud, she was clearly breathing. The Old Man was taken aback by the sight, but grimly entered the lodge. In moments he was backing out, clutching the girl in one arm as he rattled with the other.
Panting between chants from exertion, the Old Man passed the girl to Chaklaa. Without breaking rhythm he entered the lodge again, this time closing the flap behind him. Chanting soon gave way to a muted conversation. At hearing the strangeness of the other voice, the warriors huddled closer together and pointed their weapons to the lodge. Tso leaned to whisper at Chaklaa.
“Minko’, do you know what’s happening?”
“All I know is that this girl should be dead.” Chaklaa turned her sleeping face to the lamp light. “She is the apprentice’s daughter. She died of fever two days ago.” Both men watched the wispy cloud of her breath prove her life.
An unearthly howl rose from the lodge, echoed from the four directions. Then Old Man stumbled from the door and two warriors rushed to support him as he regained his wind. The rest looked like hunted buffalo, facing outwards in a ring of wild-eyed defense.
“He is gone,” Old Man said as soon as he could. “The foolish boy called on Sioux spirits to bring back his daughter when our own would not.” He opened his hand to show a carved figure – bowed back, brush tail, pointed snout raised skyward in a howl. “My idiot apprentice called on Coyote the Trickster.”
“So, then.” Chaklaa eyed the lodge. “The man is dead?”
“No,” Old Man spat, “although I imagine his plan was to trade life for life. What actually happened was far worse. Look.” He tottered to the door and pulled the flap fully open. Chaklaa could see a shadow dancing on the leather wall of the lodge, but no body was present to make that shadow.
“What is this, Old Man?” Chaklaa said in a whisper.
“Coyote took his living body.” Old Man dropped the flap. “Then left his spirit trapped in that cursed shadow yonder. He is now the black man, a Losaanakni’.”
Chaklaa was a man of kind words, but decisive action.
“Tsosho, burn that lodge. The rest of you get everyone up. We’re striking camp.” As the men eagerly sprang to their tasks, Chaklaa moved closer to Old Man and spoke quietly. “The girl. Dare we keep her?
Looking at the child in Chaklaa’s arms, Old Man saw she was now awake. Her watching eyes were darker than the night around them and raven hair glinted as if full of fallen stars.
“Dare we harm what the spirits have returned?” Old Man shook his head. “Her fate is now twined with the Other World.” He watched as flames kindled from the lodge. “We dare not meddle.”
By dawn the band was miles away down river. A trickle of smoke still rose from atop the ancient mound overlooking an uncaring Mississippi River. Days, seasons, and years passed, wiping all sign of the tragedy away, but no other people would live on Dark Man Hill.
Until the white men came.
Now -
Chill shadows of a Halloween afternoon cut across State 62, the passing shade of each tree a flickering frame of an old film. Gina rode in the black pickup truck watching the Mississippi Valley roll by, caught up tides of grainy memory. Years, mistakes, and a lifetime of miles had separated her from Sainte Genevieve, but the death of her father was rewinding the film, dragging her back to this sleepy Missouri community.
“Here we go, St. Mary’s Road.” Hershel hit his turn signal. “Not long, now.”
“Thanks, dear.” Gina slid across the bench seat, jeans catching on cracked vinyl upholstery, and leaned against his leather-clad shoulder. “I appreciate you coming, y’know?” Her eyes drifted back to the road-side shadows, imagining them moving past instead of her moving forward.
“I know you hate driving.” He slapped her thigh hard enough to sting. “Anyway, couldn’t let an easy gal like you out on her own.” His hand slid higher. “Some old boyfriend might think you were available. And who was gonna assess the property? You?”
Gina laughed with him, but the cut-downs weren’t as funny as they used to be. They’d been together over a year now, since she’d run-not-walked away from Lynn, his lies, and his drugs. Gina was a waitress the first time she met Hershel at the Waffle House in Little Rock. He’d seemed strong and wise; leathery Marlboro Man good looks had been a plus.
He’d taken her in without question, held her former friends and cohorts at a needful distance when she wavered in her resolve. He’d been hard and uncompromising, something Gina felt she’d needed to help get her life back under control. Now it seemed more and more of her life was under his control. She was grateful, she owed him, but it wasn’t love, and that bothered her lately.
