BLOGS

Desi Roberto Santiago was a slacker. There is nothing wrong with being a slacker, except if you owed people money. Dezy owed very few people but the people he owed money were the kind of folks who would break one or both of your legs if you were late paying up. 

Unfortunately for him, slacking was his avowed lifestyle. He learned early in life, nothing was ever worth rushing for, or worse, putting in hard time and effort. It always disappointing and never worth the time you spent getting it. A form of perpetual buyer's remorse. So Dezy's motto was want not, work not. But he never lived up to it. He always spent more than he had and now had borrowed money from the local máfia boss, Don Milagro to keep himself in the latest tech. But Dezy had a plan.

Dezy was a bit skinny and asthmatic. His black hair was perpetually uncombed and often more than a bit dirty. He had a bit of chin hair and a line on his lip that wanted to be a mustache, unsuccessfully. His clothing reflected his overall attempts at looking prosperous, all second hand clothing that used to belong to rich tourists. None of it matched and most of it was ill-fitting only making it more apparent he was poor.

He left his day job with the same rage he felt every day. Two hours of work on the phone providing technical support to some cabrón in India, and then sent home. It wasn't even work anymore. Two hours? It took him longer to get to work, than he was there. No matter, after his next score, he was going to quit that job and maybe even come in a piss on his bosses desk before leaving.

He hated climbing the stairs to his fifteenth story apartment on the Southside of what was left of Mexico City. He stepped over Antonio on the ninth floor, passed out in a puddle of the latest pharmaceutical mierda being put out by Pharmacon. The man reeked something awful, the mix of body odor, urine and vomit might have caused Dezy to throw up, if he had anything to eat for the last few days. Instead, a burning sensation filled the pit of his stomach and he clenched his nose and jumped over the prone body on the stairs. When Antonio sobered up, he would probably be looking for a bath. He was not the only person squatting here with a pungent aroma of soaplessness. 

Living in what was called the Ivory Tower, a partially completed tenement abandoned by a construction company after the earthquake, water was in short supply past the fifth floor. Beyond that water pressure had to be created using mechanical tools. Dezy's solution was to use a salvaged bicycle and a room-mate to help bring up enough water from the street. When Dezy could spare some water or get some extra time on the bike, he would help Tony clean up but today wasn't going to be one of those days. Dezy had work to do.

It had rained all last week and Dezy's catch basins on the roof were full. He had made them several months ago after finding an old printed copy of Home Designers Quarterly, one of the last prints made before paper became illegal to produce. He found them in, of all places, the burned out quarter of the barrio, hidden in a cache of thousands of magazines, buried deep after Mexico City's great quake of 2052. Whole sections of the city were off limits, too dangerous they said, but despite his asthma, Dezy loved to explore. He used the magazine to create catch basins from plastic containers all over the city, and set them up on the top of the roof to capture the ever decreasing rainwater. Engineering a distribution system and a water-cranked dynamo with old auto batteries allowed Dezy to power his electronics.

Pumping water was never something Desi enjoyed doing, so his catch basins were a way of letting nature work for him instead. But when nature wasn't feeling generous Dezy had rigged up a bicycle in his apartment to act as his pump and could fill his bathtub in about fifteen minutes with vigorous riding. And that was the catch. It had to be vigorous. Which means he needed help. Hence his less than perfect room-mate.

"Hermano, its good to see you. What did you bring me?"

"Nothing, the same thing I bring you everyday. I got some extra work today and I need to get started. Go back to your bootleg cable." The freemium directed receiver array gave a grainy picture, in high definition, no less.

"Why you got to be like that?" Nicolas was half Russian and half Mexican, so he was a giant in tan. 

"Be like what, you are always mooching. Why don't you run out and find something to eat for us today? You could always go back to work." Nicolas' exotic appearance made him a hit with the ladies and all of the screaming meant they liked his... assets. Dezy despised him most of the time, when he wasn't wanting to be him. Nicolas went back to his room and a few minutes later, giggling could be heard through the closed door. Dezy grimaced, shook his head and picked up his Nakatomi 3270 integrated OS datadeck. Sleek and tiny, Dezy may have shoes with holes, but it was clear this piece of state-of-the-art technology was his real priority.

Dezy pulled out his oversized rig from under the sofa and plugged his deck into it. His rig was twice the size of a standard unit because of all of his extended non-standard adaptations. Numerous cards of different colors were clipped onto his primary databoard in an unsightly, and precariously balanced array.

He looked at the series of readouts and saw with the amount of water he had on the roof, he could run his deck for about eight hours. He set up the piping so he could redirect water to his bathtub and to his internal storage containers in the apartment. He would be able to capture nearly half of the water from the roof. He tapped on the pipe in a series of warning tones that he would be opening his water supply to anyone downstream and to let them know in thirty minutes water would flow until it was gone and for them to be ready. He received three taps back from three different people, so he knew most of the water would find a home.

The deck's internal battery was already nearly fully powered and he did his best to keep it that way, because he never knew when he would have work and wanted to always have the option to work even if there wasn't any water or electricity where he might be staying. The deck, in power-saving mode, might last twenty hours, but it took half that time just to find a buyer these days. Paper is lucrative, but the fines and penalties were high if you were caught trafficking in paper products or infodrops of paper from older magazines from the last century.

His initial diagnostic of his deck said the software was up to date as it could be and there was no traffic that resembled los ángeles at his current connection. That would change, the more suspicious his traffic got. Los ángeles, low Turing AI's monitored the NewerNet kept track of any packets whose pedigree they could not easily identify. Dezy's greatest hack was his ability to make his packets look completely innocent and resemble the multitude of datastreams out there already.

The NewerNet was not like the old Internet that collapsed in 2027 in the media explosion of the late 2020's. It was designed from the ground up to be completely under the control of the founding governments of the United States and Europe, the primary investors. As other countries were allowed to buy their way in, strict regulation of the traffic and content was established. Since media crashed the Internet, there were multiple control systems on media, ensuring smoother traffic and better management. This also meant the worldwide internet agency chartered by the United Nations became the impromptu police of the NewerNet. This new stricter internet was one of the most policed and controlled systems in the world. Using pre-turing AI's, the network was constantly patrolled, regulated, data managed and operating system upgraded piece of technology to ever exist.

And the most souless, thought Dezy. Once the NewerNet was established three years after the collapse of the Old Internet, big money kept the network the playground of the elite and the superwealthy. The OlderNet was restored as a shadow of itself but because so many people were forced to use it, it was very unstable and unfriendly, not to mention filled with a variety of spyware, malware and rogue viruses. The insecurity of the Oldernet allowed Dezy to use it to enter the NewerNet and meet his clients using specialized hacks Dezy had created when he was just a child of nine or ten.

Dezy activated his rainwater power system and his rig hummed to life. Gotta work fast, ten hours will vanish like magic. Indeed they did, he did not find his next buyer for almost nine hours after starting. The data his buyer was looking for was information regarding private solar technology development. Information of this nature had become government owned during the economic collapse of big business when the internet failed. Energy companies were the first services absorbed by the government. 

All of their attendant information was also absorbed. The cache of publications Dezy had found had to be a library extension because his database linked two dozen articles and five of them were specifically about the processes used to make advanced solar cells. Dezy was able to convince his client to the astronomical finder fees of five hundred thousand New Pesos. That would be enough to pay off Don Milago and get the price off of his head. There would still be enough to get a new deck and upgrade this shitty old rig to something more state of the art. Maybe even new. He might even share the wealth with his stupid room mate for all the times he spent riding water into the bathtub when Dezy couldn't. He would blow through his fifty thousand in putas and tequila, but that would be his business.

