Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 15, 2016, 11:41:45 AM

In this world there are creatures, small creatures such as a spider which bite and inject digestive juices in creatures much larger than them. A Brown Recluse for example - small and yet will bite a human causing not only pain but also to cause the rot of a large section of flesh.

Writers can be like a spider, injecting words into a readers mind causing joy, pain, euphoria, death...

The parasite is inspired by the rain, joyful? Maybe but what if the world causes rain to cause rot much in the way a Brown Recluse bite causes rot?
***

Bite of the Rain

All around the round world water was the fluid of life. Ocean waves, tidal flow, rivers, rain..
From the clouds fell drops. Frozen as flakes in the North and South, wet as blobs of free falling form elsewhere.
A world grew fat from such moisture, fat and full.

Grass grew quickly as the roots sucked up the moisture like a greedy baby sucking the teat of its mother, both growing, growing, growing.

Fish swam and spawn, salmon swimming up rapids and falls to complete a journey.

Ducks and geese searched for fat plants to eat, frogs snapped fat insects, opulence, fat, life.

Everywhere there grew, and grew, and grew, and died.

Death was the result of rain, of the comet, of the world consuming itself like a snake biting its tail.

Philosophy of life is muted when knowing that for swimming in a rich world of water there always comes death. Aristotle, Plato, now dust leaving behind dry words, dry thoughts; preservation by the dryness of death, death by the flow of water, and in a Universe above the frozen crystals carried by the Comet of Life/Death.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 16, 2016, 01:34:42 AM

Sometimes it is fun to write of emotions, sometimes it is not, yet aren't all of what a writer writes, emotions?
Judging by the many stories Robin, the parasite, and others have written on this thread, the common theme is English is the language used and the topics varied, the rest is writing of expression and will.

Tonight a poem written in English and filled with emotion of what is.
***
Hit By A Truck

Locked inside yearning to join and stilled
Prison of own, making of prison
to remember now what can never be forgotten.

So much a language of fate of what is
and why
knowing and wondering
why.

There is a feeling of a fuse lit and burning
chasing a circle of itself
in the middle, empty
outside.

Sensation tasted as the lips remember the cheek
the arms
the eyes
the body
mind, and soul.

Looking up towards a moon surrounded by stars
feeling wetness as drops fall upon the face by passing clouds
Walking back towards myself
cursing.

I love
I cannot hate
I failed
Listening to life passing by on the highway
while it should be the sweet sounds of wind and bird.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 16, 2016, 11:25:22 PM

Lets see, if I were to submit a poem to Aphelion, or anywhere for that matter, which one should it be?

"How about none ya big prick!"

No, not that one, too offensive for my mind at the moment.

"How about one dealing with unicorns and trolls?" a little girl asked.

How nice and what a surprise to see a young girl reading this thread. Unusual in this world to find innocence interested in a poem about unicorns and trolls, so for you, I will write a poem.

As writers know it is easy to fall into a genre, a habit, to be 'known' for horror, or religious, or western, or fantasy, or whatever it is the writer finds pleasure in staying with. For me I like it all. The scientific, the boring, the 'whatever'. To write a poem for children may be easy for you or extremely hard, but until you try you will never know. So, lets see if Robin can do so as the parasite is rated at least R and not fit to write children's poetry.
***

Mane For Her

Noble knight knowing of joust and fight
Kingdom of castle, king, queen, prince, and princess
View the arena the people clap while in the forest the elves scheme.

Off far beyond the fields where peasants plant the grain, a realm of magic
of dreams
where girls and boys are banned.

She was Ariana, daughter of the baker, young and full of dare.
Imp of defiance and bluster, nightly stories full of immune
glancing out her window, wishing, wishing to a falling star, and hearing.

"Midnight and all is well, midnight and all is well!" yelled the night watchman
on guard for wolves and trolls
inside the children pulled their blankets over face as shields,
all except
for a little girl.

"Falling star I wish afar to visit the magical kingdom," smiling until sleep arrived, leaving a falling star to hover in flight
shining a bright beam
upon a smiling sleeping child.

"Ariana..." Voice of the sky touching ear
"Ariana...awake."
With sleep filled eyes this little girls smile grew.

With white wings sweeping the night air in power
Windows shutters falling open with glass to dissolve
her room filled with warmth and magical light.

"Ariana... come ride with me, ride the winds, fly high above land and sea."

He was an old Unicorn, older than magic and time.
Upon his back she climbed
Giggling and laughing, she held tight his mane.