She wanted to believe Hershel had come to the funeral to help her, but his interest seemed more about possible inheritance than emotional support. At least he’d dressed up a little, though the new leather jacket had cost Gina most of her saved tips.
As they slowed for the turn a gray Lexus passed, signaled for the same exit. Before Gina’s eyes a coyote appeared out of browned weeds choking the right drainage ditch and loped across the road in front of the Lexus. The driver braked hard and swerved in front of Hershel’s truck. Gina braced her feet on the floorboards, held on to Hershel’s arm as he locked up his brakes to avoid a collision.
The Chevy Silverado fishtailed at the edge of spinout, and for an instant Gina saw the coyote sitting in the other lane, lolling tongue giving her the impression of amusement. Hershel cursed and wrestled the big truck back under control.
“Rich piss-ant ain’t cuttin’ me off,” he growled and floored the accelerator.
“Hershel, please.” Gina resisted grabbing the dashboard. As sure as he would ignore her protest, he would say something ugly if she seemed to doubt his driving.
Monday, June 20, 2011
World of DRO
If you have never played a massive multiplayer online game, you should. If not because you want to play for the fun, then because we will all need the skills soon. Artificial intelligence is decades away, if it's possible at all, so human brains remain the best intelligence to perform many jobs. The internet is daily making it easier to project that intelligent performance a great distance. How?
For gaming neophytes, MMO games allow players to pilot digital avatars around a virtual world via the internet. It's just like that radio-controlled car we used to play with (or admire others playing with), except the internet allows virtually unlimited range. This is called Digital Remote Operation (DRO). For example I play a game called Lord of the Rings Online which lets me to explore virtual Middle Earth as a very talented hobbit named Malfo. I live in Oklahoma, and the computers that generate the virtual world are in Boston, a distance of some 1,700 miles.
Despite that great distance, my adventures procede at breakneck speed and my human reactions are the key to success or failure. The good news is it's fun, and the better news is that if my avatar should fall in battle I can revive him and continue. Avatars don't really die, and that's the point.
The Pentagon, et. al., is fielding more and more robots to the battlefield, or perhaps more precisely, battlespace. We, the U.S. , have robot aircraft in the sky, tracked robots on the ground, and robots on and below the sea. The robots on the ground are mostly direct remote controlled from a short distance. Most of the others are partly autonomous, allowing the operators to program in travel instructions and let the drone drive itself to the target area. Significantly, none of these robots can use a weapon without an operator pulling the trigger, so in the end ALL are remote controlled.
Sooner or later, the Pentagon will combine MMO game methods with their remote controlled arsenal. Soldier-operators will use secure military networks to drive Soldier-avatars into battle, man dangerous checkpoints, or just park at intersections to keep the peace. Everything they see or hear will be recorded, coercion will be useless, and they will never fear being killed - because they can't be killed. Worse for the bad guys, destroying a Soldier-avatar just means the Soldier-operator will return all the wiser in a new robotic body.
Shortly thereafter U.S. industry will "discover" digital remote operation. Instead of buying expensive robots and expensive computers to run the robots and expensive software to run the computers and expensive technicians to keep it all running, they'll install a robot and let a human operate it from afar. Sadly, this will make it even easier to export U.S. jobs, since they don't need to build a factory near the the cheap labor force. Happily, this will open job opportunites for any American with a computer, good internet connection and experience with digital remote operations.
I'd write more, but I have to go play -- err, I mean practice my digital remote operations skills.
For gaming neophytes, MMO games allow players to pilot digital avatars around a virtual world via the internet. It's just like that radio-controlled car we used to play with (or admire others playing with), except the internet allows virtually unlimited range. This is called Digital Remote Operation (DRO). For example I play a game called Lord of the Rings Online which lets me to explore virtual Middle Earth as a very talented hobbit named Malfo. I live in Oklahoma, and the computers that generate the virtual world are in Boston, a distance of some 1,700 miles.
Despite that great distance, my adventures procede at breakneck speed and my human reactions are the key to success or failure. The good news is it's fun, and the better news is that if my avatar should fall in battle I can revive him and continue. Avatars don't really die, and that's the point.