He arranged for a meeting place with the client with a time delay activation. The client would only get the key to break the encryption twenty minutes before the drop. No military or police can mobilize in that kind of time. At the first hint of betrayal, Dezy will vanish into the crowds and will never be seen. Dezy could hear the knocking of the pipes and see the pressure timer indicating he had used up eight hours of water and was about to run out of pressure. He turned off the pipe, leaving thirty or so minutes of extra water to spare. He tapped the pipes again and everyone responded with thanks and shutting off their values until the next time.

Exhausted, Dezy fell into a dreamless sleep. 

#

"Salir, puta, vete a casa de tu madre." Nicolas was drunk and threw the woman's clothes out of the apartment door. As she ran by in disgust, she snatched the money of his hands as she passed him. He in return smacked her on the ass and lifted the heavy door back into the locked position. Nicky stank of sex and went into the bathroom and noticed the tub was more than half full of water. He considered just jumping into the water, but not completely crazy, Nicky drew a small bucket from the wall and filled it with water. Using this he cleaned himself up and admired himself in the mirror, again.

Nicky hated the putas. They always thought they were better than him. Selling your ass is not a job he would say, but they would just laugh and take his money. Nicky noted sunrise had just taken place as he left out of the bathroom and lit up the eastern side of the building without a completed face. Feeling better after his washing up, he grabbed the last of the cheese and stale bread from their refrigerating pantry. 

We need to score soon, there ain't shit in here to eat now. As he chewed the tough bread and slightly dessicated cheese, Nicky had an idea. He had been following Dezy a few days ago and knew he had found a new cache of paper. Nicky mentioned idly to Dezy they could sell the whole lot at a black market paper pulper and make some good money. Nicky had sold stockpiles that size for easily fifty thousand New Pesos. Dezy had told him to wait until he had finished his survey, but well, he aint my boss. I can get that money and give him his fifty percent and be in hookers, booze and money for weeks, if he managed it right. Nicky went to his closet and put on a good suit. It was never a good idea to meet Don Milago looking anything less than perfect.

#

Dezy woke hungry and feeling just a bit sick. The sun shining through the open east face of the building was hot, very hot. He was sweating and knew this would be another one of those three digit days. Washing off the stink of his sweaty night's sleep, Dezy had wanted to be up and out before it go this hot, and now he would have to be climbing in the heat of the day. The drop was tomorrow so he couldn't let it wait. 

He opened the pantry in the partially complete kitchen. The cheese and bread were both gone. Cabrón. That was enough cheese and bread he could have left half for me. Why do I deal with him? It isn't like we are even friends anymore. After tomorrow, I will just move out try and rent a small house closer to the center of town near my job. I will be able to pay the rent for a year, giving me time to figure out my next move. Even after I give Don Milago his cut and interest, I will be set for months. I could even take my time with my next project.

Dezy's stomach rumbled, breaking his reverie. Okay mijo, we have fifteen pesos left. Just enough to grab something to eat and get over to the zone. This would be his last meal for a while if this drop didn't work. He changed out of his good clothing and put on some tan khakis and a backpack. In the pack were his deck, water, rope, duct tape, a filtermask, gloves and waterproof folders to move the product in.

The climb down did nothing to improve his state of mind. It seemed everyone had the same idea to sit in the stairwell, because it was fifteen degrees cooler in the concrete isolated tube. By the time he reached the street, he was hot, annoyed and more tired than when he woke up. The five miles to the zone was thankfully uneventful other than a few nu-chickens waddling down the road, their oversized breasts making it nearly impossible for them to escape the children chasing behind them.

Seeing those children put him in mind of Nicolas. When they were younger, they were just like these kids, chasing chickens for dinner just like mother asked us to. Nicky was fun back then, reckless, wild and completely fearless. Those same traits make him an irresponsible adult. His transformation was a gradual one, and it didn't seem to be complete until after their mother died. Mom told Nicky to take care of me because of my asthma and that he was the man of the house. But right after mom died, we lost our home in the quake and we lived on the street until we found a place at the Ivory Towers. Falling in with Don Milago and his mafia was the worst thing Nicky ever did. The worst thing I did was to listen and join with him. But today, that ends. Dezy's mental ramblings had distracted him from the distance and the heat. He came to the edge of the earthquake zone, still marked with orange traffic cones and concrete dividers at the edge of the sinkhole.

The center of Mexico City sat on an underground aquifer which had existed for millions of years. As the city grew and demanded more water for its twenty million inhabitants, the aquifer slowly lost water faster than it gained it from rainwater and mountain run off. The day of the great quake, a 9.3, one of the greatest quakes of all time, teamed up with the collapse of the aquifer cavity and you have one of the worst natural disasters in history. Nine million people died in the initial collapse. The poorest quarters of town outside of the city proper, the barrios, survived with collapsed buildings but without the catastrophic loss of life.

The edges of the city farthest from the sinkhole were still relatively accessible if one was careful and tied very good knots. There was something wrong with the area as he approached. The cones had been moved from their normal positions and the concrete barriers were parted as if to allow a vehicle past. Slipping down behind rubble, Dezy followed the road, determined to figure out what anyone in a vehicle could possibly want down here. The road was unstable and a truck was simply the stupidest thing you could do.

When Nicolas showed up at Don Milagro's villa it was still early in the morning, with only the slightest hint of the coming heat. The gate guards let Nicolas through with only a cursory glance and a quick pat down. Nicky was of course, unarmed. Very few people could afford a firearm these days. Two guards waved Nicky toward the house and he made his way up to the side of the pool where the Don was having breakfast in the shade of a tree that blocked the morning sun.

The Don smiled as Nicolas came into view and stood up to greet him. He was a huge man, still vigorous-looking despite his age and salt and pepper hair. "Nicky, sit down with me and have breakfast."

Nicolas thought to refuse but the Don's tone left him with the impression he did not have a choice. "Si, Don Milagro, Gracias."

"Now tell me about your project, Nicky."

"Well, I need a truck and some men to help me move some paper. I found a large stockpile of it in Old New Mexico City."

"Really?" Don Milagro's face was smiling but his dark eyes didn't. His eyes were all business. 

Nicolas continued "Its near the edge of the collapse zone and I believe there is several tons of it. I have a buyer lined up willing to convert it at their own facility. So, all we have to do is pick up the load, move it and drop it and they are promising me $175,000 New Pesos for the shipment."

"What would you want from me, Nicky? You sound as if everything is already worked out."

"I need manpower and a truck, Don Milago. To move that much paper, quickly, will take at least 4-6 men."

"And what is my percentage of this endeavor if I provide you with fast manpower and a vehicle?" The Don had stopped eating and fixed Nicolas with his complete attention. Nicolas suddenly felt hot and sweat burst out underneath his shirt, a cold sweat, decidingly uncomfortable. 

"I was thinking of splitting it, 60/40. With the sixty going to you, of course."

"It seems a bit one-sided to me, mijo. I am providing the truck, and up to six men to work in the heat of the day, near a dangerous sinkhole. I certainly hope you can do better than that."

"Of course, Don Milagro. What was I thinking? I meant to say 80/20, seeing how generous you are being with your men and your overall support."