Stroking the air now in silence sliding higher and higher towards the moonlight
A Unicorn taking flight, away from the mundane.

Off and high and higher until a world lay far below, beneath them were stars and moon, and still the Unicorn climbed.

Oh, it was wonderful, this moment where a young girl smiled and played.
Coming from all sides now were sparks of light, changing light so bright and colorful,
elves
fairies
magical creatures of delight.

This girl lost herself and joined with the Unicorn
for yes
eternity...

You see, back on the world this daughter of the baker had dared and wished as she could be.
Her body had been ill, filled with the sickness called cancer,
her suffering contained while the people would whisper and say, "Poor thing, how she suffers, death would bring her peace..."

For her years among her people she was brave as she was sick
but that was yesterday.
Today, this girl lived in the world of magic, a place where there was no sickness, no evil, nothing but goodness and peace
A world where she could run and fly, laugh and giggle, playing with other little boys and girls
while above them flew the Unicorn with his Powerful wings.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 18, 2016, 11:37:36 PM

Don't know about you writers out there but outside my window during this moment of Spring there is so much inspiration for writing that the stories would/could fill a library.

Absolutely everything has a story in it, actually everything has a story that could be another story that could be another story...and never stop.

To those of you who complain about writers block while writing your 'great novel', how about taking some time off from your 'claim to fame' and write a story about something outside your window.
***

Hummingbird

"Mother, do hummingbirds lay many eggs?" Ed was an inquisitive child, always asking questions when the fact of the matter in many ways he was already smarter than his mother.

"No, they don't Eddy, hummingbirds are magical and are a form of pet for elves. If you look closely you may see an elf riding on their back." The mother smiled and laughed as she enjoyed cultivating an imagination in her child who at this young age already was way to scientifically minded.

"There is no such thing as elves, besides, hummingbirds are birds."

"Of course there are elves. There are fairies and ogres and giants, dragons, trolls. They are all around."

Being a child should be the moment where the mind is filled with fantasy and imagination. Children should play at being pirates, movie stars, super heroes, but in Eddies case he had no interest in imagination. Already he knew the alphabet, he knew the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus did not 'exist'. In fact, he knew more about science then his mother, this knowledge was due in part to his father who was a college professor at Harvard, teaching physics to other minds of science.

With a sigh Eddy said, "No mother, there is no such thing as magic, there is nothing but science and math. This world has an answer for everything proven..."

"No Eddy..." but the mother was starting to talk to a small child who had already turned away and was now focusing his attention on something real.

As the child was sitting on a bench preparing to read a new book his father had brought him the night before, he heard a sound. It was the humming sound of a hummingbirds wings flapping the air hard. Looking towards the source of sound his eyes were filled with amazement. Only six feet away from his face hovered a small bird and on this birds back sat an elf dressed in leaf parts and glowing sand.

"What, what is this?" the boy asked himself out loud.

"What is this? Ha. 'This' is Role'n, Elf prince to this arena. And you are?"

"Uh, my name is Eddy..."

"Ed-die? What a funny human name. I'm going to call you, Duk'n"

***

That's enough for this story. It is a simple story and just another variation of many variations of this same story. With just this story I could write an entire novel of about 100,000 to 150,000 words. So can you. This is why I'm addicted to writing. There are so many variations, so many stories. And there does exist the magical realm of elves, fairies, and hummingbirds which fly in both worlds.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 20, 2016, 01:43:16 AM

Ha! Robin went to bed, sorry bastard, you'd think at his age he would have taken some prune juice put on his jammies put his false teeth in that crappy Disney cup and go beddy bye at 8:00pm, but noooo, he has to be a rebel and stay up until 8:30pm. Now that he's down for the night I thought it would be a good time to write a poem, more specifically, a horror poem. Those last two stories were a worse form of punishment for me than what Robin had done to me previously with Cristco, fire, knives, and such...
***

Darkness of the Cupboard

Old clappered form outside kitchen window
Announce
Announce
Announce...

Wind's form shove wide cracked window, dried blood from fisted anger
Bone gnawed bare this hound of hell decided
Demons feast upon form inside.

Once pies and cake addressed celebratory moments
Twice the screams
Three lay dead.

Cherry married to pine with splintered handle
Forged iron stove smoked past
burning embers.

Aloft in neat row, colored glass covered doors hiding macabre sight
Stem glass, broken
Teeth standing tall this grin.

Three skulls spoke of better times headed, looking for cabinet door openings
Left by predators
Outside
clappered form takes wind...
Announcing
Announcing
Announcing

death
***

There you go Robin, suck on that you sorry assed bastard...Hey, no...