The Pentagon, et. al., is fielding more and more robots to the battlefield, or perhaps more precisely, battlespace. We, the U.S. , have robot aircraft in the sky, tracked robots on the ground, and robots on and below the sea. The robots on the ground are mostly direct remote controlled from a short distance. Most of the others are partly autonomous, allowing the operators to program in travel instructions and let the drone drive itself to the target area. Significantly, none of these robots can use a weapon without an operator pulling the trigger, so in the end ALL are remote controlled.
Sooner or later, the Pentagon will combine MMO game methods with their remote controlled arsenal. Soldier-operators will use secure military networks to drive Soldier-avatars into battle, man dangerous checkpoints, or just park at intersections to keep the peace. Everything they see or hear will be recorded, coercion will be useless, and they will never fear being killed - because they can't be killed. Worse for the bad guys, destroying a Soldier-avatar just means the Soldier-operator will return all the wiser in a new robotic body.
Shortly thereafter U.S. industry will "discover" digital remote operation. Instead of buying expensive robots and expensive computers to run the robots and expensive software to run the computers and expensive technicians to keep it all running, they'll install a robot and let a human operate it from afar. Sadly, this will make it even easier to export U.S. jobs, since they don't need to build a factory near the the cheap labor force. Happily, this will open job opportunites for any American with a computer, good internet connection and experience with digital remote operations.
I'd write more, but I have to go play -- err, I mean practice my digital remote operations skills.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Sketchup Rules
Building models. It's something most of us did as kids. Personally, I hadn't thought of modelling as art, but now I think the act of creating anything is indeed art - craftsmanship, detail, and patience coming together to make something new, something that wasn't there until we make it. But later, money and time becomes less available for such pursuits. The years pass and modelling becomes fond memory.
But sometimes the urge to build comes back. Restoring classic cars, home shop carpentry, and even gardening becomes our big kid's modelling. If you have the need to create but not the money to buy a shopful of woodworking tools, let me introduce Google Sketchup. Following the link ( http://sketchup.google.com/intl/en/index.html )will take you to the beginning of your own Sketchup adventure, but allow me to show you a few previews.
Sketchup is free 3D modeling software. In a world where free usually means worthless, Sketchup is anything but. It is simple enough to get started creating right away, and complex enough to stay ahead of your imagination. Google very kindly took Computer Assisted Design software that usually costs hundreds, even thousands, of dollars and made it available to everyone. Even their Sketchup Pro, which costs about $500, handily matches other professional level CAD programs from 2 to 10 (!) times the price.
Here's a few things I've done in Sketchup:
Using a Cape Canaveral photo background, my granddaughter's rocket is now on display. Heh!
But sometimes the urge to build comes back. Restoring classic cars, home shop carpentry, and even gardening becomes our big kid's modelling. If you have the need to create but not the money to buy a shopful of woodworking tools, let me introduce Google Sketchup. Following the link ( http://sketchup.google.com/intl/en/index.html )will take you to the beginning of your own Sketchup adventure, but allow me to show you a few previews.
Sketchup is free 3D modeling software. In a world where free usually means worthless, Sketchup is anything but. It is simple enough to get started creating right away, and complex enough to stay ahead of your imagination. Google very kindly took Computer Assisted Design software that usually costs hundreds, even thousands, of dollars and made it available to everyone. Even their Sketchup Pro, which costs about $500, handily matches other professional level CAD programs from 2 to 10 (!) times the price.
Here's a few things I've done in Sketchup:
Using a Cape Canaveral photo background, my granddaughter's rocket is now on display. Heh!
A DARPA project inspired this model. Meet the Multi-Role Agile Tactical Vehicle (M-RATV)
This model represents a dreamscape, was built to compete in a modelling challenge. Welcome to REM City.
Sketchup can handle architecture, carpentry, interior decoration, and any other project that needs realistic, 3 dimensional rendering. It lets you 'take a picture' as I have above, store your models for others to share online, even download and use other folk's models. The only downside is that complex models can take a long while to render on older or less capable computers.
Is it real? Is it art? I don't care, it's real fun!
Friday, June 17, 2011
Anthony Weiner Resigns? What?
I promised not to make this a blog about what I had for lunch today or amateur reporting. But I just can't get Anthony Weiner off my mind. This is probably because it's exactly what the media wanted.