"Now you know that you and your brother are in deep debt to me at the moment. But I think of you like family. I would like to think you would want to help out your younger brother in his time of need. He owes me enough money, at this point, for me to have his kneecaps shattered. I like you, Nicky. I understand you. Greed and avarice are things near to me. Your brother, not so much. I do not understand his motivations and what I don't understand, I don't have any use for."

"I don't follow you, señor." Nicolas did not like where this conversation was heading.

"Your brother is in debt to me for nearly 250,000 New Pesos. I have not tried to call that debt in for some time, because he is usually good about paying me, but now the word has gotten out that he owes me this money. I cannot have my reputation being damaged, having anyone saying that I am weak, and I cannot control my men. I need you to make the problem of your brother go away. Necesito que a desaparecer."

"Don Milagro, you know I will do anything you ask me to. But he is my brother."

"He is your problem, then. He has my money or you make him disappear. I shall show you my generosity. Keep all the money from your little paper excursion. I will call it your fee. Feel better, now? I will have the men and truck ready within the hour. Finish your breakfast.

Nicky could barely eat anything and he was starving. His stomach felt like a pool of bubbling acid. What in the hell was he going to do?

#

Dezy could not believe anyone could be this stupid. The truck was parked backward on a steep slope, with the backdoor open. But this whole are was unstable and could slide into the sinkhole at any time. As it was, the repository was nearer to the edge than he would have liked. He used his line to tie himself off and began to pay it out behind him, watching his every step until he came to the drop point. As he got closer, he could hear the voices of the men and a couple of them sounded familiar.

Alfredo? What's he doing here? Is that Nicky? Dezy slips out of line of sight of the van. Alfredo, Nicky and two others come around the corner pulling dollies with containers filled to the brim with paper from his stockpile! 

"Tú pendejo!" Dezy ran out and drew back with all his strength and knocks Nicky flat on his ass. "What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

"What? Do you know how much this is worth?" Nicky clutched his bleeding lip and jaw. He sat up but did not move.

"Do you? How much do you think you are going to get for this?"

"I have been promised 175,000 New Peso, cabrón. Now you need to get out of my face, so I can get back to work."

Dezy's rage grew ten times stronger and made him reckless. He kicked Nicky in the chin and screamed at him. "Estupido. I will make more money from a single page than you would for this entire lot."

The remainder of Don Milagro's men lifted not a finger to interfere. This was a family matter and they turned around and found a nicstick to smoke and share while the two worked out their issues. They would follow whoever came out on top.

Dezy's rage tightened his chest and his breathing became labored. He started wheezing and fell to his knees.

Nicky shook off the kick and got to his knees. "Mijo, slow down. Calm down." He hefted Dezy to his chest and held him close. "Breathe slower. You are always so over-excited. Mama was right to leave me in charge."

Dezy weakly struck out at Nicky and then turned into his chest as his breath slowly came back to him. He began to cry. "Why Nicky, why do you always want to screw up my things?"

"I don't know, Dezy. I'm always jealous of you. You can do so many things with your mind. I'm just a dumb jock. Selling your paper was petty. I just wanted to make some quick cash. I'm sorry."

The four men from Don Milago's villa had finished their nickstik and turned to look at the two men. "Is this lovefest over? Can we get back to work?"

Nicky looked at Dezy with inquiry in his eyes. "Wait here. Hold this rope. I will be right back." Dezy moved into the partially collapsed building and dropped off a floor adjacent to the stairwell Nicky had been using. The paper Dezy needed was several levels below what they were moving. He could tell from the covers of the books he was seeing they had not reached the information he planned to sell. Working quickly, he grabbed the publications he had already set aside and put them into his pack.

He tugged the rope and shouted up, "Okay, pull me up."

Nicky and his men pulled Dezy back to the first floor. "Go ahead, do what you need to. Be careful, this area is less stable than it looks. Don't go beyond the second floor."

"Okay, you heard the man. Let's get moving." As Alfredo and his team move out, Nicky turns Dezy towards him and knocks some of the dust off of him. "Dezy, Don Milagro is really pissed about the money you owe him. Can you pay him?"

"I think so. If my buy goes down tomorrow, we will be alright. I will buy us out, free and clear."

"That's great. Is everything in the bag?" Nicky turned away for a second while Dezy starts wrapping his line. When he turns back, he has brandished a gun pointed toward Dezy. "Give me the bag, Dezy."

"What are you doing, Nicolas?"

"I promised Don Milagro that I would make you disappear. You have caused him to lose face, and I want to move up in his organization. So you give me the bag, I sell what you have in it, move this paper, and I get it all. A promotion, money, status."

"So this was all an act? You had planned to kill me the next time you saw me no matter what?"

"I'm sorry, Dezy."

"It doesn't have to be like this. I can get us clear. Just trust me."

"You have been promising me you would make a big score for the last twelve years. We have been living hand to mouth since Mama died. Its always one more  job, one more scheme and we'll be set. Well, I am tired of waiting. I am taking my shot now. I am so sorry."

"Fuck you, Nicky." Tears welled up in Dezy's eyes as he hands over his backpack.

Don Milagro comes around the corner and looks at Nicky with pride. "Well done, my boy, well done." Don Milagro puts his hand out and Nicky hands him the gun. 

"I will be giving you your reward today, Nicky. I told you, I respect greed and avarice and you are a testament to the effect of money on family relationships. Milagro had been pointing the gun at Dezy and then turns suddenly shooting Nicky in the gut. Nicky staggers backward and falls into the house where the last of the Don Milagro's men are rolling out the last of the paper.

"Now my boy. I understand you were in the business of selling paper to buyers. I have been told I have been thinking too small and there is a lucrative business arrangement we could be working out. So, to show me your renewed value, you will give me the drop coordinates and your contact codes. Work with me, and we could all be very wealthy. With that truck alone, I am confident we could become very wealthy men."

"You lied to Nicky. To make him bring you to me."

"So true. His greed made him easy to confuse."

"And if I work for you, what would make me think you won't do the same thing to me?"

"You are more valuable to me alive, of course. But only if you cooperate."

Dezy hears a pinging noise with a rhythm that sounds familiar. It happens three times before he realizes he recognizes it; the water's about to start flowing signal. Dezy hadn't taken his rope off from around his waist and shoulders. He began to back up toward the edge of the sinkhole. "I don't see how I can trust you. You just killed my brother. He may have been my half-brother but you killed him anyway. Like you would kill a dog."

"So what? To me, he was just a dog. A dog I paid to bite who I wanted him to bite. You are wasting my time. Give me the coordinates and the access codes. Otherwise I will just shoot you and consider today a wash. I made a little money and got rid of a couple of problems."

The tapping got louder and more insistent. "Go in there and find out what that noise is. If it Nicky, feel free to beat him to death." The four men rushed off to comply with the Don's request. Dezy felt the shelf vibrating and realized what Nicky was doing.

"I need to key the code in myself. It will only activate with my biometric signature. Hand me the bag." Dezy put his hand out and the Don, hesitates for a moment and then gives the bag to him.

Dezy reaches into the bag and the Don raises his gun and points it at Dezy. Dezy pulls out the deck and activates it. He puts his key code in and begins entering the twenty four character string. His hands are shaking so he puts the backpack onto his back while he contines to enter code. Then there was a snapping, cracking sound and the shelf shook violently, bounced once and fell away.

"Te quiero, mijo", was the last thing he heard as he fell freely into the open sinkhole. The Don, unable to maintain his footing, he slid toward the edge of the shelf and was flung into space. He turned as he fell and shot five times before he disappeared into the darkness. Dezy saw the line pay out and then there was a snap and he lost consciousness.