"Thought you could write while I went to sleep didn't you parasite, fooled ya didn't I?"

Why the hell are you up, guy your age needs nappy time.

"No, mature gentlemen such as myself need milk and cookies and to see what kind of mischief a parasite is up too. But, actually, (munch, munch, slurp, ahhh...burp) not bad what you wrote."

Seriously? You actually like something I wrote? Hey, you're not such a bastard after...Arhhgg!

(Robin loves yanking the parasites chain. Though he approved of the poem the parasite wrote he still had whack the parasite over the head with a baseball bat to stay consistent.)

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 22, 2016, 01:37:46 AM

What if the world could not speak or write, what would happen if it took an object to represent a phrase.
In secret societies there are codes such as apple= sink or ship = duck.

A Poem

() ()
)( ()
() )(

... ... ... ()0 ()
__ __ __ )(0 ()
... __ >.. ()0 )(

what if math as it is not understood is understood? what if math were communication' uses sets' contrary to mechanical application?

"Hey, what kind of crap is that? Is that you Robin, only a moron like you could come up with something so strange..."

"Robin? Hey where did that dick go?"

"Well, if he's not around then I will write a poem," a parasite decided it was safe to do so.

Feel the chord tighten
Noose up ... ... ... )) ((
Fold down __ __ __ 0)(0

"Hey, what gives, who's messing with my poem."

***
(Sometimes a writer will try to amuse the readers with something new and fall flat on their face as no one can understand what they are saying all while the writer thinks their story is the best thing since the alphabet was invented. Sometimes though, it somehow all works. 'Life of PI' is an example. The writer is brilliant as is the story yet the many publishers rejected it until one publisher took a chance and now the world gets to share in the brilliance of the gifted writer, Yann Martel. Point of this being: Write as you wish, write what you want, care not for fame, care not for anything other than the writing, your writing)
***

Inside this chest boils, boils with what is
Outside this body boils, boils with the day
Inside
Outside

All around a feeling

Night brings a stable coolness fed by coldness of space
Drifting in comfort
Filled with sleep.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 24, 2016, 01:15:38 AM

White sandy breaches in the brochure showed a smiling, scantily clad woman in a bikini. In the background the vibrant green color of the water was a seduction in-and-of itself to the man named Bill, a man searching the internet for escape from his job as a junior accountant to, Blank and Blank.

Blank and Blank was actually a company devoted to money laundering mafia money, lots of dirty money, money Bill was left with the task to show where it came from and where it went.

"Come Escape With Me," the headline of the brochure read. Bill did indeed lose himself as he scrolled the screen up and read more. Of course the company, Bland and Blank had lots and lots of money, or cash, or wealth, whatever you want to call power, but Bill was an underpaid flunky, one who could only dream of such a vacation.

"What are you doing Bill?" Bill's boss was a, oh hell let's just say it as it is, he was a prick. A class-A prick

Quickly closing out the window, the bikini smiling women in the brochure was replaced by a spread sheet filled with mind numbing numbers.

"Uh, I'm working on the weekly report."

"Good. I want that report by the end of the day."

"Yes Bob, should have it finished in the next two hours."

With a humming sound, an annoying sound, Bill, the prick, walked away to torture some other soul.

Bang!
Bang!
Bang!

The sharp sounds of what could only be gunfire rang out, sounds coming from the far end of the office near where the toilets were.

"Oh God, help!" A man limping, blood spilling from his vest, walking in short jerky steps.

"Oh no you don't, you sick pervert," Bang! followed by another Bang!

The man seeking divine intervention fell to the ground, behind him stood a very upset woman holding a .38 caliber pistol. a pistol still pointed at the bleeding man.

"Helen, what the hell happened? Why did you shoot that man? Are you crazy?"

"That 'man' came into the ladies rest room and was in the stall next to me. He held a mirror under the stall wall and was peeking at me. I screamed and he said, 'I'm transgender, I have rights.' Then he starting laughing and said, 'You can't do anything, it's my right to be here.' That fucker..."

***

Stories can come from anywhere and currently there is much news about men using women bathrooms and vice versa, so what better setting than a boring office, a little drama should spice it up and what better than a woman who does not like a man messing with her private moments, her only moments where she can be free from a world of rules and boredom.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 26, 2016, 11:30:58 PM

Sometimes writing horror can be hard when filled with happiness and writing about happiness when filled with horror.