We watch Bill Maher on HBO. Recently Rep. Weiner was on the Real Time panel. I was impressed by his humor, intelligence, and passion. It was clear he enjoyed the attention, liked the lively interaction, and could hold his own when things got bawdy. He didn't hesitate to grasp the heart of a matter and hang on.
Just weeks later this same guy is resigning from the House of Representatives over internet flirting. Not for having an affair while his stunningly beautiful wife is gone weeks at a time working for Hillary Clinton. Not for birthing a love child with the domestic help. Not for imbezzling money or swapping votes for gifts or anything else remotely criminal. No, it appears he was just lonely, horney, and craving a little female attention.
Significantly, he didn't call for a hooker, hit the strip bars, or even step outside the house. Now, for all I know it might be revealed he had a dozen doxies on the side, but it appears that he chose to keep his indiscretions virtual. So he is resigning for the same thing high school students do every day?
I get the feeling something else is going on, something that may never come to light.
And that bothers me.
We watch Bill Maher on HBO. Recently Rep. Weiner was on the Real Time panel. I was impressed by his humor, intelligence, and passion. It was clear he enjoyed the attention, liked the lively interaction, and could hold his own when things got bawdy. He didn't hesitate to grasp the heart of a matter and hang on.
Just weeks later this same guy is resigning from the House of Representatives over internet flirting. Not for having an affair while his stunningly beautiful wife is gone weeks at a time working for Hillary Clinton. Not for birthing a love child with the domestic help. Not for imbezzling money or swapping votes for gifts or anything else remotely criminal. No, it appears he was just lonely, horney, and craving a little female attention.
Significantly, he didn't call for a hooker, hit the strip bars, or even step outside the house. Now, for all I know it might be revealed he had a dozen doxies on the side, but it appears that he chose to keep his indiscretions virtual. So he is resigning for the same thing high school students do every day?
I get the feeling something else is going on, something that may never come to light.
And that bothers me.
Poet-ography Me
Matthew David came from heav’n
nineteen hundred fifty seven.
Saw the fall of Camelot,
black and white Apollo shot.
Oklahoma Cherokee,
From Oklahoma City,
Tulsa, Ada, Tupelo.
Never knew how far we’d go.
Read about the "Rolling Stones",
R. A. H. is in my bones!
70's weren't all that hot;
Hoping hard to not get shot.
Graduated from high school,
then flunked right out of O. U.
Married, Army, babies two;
failed again at E. C. U.
Lord Direwolf in S. C. A.;
Gaming guru - loved to play.
Two times more got baby boy!
Lost my Mom before that joy.
The 80's were a close call,
but made it through overall.
90's saw the crash of me;
bankrupt, divorce, lost family:
Sis Teresa, brother Mark,
Dad’s cancer from broken heart.
Found the other part of me,
guided me back from the sea.
Raise 'em, stake 'em, new life;
Sharing dreams with new wife.
She helped me find the writing way.
What else do I have to say?
Say what you mean,
Mean what you say,
Know what you want,
Savor each day.
nineteen hundred fifty seven.
Saw the fall of Camelot,
black and white Apollo shot.
Oklahoma Cherokee,
From Oklahoma City,
Tulsa, Ada, Tupelo.
Never knew how far we’d go.
Read about the "Rolling Stones",
R. A. H. is in my bones!
70's weren't all that hot;
Hoping hard to not get shot.
Graduated from high school,
then flunked right out of O. U.
Married, Army, babies two;
failed again at E. C. U.
Lord Direwolf in S. C. A.;
Gaming guru - loved to play.
Two times more got baby boy!
Lost my Mom before that joy.
The 80's were a close call,
but made it through overall.
90's saw the crash of me;
bankrupt, divorce, lost family:
Sis Teresa, brother Mark,
Dad’s cancer from broken heart.
Found the other part of me,
guided me back from the sea.
Raise 'em, stake 'em, new life;
Sharing dreams with new wife.
She helped me find the writing way.
What else do I have to say?
Say what you mean,
Mean what you say,
Know what you want,
Savor each day.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Mystery of the Next Step
Chatting one evening with a friend, the subject of extraterrestrials came up. “I wonder,” he said, “about extraterrestrial life. I mean, I believe it's out there. But, why haven't they contacted us? Are we the oldest sentient beings in the universe? Or do they think we're the hillbillies and stay away? Are they avoiding our little backwoods planet, or are they on the way with a conquering fleet?” Well, that got me to thinking, too. What are the chances of intelligent life outside our solar system discovering us, or us discovering them? And why haven't we yet? Come, Watson; the game is afoot.