When Dezy woke up, he was bleeding from a scalp wound. Bloody but not fatal. He climbed up the rope and realized he did not have his deck. Didn't matter; he had activated the dropcode and would meet the client on time.

When he got to the top he saw the truck was now on the edge of the shelf, but still able to be driven. He got in and found the keys were still in the ignition. He looked back and saw the entire stockpile was now inside the truck. As he drove away, wiping the sticky blood from his face with a towel he found inside the truck, he wondered what Costa Rica looked like this time of year.

Paper © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

It was a dumb idea. Going down to New Orleans for Mardi Gra with his friends. To top it all off he had some strange chick fall in love with him, and in his drunken stupor that persisted for the entire week they were there, he married her. This whole occurrence would have been fine if there wasn’t the issue of him already being married to worry about. But all was well they left New Orleans the morning after Mardi Gra ended with his new bride still sleeping in bed. He figured that had ended this embarrassing chapter of his life, and that it would only come up over drinks with his friends. Boy was he wrong…


A few weeks later he began to feel a pain in his crotch. His first thought was that his Louisiana bride had given him an unexpected wedding present, an STD. worried he would pass it on to his wife he slept on the couch for a month straight. He had to wait to go to the doctor about it because he didn’t want his wife getting suspicious. But then a strange thing happen he felt the pain in his hand. He didn’t know what to make of it. One night at the dinner table with his wife and kids he could feel the pains all over his body. He did his best to ignore them. But the pains became worse, and worse until the pain of what felt like a sword going through his chest rushed through him. He stood up and yelled in agony. His wife and children looked on in fear, and confusion as he fell on the floor in writhing pain.



The crying priestess

With Voudou doll of husband

Abortion clinic

-William Landis

The sky was darkened by steel-grey clouds, running toward the horizon's setting sun, as if to extinguish its light on this scene of urban justice. The scaffold, hastily erected seemed eerily at peace in this riotous sky, blood red near the edges like a vein opening and flowing into an nearby gutter. Angry flashes of lightning as a storm, riding a hot desert wind blew in from the west, drying the mouths of the onlookers, waiting to see this bastard get hung. Flies blew in with the wind, the biting kind, and they seemed angrier than most days, biting and stinging and drinking from everyone. Even these desert-hardened folk were annoyed by them. 

Not that it would take much for that to be the case. They had waited all day while the scaffold was being built and they restrained their urge to rush the jail and make their own justice. The sheriff, Brody Atkins, standing outside with his Winchester rifle, freshly cleaned and charged and known for the sharpest eye this side of Texas, and a temper to match made it clear, there would be no justice today but his. In Kansas City, we do things by the book, he said. And he was willing to shoot anyone to make sure they understood.

He always said, a town needed laws. There were mutants and chimera out in the badlands surrounding the gates of Kansas City but that didn't matter none, if there were no laws in the city either. He ran a fair town. There were two deputies and a town militia, mostly for show these days, that got together once a month to drill and help people keep their shooting skills up. But mostly, charges were burned up on targets, there hadn't been a mutant attack for over two years. There hadn't been much of anything until this bandit and his friends show up a few months ago. 

The sheriff and his deputies handled the roughest and worst behaved members of that crew in a shoot out where Old Man Percy was killed. But the leader of the group was not around at the time and a warrant was put out for his arrest. Messages from Oklahoma said a man matching his description was wanted for murder and he had taken up with bad men upon being run out of town there. For sheriff Brody Atkins, that was all the incentive he needed. The reprobate was found after he returned to the city, claiming to be out hunting, and was promptly arrested.

Having technically committed no crime, the sheriff could not hold him. But he was relieved of his firearms and told to be on his best behavior while the sheriff waited for a Marshal Van Raken to arrive in town in a few days. The suspect was named J. T. Wilks. He surrendered peacefully claiming he would be found innocent. But in this frontier town, suspicion was akin to guilt. It did not take long for the locals to harass J. T. Wilks in a local saloon.

JT, never known for holding his temper among his people, in the altercation, managed to serious injure several patrons of the bar. During the fight, it became public knowledge JT was a passer, a mutant who could pass for human. It was not illegal to be a passer, but most city's had ordinances that insisted any unregistered mutant must report to the town sheriff and announce their mutation. Unfortunately, most after making such an announcement were run out of town immediately or killed on the spot. Hence most passers said nothing and did their best to keep their mutations out of the public eye. JT was superhumanly strong, it took nearly eight men to hold him down until he could be bound and brought before the sheriff. 

Two of the men he fought died of their internal injuries, several days later. He was promptly returned to the jail to await the Marshal who would also sit as the judge for the trial. Needless to say, while he was not the same man the Marshal was expecting to find, it no longer mattered as he was in violation of local laws in Kansas City. His trial was swift, perhaps too swift, and the judgment was never in doubt. He would hang by the neck until he was dead at sundown tomorrow.

 When the time came, JT was brought out in cuffs and many of the townsfolk had never seen him before today. He was a giant, nearly black as coal, with arms that looked as if they were forged of steel. Removed from his baggy clothing, his massive proportions became apparent, especially when standing next to the giant that was Sheriff Brody. JT stood a head taller than Brody. His eyes were in a stern and unsmiling face, sharp lines, as if sculpted from onyx and as he was lead to the scaffold he did not look down.

 He looked into the audience, who was breathing shallow and excitedly and he noted the various shapes, colors, sizes and scents wafting upward toward the gallows. The smell came in on the hot wind, with biting flies. The flies landed on everyone but JT. Their avoidance was a small comfort, as the sky grew dark and rain began to fall.  It was a trickle at first, and then it grew stronger. The audience, recognizing the weather, simply pulled up their hoods or put up hand-made umbrellas but kept them low to their heads. Men with hats simply pulled up their collars to protect their necks and waited stolidly for the main event.

 A reverend came up with JT and stood by him. "Son, is there anything you want to say to the people as a sign of contrition for your acts?"

 JT looked at the reverend, and the intensity of his stare, caused the normally nonplussed man of the cloth, who was used to dealing with the damned souls of this world, to look away and clutch himself seeking his holy symbol. "Padre, don't waste my time. Since your little town knows nothing about justice, I will seek mine in the next life. Now get outta my face. I got some dying to do."

 The sky opened up as JT was positioned over the drop door and the noose was placed around his neck. He did not flinch, nor fight with his captors. The two deputies were stationed across from the scaffold on nearby rooftops and were in position to shoot him if he did not comply. JT had seen them as soon as he stepped on the scaffold, and knew any resistance would get him shot. The rain began to pour so hard, it became hard to see the audience and JT became enraged even as he ignored the charges being read to him. The rain flowed into his ears, over his face, and he could not wipe it away, because his hands were bound behind his back. He could taste the sweat as it rolled down his face into his mouth, mixed with the tang of the sulfurous rain.

 "...having been found guilty of murder, you have been sentenced to be hung by the neck until you are dead." Brody was having to shout over the sound of the rain hitting metallic roofs nearby. A crack of lightning and a boom of thunder sounded immediately after the word dead, as if there was a punctuation to the sentence from on high.

 "This is your last chance, my son, God wants to hear your prayers and for you to beg for forgiveness." The reverend stood near to JT so he did not have to yell. They were intimately close as the preacher whispered to him.