If you're a writer that can do so then you have graduated, as to write is to really reveal what's inside and for some it is hard to mask.

Since I'm very happy this very moment after reading a wonderful story by another author, I shall try and write a poem of horror. I'm betting I'll fail, but what the hell, better to try than not.

***

Words Melt

Hallmark brings the words to the people
Weddings
Graduations
Celebrations
even consoling death.

He was a Louisiana man known as Sam
Words of curses flew from his lips
Sallon
Solloom
Sami sam...

Sam, a man, a curse, a wreck
the other, luckless in life, a wreck
Two of the same, one cursed, one lost.

Louisiana swamp filled with black magic
and Sam
and a screaming man sinking deep into eternal mud...

For what?
And why?
For trying to steal coins of the cup owned by
a blind beggar named
Sam.

***

"Yikes Robin, what kind of crap is that? Sam? Sounds like Dr. Zeuss. Sam, sam I am, Sam likes green egss and spam... Shit man, let me show you some horror."

(splat)

"That's it? That's the best you got Robin? Something wrong with you today, what a..."

BANG! SPLAT! (and for good measure) A sizzling sound. Robin might be a softy today but is good to keep the parasite under control.

"Uncle. I cry uncle Robin. You win, for now..."

Oh, okay, go ahead, write your little poem if you want, I'm sticking with mine for tonight though. Go ahead, give it your best. And parasite?

"Yes?"

Are you ever going to learn to behave?

"Uh. Mmm. Uh. If I say no, you'll hit me. If I say yes, you won't believe me...so... my final answer is. I'll think about it."

Fair enough, write away.
***

Nostrils flared this stench of shit, bound eternal to body and soul.
Nails turned towards digging corruption, eyes long ago lost of sight
Entrails shown
Bones bleached and bare.

Sarcophagus shattered when fresh
Payment needed as the gods possess
His flesh, preserved yet corrupted
to feed to be fed, jackals laughing, night dark with death.

Young maidens bleed with the moon, possessed.
Young men slaughtered in sleep.
Fulfillment of a promise made one-thousand years ago
another life, another death.

Endless cycle going full circle, full circle full.
A king
A country
A world...

Laughing replaced now, the jackals silent
hearing the footsteps
collapsing pyramid
the last Pharaoh to walk the earth forever
waiting for the last curse.

Post by **Lester Curtis** » May 27, 2016, 12:58:29 AM

Blood, death, bones, jackals, yeah, yeah, so what? Is that supposed to be scary? It ain't workin.'

Oh, wait—you're a parasite, right? And what do parasites do? They SUCK.

Don't give up your day job, parasite.

I see why Robin keeps you around: having you to compare himself to ensures that his reputation as a writer can always have at least some *comparative* legitimacy.

So, is one of you guys going to actually scare me, or are you just gonna dick around with scary-sounding words?

You want help? Go read a bunch of Ray Bradbury. That fucker could scare me worse in a thousand words than Stephen King could in a thousand PAGES. Read it. Find out why. Learn it. THEN come and SCARE me, and then I WILL call YOU a HORROR writer.

I'll wait right here.

LC

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 27, 2016, 10:29:36 PM

Ah Lester... Lester, Lester, Lester...

Robin and the parasite are lame writers in the horror 'department', and you of course know why. The do SUCK... embracing 'scccarwy' wurds...

Robin, the parasite, and the many voices in Robin's head are not here tonight as you touch on a very important point for writers. How can a writer impact the mind of the reader? To cause a sexual reaction the words: Her lips lightly pursed, sucking the throbbing cock dripping with passion...her nipples firm and erect... A bit of writing like that can lead to an increased heart beat.

To cause boredom: And the man was walking slowly, his feet placed one in front of the other, plodding forward, leading horses who placed one foot in front of the other...

To cause humor: Stupidity is to spend lots of money on camping gear so live as a homeless person.

To cause excitement: Bullet after bullet penetrating the drug filled Aztec warrior, a beast who held a bloodied spear.

Now, to cause horror, this one is hard in the world because the world is hard. It is jaded, lost, numb...

To experience horror today it is truly not words, or even the graphic pictures of any modern day 'horror' movie. No, today horror has to be personal.

In the past it was easy for a writer to writer horror stories, the reason being, people were introduced to something they had never experienced before - vampires, zombies, demons, devils, aliens...etc... Today, all are as common as the sunlight.