First, let’s pick a distance to consider; say, five hundred light years. Most of the signals of our civilization completely disappear long before reaching this distance, faded and buried in the cosmic background noise. Signals that MIGHT reach five hundred light years are very few: high power directional radars, high energy lasers, and above ground nuclear detonations. At five hundred light years distance even these would only be tiny ‘clicks’ of radio or light energy, and would probably not be detectable at one thousand light years. If there is any chance of discovering or contacting a neighbor civilization, it lies within five hundred light years of us.
About a third of a million stars shine within five hundred light years of Earth. If we assume most stars have planets (and evidence is building for that assumption), then there might be about a quarter of a million solar systems in that region. Some of these stars just aren't suitable for life, being too bright or too dim, too radioactive or not enough, too big or too small, too hot or too cold. Furthermore, many stars have one or more companion stars, which makes habitable planets unlikely in that system. Let's assume a generous half of these stars have at least a chance for a life sustaining planet orbiting them, about one hundred and twenty-five thousand solar systems.
The science of the possibility of life is well written about, but let me sum up here the best I can of what I understand. For life to develop along the same lines as on Earth, we'd need a planet with similar gravity, plenty of water, with a relatively short rotational period, and orbiting within the life-zone of its sun. Some convincing arguments say we need a moon, since tides seem to be essential to early evolution. If the conditions were too different, then life may not develop at all, much less an intelligent, technological race.
The ranges of conditions for life are very broad, though; from world-freezing glaciers to baking aridity to steamy rainforests, our Earth has seen it all. Let's assume that 10% of the remaining solar systems have such a planet. That's still twelve and a half thousand planets that could develop life like ours within a mere five hundred light years. Go outside tonight, look up, and count twenty-five stars; a sister of Earth is probably orbiting one of them.
We know just from looking around us that if life can, it will. Fly, crawl, or float; eat wood, blood, or manure, life adapts. Even if the events that led to life here on Earth were unique, I believe life would find a way to use whatever chance it had to get started on these other planets. It would be asking a lot to assume each planet would develop life, evolve animals, and grow a species to intelligence, but if life can it will, so let's assume most of the worlds will develop intelligent life, creatures we could recognize and understand. If ten thousand worlds within five hundred light years of us have already developed or will soon develop intelligent life, life that survives to develop technology, then the question becomes that much more relevant: where are they?
Nobody on Earth has found evidence of extraterrestrial life, at least nothing outside tabloids. Some of these planets are older than Earth, some younger, but mostly born about the same time. On Earth life developed billions of years ago, but took its own sweet time to evolve into anything more exciting than worms. It’s the last one hundred million years that have been the most important to us humans. Assuming human development is fairly typical, civilizations could have been popping up on these planets every five or ten thousand years for the last fifty million years.
If planetary development is similar among these planets, that rate may even have increased over the last few million years to every three or four thousand years. Yet, we have no sign that hundreds or thousands of intelligent, technological species live in our galactic neighborhood. It seems there should be at least a few species out there, broadcasting radio and television, testing nuclear weapons, beaming lasers into space, tracking satellites with radar. It seems that someone should be out there, someone we could hear, someone looking for us the same way we're looking for them. Why are there no signs of our neighbors?
Like Sherlock Holmes, we are forced to accept the only remaining possibility, however unlikely. Perhaps it’s because they aren't there. We, Homo Sapiens, are still here, a species growing in the face of adversity. Plague, war, famine, and stupidity only slow us down, make us stronger. If these extraterrestrial brethren of ours were like us, then they were survivors, too; so what could have taken them out? The mystery is very personal to us, since we seem doomed to disappear also.
Since nobody is out there, it's obviously an inside job. That is, there doesn't seem to be any interstellar wars going on, and the very scale of space means no single disaster could have wiped everybody out without leaving behind evidence, so the cause of the disappearances likely came from within each species. Perhaps some of our neighbors committed suicide through war or pollution, but it's very unlikely hundreds or thousands did so. And even so, it seems likely there would be some evidence of the suicide, a legacy of electromagnetic signs. Not only are they not there, they don't seem to have been there recently. They didn't die, didn't get killed, and have been gone long enough that the trail is cold. The inescapable conclusion is they left, and soon after developing technology.