 "Tell your God, I rebuke him and there is nothing he can do for me, that I have not already had to do for myself. I don't need his help or want his mercy. Now get out of my face, Padre, before I do something you'll regret."

 "May God have mercy on you anyway." The reverend backs away from JT and looks to he hangman.

 "Be about your work hangman, I am beginning to get bored with all of these folk standing around in the rain. Do me." When JT Wilks looked out over the crowd, he did not feel the peace of a man going to his death. He felt conflicted, wronged and sickened by the need of these people to find a scapegoat for their spiritual weaknesses. His disgust with the world rose into his throat and he roared defiantly as the hangman pulled the switch. His primal scream terrified the onlookers and several turned away in fear. In that moment, a bolt of lightning struck JT as he fell through the trapdoor and the noose tightened only for a split second around his neck. The flash of lightning caught the entire town staring at JT as he lit up with the bolt of lightning from the top of his head to his feet.

 Because they were all watching, save the few who turned away, most were blinded by the lightning for many minutes. During that time, the few who had turned back saw JTs burning body lying on the ground, slowly moving, turning squirming as electricity still played across his body, slowly draining into the ground. Steam and smoke rose from him as he got to his knees. His face, looking down was unreadable, and the noose hung loosely around his neck with the burned end still smoldering on his chest along with what appeared to be a scar, on his face and his chest, as if the lightning had arced from his chest to his face before destroying the rope that, by all rights, should have killed him.

 As he stood up, the last of the onlookers had seen his giant form rising and crossed themselves with their various religious signs and many slunk away under the cover of the rain. But most stood there wondering what would be the outcome of this turn of events. Sheriff Brody looked to the two deputies and raised his hand, and then waved them to come down to him. Brody climbed down off of the scaffold and began to move toward JT who had already begun walking toward the gates of the city.

 "You know I can't help you, right?"

 "Did I ask? Am I free to go? Or will you shoot me in the back as I leave the gate so the chimera will eat my corpse and you won't have to spring for my burial?"

 "Nope, 'fraid not. I know the law better than the next man. You are free to go from here. God set you free."

 "If you say so."

 "I do have one bit of advice, if you're willing to take it."

 "What's that, sheriff?"

 "Head for New Texas if you can."

 "Now why would I want to do that?"

 "Because if I was to say to the locals that you were heading for New Texas, most would hesitate to follow you."

 "I see. I don't suppose you could see your way to letting me out of these cuffs."

 "Sorry, no can do. The law says, as the Lord frees you, you must go. No one will stop

you from reaching the gate, and I will prevent anyone from following you the next twenty four hours. After that, you are on your own. I hear New Texas is really nice this time of year, and they may have work for you as well."

 Talking louder, JT replied, "New Texas, it is then."

And then Brody whispered, "Now off the record, while they may have work, there are other things going on there you might want to be aware of and as you get closer to the city. We have heard nothing from them for over two weeks, so something is wrong. A man who brings back news could find his way to making friends."

 The smaller gate set opened while the larger and main gate stayed closed. The sheriff walked out with JT and they continued down the road toward the south. Outside the gate, nature rapidly took over anything that was not the road. Stunted and gnarled trees with strangely shaped leaves hung casting lengthening shadows.

 "Personally, I ain't got nothing against your kind, if you know what I mean. And I wish I could do more to help you, but you understand." Then the sheriff grabbed JT by his forearm and before JT could move, a knife materialized at his throat. "On the other hand, if this knife were to get dropped during our tussel, I might forget it was out here in my hurry to get inside.

 JT kicked upward with his knee into the groin of the sheriff, who managed to turn his hip into the blow preventing the full contact JT was hoping to make. This, in turn, forced the sheriff to move his knife from JT throat and JT snapped his massive head forward, cracking the sheriff on the forehead and knocking him forcefully backward into the dirt. The knife, flew through the air and landed in the underbrush. JT noted its landing but kept his eye on the sheriff. When the sheriff looked back at JT, his eyes had changed color from the deep sapphire blue they were when he was reading off JT's list of crimes, to a fire-golden hue with catlike slits instead of round pupils. He looked up at JT and blinked again. His sapphires had returned. He got up and dusted himself off before turning back up the road.

 "You have a hard head there, partner. I hope you will be able to keep it on your shoulders. Try not to come back here anytime soon. Ya hear?"

 "Sheriff, did you do this? I know it is possible for some...."

 "Don't look at me, I don't know nothing about it. It's said, the Lord works in mysterious ways. You and He, have unfinished business, I reckon." The sheriff began whistling some strange tune as he disappeared around the bend heading back to the gate.

Forsaken © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

I saw this post mentioned on Twitter and decided to check it out. It's a discussion between bestselling thriller novelist Barry Eisler and Joe Konrath. The beginning came about from Eisler's rejection of a half a million dollar book deal in order to self-publish. It's rather lengthy, but you can read it here:

http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/2011/03/ebooks-and-self-publishing-dialog.html

Here are three concepts mentioned that really got my attention.

1.) Publishing and selling short stories digitally. I have to admit, I never thought of doing that one. But now that I think about it, it makes sense. I have a lot of short stories that I think are good, but have trouble getting them published for a variety of reasons. And finding paying magazine markets is another challenge. Not to say I have anything against magazines and journals. They are a great way of getting exposure. Some of the ones I have been in contact with also have editors that give reasons and suggestions including with the rejections. But I still think selling short stories individually is an appealing idea. I do have a collection of short stories available for free on Smashwords.

2.) Selling digital books is easier. I have seen this happen to me already. Although my e-book sales are nowhere near the two authors in the discussion, they are greater than my print books. With little effort on my part marketing wise. It seems to me that users of e-readers tend to browse more, and pick up titles from unfamiliar authors. My books being priced at $0.99 on the Kindle and on Smashwords is probably a contributing factor.

3.) The more you write, the more you'll sell. This one makes a lot of sense, and I'm kind of upset with myself for not coming to this conclusion myself. I think I've been so focused on marketing my print books, trying to get those sales closer to my e-book sales, and getting my work published in magazines and journals that I haven't been writing as much as I used to and would like. I gotten wrapped up too much in the business part of writing I forgot about the reason why I started writing in the first place: out of love for words and to share my stories. In the blog, the authors talk a bit about their touring experiences and the pros and cons of such. I personally like going out with my books, meeting people and getting to place a face and name on my readers. I like knowing they're more than just dollar signs on a royalty sheet. However, the authors were talking about doing hundreds of events in a year. I prefer to keep my events in the 1 - 5 scale. I will, however, get back to writing more stories and more often. I'll even go back to publishing more of my work, namely poetry, on my blog again.

There is so much more that could be said about this blog post. But these are 3 that struck a cord with me.

Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC is calling for submissions of novels, novellas and short stories.

We’re currently looking for titles in the following genres: horror, science fiction, fantasy, and romance. We’re most excited about seeing stories in the subgenres of cyberpunk, steampunk, near-future sf, and space opera.

We do publish paranormal romance, science fiction romance, fantasy romance, and dark fantasy romance. We’d like to see submissions in these areas as well. Our interracial romance titles have been very successful, so feel free submit those as well.

To submit your work to us, submit a cover letter, completed work and synopsis to Nicole Givens Kurtz

mochamemoirspress@gmail.com.

Thank you.
Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC.
http://stores.lulu.com/mochamemoirspress

As someone who frequents message boards oriented around African history, I've run into several individuals who have some very...unorthodox ideas about the role of black people in world history. According to these people, black Africans founded nearly every significant civilization in antiquity, including Greece, Mesopotamia, the Olmec culture of Mesoamerica, and the Chinese Shang Dynasty. I've even met people claiming that the ancient Celts and Vikings were black!