So, you want horror? Okay, your wish is my command. I'm glad you waited because for horror to really be horror, it has to impact a person, personally...
***

Lester Curtis

Written by: A visitor

Lester, a man who is, was, and will be. Nothing scary about that as Lester is, was, and will be, like millions of other humans.

Who is Lester? Lester is a registered sex offender.

"A what?" A surprised reader asked.

Lester Curtis is officially registered as a sexual predator.

"How, how do you know that?"

Look into his soul. You see, Lester does not scare easily as monsters do not scare easily...

"Hey! Robin, that's not funny. I'm not a sexual predator..." Lester was waiting for this to be written so it was handy he was here to witness.

Now, as this is written, the readers mind starts to wonder, "Is this being made up? Is it...real?"

Okay, let's say that Lester Curtis, the Lester in question is not the same as the Lester Curtis being the exact name of one who truly is a sexual predator... What I've done now, being challenged, is to take advantage of a situation called, religion.

Lester and God are not on the best of speaking terms. How do I know this? The same as I know now that when Lester was in his mothers womb, he got a visitor...Lester gave up some protection rights along with his belief in God. So, being One to not waste an opportunity, I just visited Lester in his mothers womb, all those many years ago.

So, Lester, tell me, tell me you're not scared, tell me because I know you're not scared, but you should have seen yourself as I whispered some words into your mind when you were safe in the security of your mothers womb...Of course you will not remember now, being wide awake and full of the knowledge of 'self', but trust me, when your eyes next close, the words of the visitor will come back to haunt you, and haunt you they will.

Sweet Dreams...
***

Now, yes, this is a 'story'. It is made up as Lester is not a sexual predator. He is one who raises a great point. Horror in today's world is only horrific to the reader it personally impacts. What scares Lester may not scare Robin, in fact NOTHING scares Robin, (except for the idea of running out of chocolate) Look at the faces of American children watching horror movies. Those who have watched much blood and gore, they are immune. It takes something personal to make them scared. Something like being in a car wreck and seeing their parents heads get chopped off by sharp steel.

No, Lester is just being used in the story as an example and tonight when he dresses up in his little, Winnie-the-Pooh jammies, snuggles with his favorite teddy bear, and turns out the light. After his eyes close and he looks forward to a good nights sleep...The Words of the visitor won't be there, or will they?

And since Robin or the parasite did not write this story, who did?

(much thanks Lester for bringing to light a most important aspect of writing. too often the writer tries to hide behind a lot of 'words' and not enough substance, or plot. in writing, the words only work if the readers mind allows them to work, thus the story must resonate off the fears of the reader. the fear of discovery, or fear of blood, or birds, or monsters, politicians, clowns... fear only works in those who fear.

Post by **Lester Curtis** » May 28, 2016, 02:41:37 AM

Not bad, but it's only a start.

You've certainly got your finger on the most important truth about horror (which applies equally to every genre of fiction):

To experience horror today it is truly not words, or even the graphic pictures of any modern day 'horror' movie. No, today horror has to be personal.

Now, to scare the most people at once (for profit and maybe some fun), all we have to do is find out, at the most fundamental levels, what *everyone* is afraid of. Of course it isn't gore and pus and feces, or there'd be no such thing as a medical profession. Let's try this:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow's_ ... y_of_needs

which are no more than a list of effective targets in broad categorical form.

Being labeled a sexual predator attacks quite a few of these at once, but it still might not work. What if Lester has no reason to fear that label?

Your turn.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 29, 2016, 01:11:29 AM

Exactly Lester, basic needs. Nice link to show people.

Now, one thing to also bring to mind. It is the individual who chooses what they want, yes, in a group there can be mass hysteria such as gunshots ringing out in a crowded room...Fear. Adrenalin. Panic. Even comedy is funny when in a crowd sharing the laughter. But in reading it usually is a personal 'thing'.

So it boils down to the individual. It boils down to personal choice, decisions, wants, and desires. You mentioned Ray Bradbury, an author I greatly admire and of whom I have read all (Or most of) his books, but it shows your age as you and I grew up with Ray Bradbury. It is doubtful those older or younger than us would find the writing to be as powerful as it was to us.

"Sex Sells." A saying so true as of all the emotions wanted to be embraced, sex is the common one which is why, Sex, or anything pertaining to sex, is number one on the Google searches. Horror is way, way, down on the list.

What certain people embrace as horror, others laugh at. For example: The Shining, it is a movie with Jack Nicholson, it is the most scary movie that I've ever seen. The others? A crazy Japanese ghost that kills everyone and can't be stopped? Blood? Gore? Graphic? Zombies? I get a good laugh.