Thanks to technology, human understanding is approaching the very basic concepts of our universe. Once a species reaches the point of written language, knowledge begins to accumulate, allowing the talented and interested members to start their own search for further knowledge where others left off. Knowledge begets technology, which begets more knowledge and more power to use that knowledge to create more technology.
In just a thousand years, this feedback cycle has taken humanity from the Dark Ages to the Moon, even outside our solar system. As we live longer and longer we are exposed to more and more knowledge. We are able to pose questions and solve problems beyond the understanding of previous generations. Where will this lead us? How long before humanity masters space, time, matter, and energy? How long before our descendants find the answer to a question we don't even know enough to ask? How long before Mankind breaks the surly bonds of gravity, flees the cage of our flesh, and we transcend ourselves?
In Arthur C. Clarke’s novel ‘Childhood's End,’ Earth was visited by alien constructs studying the transcendent disappearance of mature species, and they had come to Earth because humans were on the verge of transcending into another kind of existence. Are we truly approaching transcendence? Man has come from telegraphs to supercomputers in a single century; where will we be one hundred years from now? Two hundred years ago atomic theory was born; what will we learn about the nature of the universe in the next two hundred years? In five hundred years Mankind could easily be gone, transcendent, vanished into an existence we cannot imagine today.
And here is the solution to our mystery. If the cycle is that rapid for our stellar neighbors, then we now know why we have no evidence of extraterrestrial neighbors. The period a species is capable of being detected and detecting others is less than a tenth of the average time between the possible rise of civilizations. This makes the odds of having coexisting extraterrestrials about the same as cutting an ace from a deck of cards, or rolling craps on your first roll at Las Vegas. If the pharaohs had known how, they might have heard the last voices from a soon-to-be-gone neighbor. By now their radio broadcasts, television signals, nuclear tests, and all other evidence would be long past us, leaving the silence of an abandoned house. And we humans will be long gone before the next race rises to look up and out, listening . . .
Watch out for that next step, neighbor . . . it’s a doozy.
First, let’s pick a distance to consider; say, five hundred light years. Most of the signals of our civilization completely disappear long before reaching this distance, faded and buried in the cosmic background noise. Signals that MIGHT reach five hundred light years are very few: high power directional radars, high energy lasers, and above ground nuclear detonations. At five hundred light years distance even these would only be tiny ‘clicks’ of radio or light energy, and would probably not be detectable at one thousand light years. If there is any chance of discovering or contacting a neighbor civilization, it lies within five hundred light years of us.
About a third of a million stars shine within five hundred light years of Earth. If we assume most stars have planets (and evidence is building for that assumption), then there might be about a quarter of a million solar systems in that region. Some of these stars just aren't suitable for life, being too bright or too dim, too radioactive or not enough, too big or too small, too hot or too cold. Furthermore, many stars have one or more companion stars, which makes habitable planets unlikely in that system. Let's assume a generous half of these stars have at least a chance for a life sustaining planet orbiting them, about one hundred and twenty-five thousand solar systems.
The science of the possibility of life is well written about, but let me sum up here the best I can of what I understand. For life to develop along the same lines as on Earth, we'd need a planet with similar gravity, plenty of water, with a relatively short rotational period, and orbiting within the life-zone of its sun. Some convincing arguments say we need a moon, since tides seem to be essential to early evolution. If the conditions were too different, then life may not develop at all, much less an intelligent, technological race.
The ranges of conditions for life are very broad, though; from world-freezing glaciers to baking aridity to steamy rainforests, our Earth has seen it all. Let's assume that 10% of the remaining solar systems have such a planet. That's still twelve and a half thousand planets that could develop life like ours within a mere five hundred light years. Go outside tonight, look up, and count twenty-five stars; a sister of Earth is probably orbiting one of them.