Such individuals would likely be called "radical Afrocentrists", but the more I consider their claims, the more I doubt that this label is really applicable to them. I've noticed that these guys actually seldom pay much attention to cultures inside of Africa itself; they're more concerned with finding blacks in far-flung reaches of the planet. Take as an example Gregory Walker's Shades of Memnon trilogy, which claims a significant black presence in Olmec Mesoamerica and Shang Dynasty China. Walker may proclaim that his books are pro-African, but while the protagonist is indeed Egyptian, as far as I can tell he is in Europe, Asia, and the Americas rather than Africa proper for most of the books' length.

On the other hand, if you study the word "Afrocentrism", you'll see that it implies a focus on Africa. How can people be Afrocentric if they spend more energy declaring non-African cultures to be black than encouraging the study of genuine African cultures? This emphasis on peoples outside of Africa isn't Afrocentric, but is if anything the opposite.

Mind you, I'm not against the notion of black Africans exploring faraway lands by itself. If there's any evidence for it, I can even buy African merchants trading with the Olmecs, Chinese, or what have you. However, I really do not like the idea of black Africans founding every significant non-African culture, for it's implicitly disrespectful to non-Africans. It's tantamount to how Europeans used to claim a non-African origin for every major civilization in Africa, such as Egypt and Great Zimbabwe. The truth of the matter is that the history of world civilization is multichromatic, with its builders ranging in complexion from ebony black Kushites to lily white English. That's a much more colorful picture than the one painted by racial supremacists of any shade.

Recently, I was talking to Wanuri Kahiu, director of the Kenyan science fiction short film Pumzi (she's also set to direct Who Fears Death: The Movie). I asked her how she came to science fiction . She said that she didn't grow up reading or watching science fiction, that it was organic. "The story led me to science fiction," she said.

I had a similar experience. As a kid, I read everything, including some science fiction but not much (I didn't see a hint of myself in science fiction novels back then- no girls, no blacks. I didn't purposely shy away from sf, I simply was never drawn to it and I didn't have anyone to turn me on to it). Yes, I grew up consuming Isaac Asimov books like crazy...but not his science fiction novels, his science books (though I did read I, Robot...I enjoyed reading about the robots). As the story of Pumzi led Wanuri to science fiction, the stories of Zahrah the Windseeker, The Shadow Speaker and Who Fears Death led me to it.

My short story "Spider the Artist" was pivotal for me. It was my first time consciously writing "pure" science fiction. One day, editor John Joseph Adams had come to me and asked me to write a story for his anthology Seeds of Change. He said, no fantasy, just science fiction.The idea was a bit foreign for me because my world on and off the page is full of magic and fantasy. However, I always like a good challenge so I took him up on it. "Spider the Artist" was the result.

After writing it back in 2008, I was sure of two things: 1. That I was on the right path with Who Fears Death (I was editing it around the time I wrote "Spider the Artist" and I remember going back to it and turning the volume up on some things). 2. That I would write more science fiction. I liked the taste very much. I thank John Joseph Adams for gently nudging me to the table. I think he changed the direction of my work.

A burst pipeline in Nigeria

Here's a brief description: "In “Spider the Artist,” Nnedi Okorafor takes us to Nigeria of the future, where Big Oil protects the pipelines with spider-like AIs known as zombies, and tells the tale of a woman who faces down one of the murderous machines armed only with a guitar."

SO, I NEED A COUPLE OF COMIC BOOK ARTISTS AND GRAPHIC NOVEL WRITERS FOR AN INTERVIEW ON FRIDAY...OTHER ARTISTS HAVE FALLEN THROUGH AND I NEED OTHERS.  i FEATURE THE TALENTS AND ASPIRATIONS OF AFRICAN AMERICANS PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE INTERESTED AND HAVE A WEBSITE AND WORKS UNDERWAY OR PUBLISHED!!!!

MY SHOW AIRS ON FRIDAYS @ 7 PM CENTRAL TIME,  I GOT OVER 1000 LISTENERS IN JUST A MONTH!  DOING WELL THANKS TO THE SUPPORT HERE.

CONTACT ME:  WWW.BLOGTALKRADIO.COM/CHASITIE-S-GOODMAN

AMANDLA.NING.COM

QUICKEST WAY TO GET ME IS THROUGH EMAIL:  CHASITIESGOODMAN@GMAIL.COM

SEND ME A MESSAGE HERE ALSO!  fOLLOW ME ON TWITTER:  @GODLAUGHS

this is not yesterday...

and as much as I would like, its not today either.  Its tommorrow, and it will continue to be tommorrow until I am able to enjoy today.  Our lives are not spent enjoying today,they are spent preparing for tommorrow. Tommorrow when the rent will be due, tommorrow when the car payment is due, tommorrw when when the sun has promised to come out. 

Well, I strive to slice a little bit of time to enjoy today.  A little bit of sanity to relish today. A little bit ot time to recognize the life that flows in and out of my lungs.  The happiness that pulses through my bloodstream.    When it is so easy to live in misery and fear tommorrow, we must remind ourselves to look forward to whatever joy is promised in tommorrows. It is afterall, so easy to see clouds, to feel rain and to hear thunder, but when is the last time you stopped to hear, God's Laughter?

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/chasitie-s-goodman

So the media lies, and when we believe as Black women that we cannot find a decent Black man, than we are gullible, twisted gnomes that are more influenced by media than we are by the truth that we stare at everyday.  I see PLENTY of beautiful Blacks and Browns brimming with love and satisifaction in each other everyday.  When I buy into propoganda, I practice putting up walls in the way of a Brotha already too busy, and weighed down with stress, to climb.  Sistahs, when this happens, the Brothas simply won't climb the wall, they will keep it moving.

Sistah's we need an awful lot of encouragement lately!  An awful lot of self help manuals, books, and shows.  Just listen to your heartbeat, it tells the story of generations of Black men that have stood up to odds, and that have stood up with us as well.  Our men were the original superheroes, strong, bold, and unapologetic.  I think that they still are, just take a look around this site!

On a side note, I am looking for artists that have created Superheroes.  I would like to interview a few of you on the radioshow- http://www.blogtalkradio.com/chasitie-s-goodman 

In peace Yall!

Two of my fantasy books have recently received positive reviews.

The first is for my latest work Detecting Magic with Dick Hunter: The Mort des Hommes Files. It was reviewed by Book Reviews Weekly on their website and on Amazon.com. You can read the review here.

The other review is for my 2009 novel The Laroarian Conflict. The review was done by Chelsea Perry of Apex Reviews and can be read on Amazon.com.

Thanks for reading.

I just discovered a new and free software for authors and writers

She was Annabelle’s shadow, trailing the dark woman as she rode in horse drawn carriages, sipped wine on balconies, danced in chandelier lit ballrooms. But she always returned home to her quarter alongside the river.

Now the twin moons shined through twisted branches. The vampire followed their light down the dusty road to the juke joint. Unseen **** walked alongside her.

They stepped inside a wooden shack, the air thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of frying meat… Annabelle felt the glances of the crowd and didn’t have to probe their minds to know their thoughts.

How she dress the way she do, when she don’t never do no work?

Where she been all this time, to come showing up now?

She still looks the same -- not a day older! It ain’t natural!

Envy. Curiosity. Fear.

Annabelle sauntered over to the far left corner to where Fatback, the proprietor, sat beside a tub of beer. A table of liquor and glasses was set up beside the tub.

The big, yellow man smiled up at her. “Hey pretty, whatcho want?”

“Moonshine.”

Fatback poured her shot of clear liquid. “That’s a mighty strong drink, little girl. Sure you can handle it?”

She favored him with a smile, and dug into the pocket of her dress for a crumpled bill. As Annabelle sipped her drink, she let her eyes roam over the couples grinding in one another‘s arms. Her eyes settled on one heavily built, brown man.

Fatback smirked. “That’s Roscoe, a married man. Not that you care.”

She sent her burning thoughts to Roscoe… his eyes found hers and slid down her body like butter.

He wound his way through the dancers, and after the briefest hesitation gave her his hand. “You wanna dance?”

Wordlessly she stepped into his arms and their bodies pressed together, his pungent odor in her nostrils, and slipped her hands down the hard muscles of his back.

At the front of the juke, on a crude wooden stage, a buxom young woman sang, accompanied by men playing the piano and harmonica:

             And just can’t get enough…”

Annabelle whispered in his ear: “I’m going home. Wanna come?”

He gave her a lazy smile. “We ain’t got to go that far… Let’s go outside.”

“You want me? Then meet me at the water pump behind my cabin.”

“Where --”

She put her fingers to his lips. “You’ll find it,”

She left him standing in the middle of the floor, staring after her. After the briefest hesitation, Roscoe walked outside. She was gone.

But her voice called to him.

It should’ve frightened him, but instead his desire swelled until he thought he’d lose his mind. Roscoe ran the length of the road, following her honeyed murmur… to the quarter. To her cabin...

Copyright 2008, 2009, 2010 Valjeanne Jeffers-Thompson all rights reserved

      Throwing both hands up the painted youth replied, “No mischief at all sir Knight! I only know it took all my strength just to get him to lay upon the cart! Each day as night fell, he grew heavier. When we came here last evening, the wheel of the pushcart came off. I couldn’t try to move him until morning and just before dawn, the hyenas attacked us. Long as he is on the cart during the day, Oboe can be pulled along. He is so weak, I think he will soon die.” Just after the youth mentioned death, an unnaturally cold wind rolled in from the desert. It was the Chief who said after a hard shiver, “Hoooo! I never expected to again feel the chill of a winter wind living here.”

      The chill wind also affected the Knight as well for goose-pimples stood high upon his skin. The Chief’s words sparked within the Knight’s memory. His wife’s skin had been cold as well and then there was her other warning about ‘bringing the traveler to her at the dam before the last rays fell today.’ Looking to the sky, morning was in its full glory and soon the sun would blaze upon the land. However, the Knight noticed an insignificant gathering of clouds in the sky which should not be. The rainy season was long over and there would be none for months to come. His decision was made. Hastily, he and the Chief set to the task of repairing the cart with the Old Father still upon it. Based on Qatula’s account, if they took him off the small cart they’d never get him back on. Difficult as the task was, they were able to make passable repairs to the wheel and get underway.

      Shortly before the sun reached the midday mark in the sky, a much larger pack of hyenas had found the bodies of several of their kind. Two were the dominant female and male of a rival pack. As the much larger dominant female of the master pack’s nose took in the scent of her dead rival, she picked up the scent of a strange male creature that had made the kill. For certain it was not a lion. There were similar scents too and one of the strange creatures was near death. Whatever these creatures were, they posed a threat to this territory. The dominant female would not have it. Cackling for her packmates, the female loped off into the cypress forest after these strange interlopers. With the largest and most fearsome of all the desert hyena packs behind her, the interlopers would soon find themselves as a fine feast!

      It was as the youth said, as time went on the old man grew weaker and what should have been a simple matter for one man to handle, saw them all putting forth maximum effort. Both men put an arm around the two pushcart handles opposite the other and drove the cart further with the youth between them pushing with both hands. The Knight kept his shield on right arm while the Chief’s hung from his left. Both held their spears in their shield hand. Should anything come along they would be at a disadvantage to attack but not to defend. While pushing the cart over a path never intended for carts while huffing and blowing to keep his wind the Chief asked, “Is this damn thing getting heavier?” Looking down to see the ever deepening cartwheel tracks the Knight grunted, “Absolutely.”

      Looking up through the spindly but heavy cypress leaf canopy, the Knight’s dark brown eyes could see the sun had reached its apogee but they were not near the halfway mark to the dam. Another thing which had not escaped his notice was the summer breezes were now cold wind and thick white clouds were gathering. At the speed they now traveled, they would barely reach the dam by sunset. In addition to the mysterious dying old man growing heavier with each passing hour, doubling their efforts would see them all too tired to go on in less than an hour.

      Going faster was not possible and going slower meant not meeting the deadline. His wife said for him to use his better judgment. But what to do? Suddenly, from far back down the path towards the river mouth the Knight heard the last sound he wanted to hear ... hyenas. From the sound of their cackling, they were busy exploring this new area. Soon, the novelty of the forest ferns would wear off and they would be upon them. “Chief, our hyena friends will return shortly.” Looking up from his toil to see the seriousness in the Knight’s eyes the Chief grunted, “Odin’s teeth! How many?” Trying his best to be cheerful the Knight replied, “a few more than before!”

      Casting about for an easier way to get the cart to the dam the Chief then quipped, “To bad this damned cart can’t float! All we’d have to do is use our spears to pole it along.” The thought struck the Knight for a moment. Strangely enough, the pushcart was remarkably similar to a flat-bottomed barge in design just smaller. However, with the old man getting heavier as time went on it was likely the impromptu craft would sink. Combined with the occasional crocodile taking up residence in the lake, the idea of floating the cart wasn’t too attractive an idea. Once more his wife’s words, “use your better judgment” rang out in his mind. “That’s not a bad idea. We may have to go with that if things get bad.”

      For some reason, the Chief was not encouraged by the Knight’s words. Just under the sound of the growing wind, the Chief could now hear the cackling of multiple hyenas getting closer. Looking to the youth who now had his back against the rear of the cart and pushing with all his might the Chief said, “Boy, get yourself up on the cart and take my spear!” All too eager to stop pushing the youth replied, “You sure you two old timers will be able to push this thing without me?” The Chief’s eyes grew wide with indignation but it was the Knight who replied, “We’ll manage. The question is; can someone like you barely out of soiled swaddling and smelling of teats handle a spear?”

      Infuriated, the youth nearly fell backwards as he suddenly stopped pushing. The sudden difference in the cart’s weight without his assistance was markedly noticeable by the two men. “Hooooof!” bellowed the Chief as he had to bear down considerably. To the Knight’s surprise the added weight caused him to put far more effort to the task as well. Quickly, the youth climbed aboard the cart and took the Chief’s spear and announced, “Oh and my name is not ‘Boy’! It’s Qatula! Hey, this is a nice spear....” Movement through the fern covered forest floor caught Qatula’s attention. “Um, something’s coming. A lot of somethings!”

      Both men looked over their shoulders and saw the green forest floor come alive like small ocean waves as dozens of hyenas charged towards them! “Odin’s Mother!” Though the Knight never called upon the Gods for aid, he did appreciate the Chief’s sentiment. With his usual calm the Knight said, “That’s a lot of hyenas.” Turning back to pushing the cart the Knight said to Qatula, “Looks like we’re going to have to make for the lake after all. We’ll have to go up the path a bit further for higher ground and a better run at the lake down the slope. The last thing we’ll want is to get stuck in the mud or rocks. Qatula, the hyenas will take some time to feel us out first before they attack. We must use that time to get further along. It will be up to you to keep them at bay until we do!”