We know just from looking around us that if life can, it will. Fly, crawl, or float; eat wood, blood, or manure, life adapts. Even if the events that led to life here on Earth were unique, I believe life would find a way to use whatever chance it had to get started on these other planets. It would be asking a lot to assume each planet would develop life, evolve animals, and grow a species to intelligence, but if life can it will, so let's assume most of the worlds will develop intelligent life, creatures we could recognize and understand. If ten thousand worlds within five hundred light years of us have already developed or will soon develop intelligent life, life that survives to develop technology, then the question becomes that much more relevant: where are they?
Nobody on Earth has found evidence of extraterrestrial life, at least nothing outside tabloids. Some of these planets are older than Earth, some younger, but mostly born about the same time. On Earth life developed billions of years ago, but took its own sweet time to evolve into anything more exciting than worms. It’s the last one hundred million years that have been the most important to us humans. Assuming human development is fairly typical, civilizations could have been popping up on these planets every five or ten thousand years for the last fifty million years.
If planetary development is similar among these planets, that rate may even have increased over the last few million years to every three or four thousand years. Yet, we have no sign that hundreds or thousands of intelligent, technological species live in our galactic neighborhood. It seems there should be at least a few species out there, broadcasting radio and television, testing nuclear weapons, beaming lasers into space, tracking satellites with radar. It seems that someone should be out there, someone we could hear, someone looking for us the same way we're looking for them. Why are there no signs of our neighbors?
Like Sherlock Holmes, we are forced to accept the only remaining possibility, however unlikely. Perhaps it’s because they aren't there. We, Homo Sapiens, are still here, a species growing in the face of adversity. Plague, war, famine, and stupidity only slow us down, make us stronger. If these extraterrestrial brethren of ours were like us, then they were survivors, too; so what could have taken them out? The mystery is very personal to us, since we seem doomed to disappear also.
Since nobody is out there, it's obviously an inside job. That is, there doesn't seem to be any interstellar wars going on, and the very scale of space means no single disaster could have wiped everybody out without leaving behind evidence, so the cause of the disappearances likely came from within each species. Perhaps some of our neighbors committed suicide through war or pollution, but it's very unlikely hundreds or thousands did so. And even so, it seems likely there would be some evidence of the suicide, a legacy of electromagnetic signs. Not only are they not there, they don't seem to have been there recently. They didn't die, didn't get killed, and have been gone long enough that the trail is cold. The inescapable conclusion is they left, and soon after developing technology.
Thanks to technology, human understanding is approaching the very basic concepts of our universe. Once a species reaches the point of written language, knowledge begins to accumulate, allowing the talented and interested members to start their own search for further knowledge where others left off. Knowledge begets technology, which begets more knowledge and more power to use that knowledge to create more technology.
In just a thousand years, this feedback cycle has taken humanity from the Dark Ages to the Moon, even outside our solar system. As we live longer and longer we are exposed to more and more knowledge. We are able to pose questions and solve problems beyond the understanding of previous generations. Where will this lead us? How long before humanity masters space, time, matter, and energy? How long before our descendants find the answer to a question we don't even know enough to ask? How long before Mankind breaks the surly bonds of gravity, flees the cage of our flesh, and we transcend ourselves?
In Arthur C. Clarke’s novel ‘Childhood's End,’ Earth was visited by alien constructs studying the transcendent disappearance of mature species, and they had come to Earth because humans were on the verge of transcending into another kind of existence. Are we truly approaching transcendence? Man has come from telegraphs to supercomputers in a single century; where will we be one hundred years from now? Two hundred years ago atomic theory was born; what will we learn about the nature of the universe in the next two hundred years? In five hundred years Mankind could easily be gone, transcendent, vanished into an existence we cannot imagine today.
And here is the solution to our mystery. If the cycle is that rapid for our stellar neighbors, then we now know why we have no evidence of extraterrestrial neighbors. The period a species is capable of being detected and detecting others is less than a tenth of the average time between the possible rise of civilizations. This makes the odds of having coexisting extraterrestrials about the same as cutting an ace from a deck of cards, or rolling craps on your first roll at Las Vegas. If the pharaohs had known how, they might have heard the last voices from a soon-to-be-gone neighbor. By now their radio broadcasts, television signals, nuclear tests, and all other evidence would be long past us, leaving the silence of an abandoned house. And we humans will be long gone before the next race rises to look up and out, listening . . .
Watch out for that next step, neighbor . . . it’s a doozy.
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