      Seeing the sudden respect and expectation from both men bolstered young Qatula’s spirits. Taking the borrowed spear firmly in hand, the youth nodded his head once sharply in acknowledgement. Not long after, the dozens of dark forms broke through the ferns surrounding the path yipping and cackling loudly amongst each other. Without looking up the Knight said, “As long as your eyes are the only ones they see, they’ll think we are some strange creature and will be cautious. Wait until one gets very close and stab it with the spear! Kill it if you can, but make sure it gets hurt. That will cause the others to be more cautious. Once they get brave enough, they’ll all come at once.”

© 2011 H. Wolfgang Porter. All Rights Reserved.

Go to Night Time Traveler Pt. V

      Looking to the Chief, the Knight signaled for him to make ready. Now crouched and stalking forward as to not alert the pack, the Knight looked for the dominant female. The youth swatted and swung his branch hitting the beasts repeatedly but to no real effect. Suddenly, largest of the grinning devils snapped its jaws upon his makeshift weapon and wrenched it from his hands. With no weapon, its fellows dashed towards him! Leaping backwards, the youth somersaulted away from their slavering jaws landing on the cart next to the now screaming old man. As the hyenas yipped angrily at their prey’s evasion, an abrupt death-yelp burst from the dominant female. The hyenas turned to see another two-legged beast land atop the completely surprised female only to witness its head severed just above the jaw line!

      Having used the forward momentum from his leap, the Knight drove the edge of his shield through the largest hyena's head only to stop deep in the moist soil. Before the nearest hyena could react, a flick of his arm saw the long fighting knife buried deep within its body. Off to his side, the Knight heard the Chief’s spear claim another of the pack as he leaped forward with a blood-curdling growl. With a strong pull, the Knight freed the shield which pinned the dominant female to the ground in death accompanied by an ill sucking sound. By now, the remaining hyena’s were in full route except for one.

      The Knight turned to see the fierce glowing eyes of the Dominant Male as they caught the rays of twilight. The Knight knew exactly why the beast stood with raised hackles, bared fangs and murderous intent. Putting down his shield and sticking the Great War Spear’s haft into the ground, the Knight slowly stepped forward and said, “I too would want blood for my mate. Come see if you can take it.” All eyes locked upon the two adversaries as they stood stock still. The hyena no longer cackled for only a long growl escaped its jaws. The Dominant Male took in the two-legged creature as its eyes would not turn away in submission. Infuriated by the two-leg’s defiance, the hyena charged and then leaped ready to tear out the two-legged male’s throat!

      The Chief ready to throw his own spear, watched in amazement as the Knight side-stepped the beast. In doing so, the dark-skinned warrior threw his brawny arm around the hyena’s neck and outstretched forelegs which was followed by the loud report of breaking bones. The hyena stared out with eyes wide in death for it had been so quick as to not allow a final rattle. The Aesir Chief stood with eyes agog after so skillful a kill. “Damn this will make a fine drinking tale!” Before the Knight could reply, out came the high and low pitched cracking voice of the youth. “Eh, that wasn’t so much! I had them all ready for the kill until you two showed up!” Looking away from the rude adolescent to the frightened old man the Knight inquired, “Are you well Old Father?” It was the youth who answered. “Ah, he’s all right.” Not one to suffer children disrespecting their elders the Chief interjected, “No one was talking to you boy. You should show your thanks for having your young hide saved.” Now with dawn in full bloom, the painted youth looked at the Chief and said, “Wow! Where did you find this one? His skin is white as old bones! And look at his hair! How much did this slave cost you?”

      Just as the Chief’s lips drew back baring his teeth at the youth’s suggestion, the Knight cut in saying, “You are being rude boy.” The youth turned to see the cold expression on the warrior’s face and he jumped back behind the cart and said, “Whoooo! You are scary!” The Chief drew near the Knight and said, “The Priestess won’t mind if I stab him will she?” Flashing a rare grin the Knight replied, “I’m not sure. But accidents do happen.” With a toothsome grin shining through a red-brown beard the Chief said as he drew his sword, “I think I can manage an accident just fine.” The youth looked from the Knight to the Chief and back to the Knight then hastily said, “Great sirs, you have shown me my behavior has been poor and I beg both your pardon! I humbly thank you for saving our lives!" Satisfied, the Chief looked to the Knight and asked, “Does that work for you Sir Knight?” Giving a single nod while looking directly at the painted youth the Knight replied, “Apology accepted.”

      After the Knight’s inquiries were made of the Old Father called Oboae and the Youth named Qatula it was revealed they were both traveling with a caravan on its way through the deep desert to a great city by the sea. It was one night midway through the journey that Qatula noticed the Old Father had walked out into the desert while the caravan slept. Thinking to bring the old man back, the youth borrowed a small pushcart to make it faster to return since the oldster was so feeble. Searching the better part of the night for Old Oboae, Qatula found him among the dunes crying about wanting to return to his home ‘in the valley’ before his death.

      Despite the Old Father’s protests, Qatula put him on the pullcart and rushed back. Unfortunately just before the dawn, the caravan had packed up and left without them! Unable to catch up with the caravan, the pair were lost and eventually were caught in a sandstorm. The next morning they found themselves by the riverside and Old Oboae pointed down river only to utter, “My Valley.” Since then, the Old Father had not uttered another word and had been growing weaker with each passing day. Looking to the Knight Qatula pleaded, “I beg you sir, help me fix the cart and lead me to the valley he spoke of!”

      The Knight pondered their tale carefully. It was not implausible considering he too had wandered into the Valley from the desert after being separated from his own caravan. The Aesir Chief and his men also found the Valley after being lost at sea and crossing the desert. In fact, all of the people living in the Valley could trace their ancestry back to someone who had been lost and made their way here through the wilderness. Then there was his wife’s warning to ‘use his best judgment’ when it came to dealing with the traveler. However, there were two traveler’s instead of one. One an old man wanting to return to his homeland before death and the other a simple youth trapped by his good intentions. The Knight’s first thought was to help the old man as it was unlikely anyone else would come this way soon. A moment passed and the Knight replied, “Fine. But we’ll leave the cart behind. It will be simpler to carry the Old Father.” Qatula was about to say something and then remembered his manners as the pale-skinned hairy giant moved to lift the frail old one from the cart.

      “All right old-timer, here we gooooof!” exclaimed the surprised Chief. By all looks the near jet-black graybeard could be easily carried with one of the Chief’s strong arms. Yet, no matter how he tried the former seafarer couldn’t so much as budge Old Oboae from the cart! “Odd’s blood! What sort of trickery is this? I’ve pulled ship’s anchors that weren't as heavy!” The Knight’s eyes narrowed at the prospect. He’d come to know the Chief well enough to be sure the man would play no pranks at so serious a time. The Knight had also come to know that when dealing with his wife’s world, nothing was as it seemed. Just to be certain, the Knight stepped forth and tried to cradle the old with no success. Looking to the youth, the Knight saw him barely holding back his laughter. Doing his best to hold his anger in front of the Old Father the Knight asked sharply, “What mischief is this boy?”

© 2011 H. Wolfgang Porter. All Rights Reserved.

Go to Night Time Traveler Pt. IV