Now, one form that scares religious people is religious horror. Exorcisms resonate with many who believe in Satan and God. For those who are atheist, such books and movies are a form of comedy. So what is horror to an atheist? Simple, whatever an atheist wants to embrace as horror.

This leads to what really is the situation regarding horror - a person only views the reading as horror if they are looking to be horrified. Simple.

Also, (and this applies to all stories regardless of genre) If a story is touted as 'Horror, written by the master of horror, so scary you'll pee your pants...' It will usually fail. People love to be surprised. Tell them what something will be, and boooooring.

Stephen King? If reading a story of his without knowing he wrote it? Great story. Reading and knowing he wrote it? Booooooring plus more borrrrrring.

Long winded tonight but Lester brings out some good points. People will only read what entertains or amuses them. Love mysteries? They'll read mysteries. Horror? They'll read horror. Anyway, enough boring shit about what every writer should already know.
***

Such cute little bunnies. Munching on soft little blades of grass, sniffing the air with those pink little nostrils.
The area was full of them as the wet weather caused everything colored green, to explode in growth.
It was common to see this meadow filled with rabbits. It was common to see flowers and grass. It was even common to see deer and birds...
A wonderful story filled with wonderful forms of life, life living a good way of existence.

Near all this activity, there was a cave. Nothing spectacular as far as caves go but it definitely was a cave. Near the entrance a couple of bunnies were eating quietly. Nibbling and chewing, chewing and nibbling, until suddenly, the cute little animals suddenly bolted from the scene, on their faces were a look of fear.

A cave, a simple cave. Nothing spectacular, but the sounds coming from the cave? Yes, the cave was not silent.

A soft moaning could be heard coming from the cave, soon this was accompanied by the louder intensity of squealing...

Moaning and squealing
Moaning and squealing
Moaning and squealing.

"Hear that Lester? What the hell is that sound?" Robin asked Lester, his male lover and friend.

"What's that dear?" Lester was having a great time viewing the cute little bunnies and also remembering the great sex he and his lover engaged in the previous night.

"I said, listen. Can you hear the moaning and squealing coming from the cave?"

"Ah, you're just imagining thin.. Hey! You're right, there is a sound coming from inside. I wonder what could be making such a sound?"

"Should we go see?" Robin asked.

"Sure, why not. Nothing scares me you love puppy you." So, kissing Robin softly on his mustached lips with a week old growth of hair on his own, the two lovers held hands and walked into the small entrance of the cave.

The sounds of moaning got louder and louder, as did the squealing. Lester clenched Robins hand tightly causing Robin to say, "Are you getting scared honey?" Said with a nervous laugh.

"No...no, it's just so damn dark in here."

"Here, I'll use the light from my cell phone, " and with that the light shown from the cell phone held in Robin's hand.

The tunnel was long but soon the sound of squealing and moaning grew louder and louder...and a soft light appeared ahead. Robin turned his light off and the two lovers crept softly towards the sound and light, almost like a moth to a flame...

Rounding a corner, Lester exclaimed, "Oh shit! Look at that!"

Robin replied, "Damn, that can't be."

What the two men saw were a group of other men fucking pigs. The men were naked and covered in oil, standing inside small steel barred cages while strapped in a unique leather halter, many pigs were restrained, while the men engaged in fucking the pigs.

Even with all the sound of pig fucking, the exclamation of Robin and Lester caused some of the naked men to turn and stare at the two, they stared with bright red eyes and smiled revealing sharp fangs of teeth.

"Shit! Let's get the fuck out of here..." Robin said.

"Yeah, let's..." but before Lester could finish, a pig free from restraints and one not being fucked, rushed up and bit Lester's dick off.

"Arrgh..."

Robin was mortified and he too tried to run, but soon a whole herd of pigs converged on them and the feeding began. Pig after pig, munching and devouring the two, until only shattered bones remained. As this feast was going on the naked men in the cages resumed fucking the other pigs.
***

(not really horror for some but it did make my stomach turn and I gagged as I wrote it. Horror? Only if one wants to be scared. Repulsive? To most maybe but it would not surprise me if some people got sexually aroused while reading this crap)

Post by **Lester Curtis** » May 29, 2016, 12:25:28 PM

Lester's last words were, "Damn, I didn't even get any of that pig pussy ... "

At that moment, a teenager in the back row of the theater called out, "I TOLD you not to go in there!" A few of the other patrons looked up from their cell phones just long enough to say, "Hey, quiet down, huh? I'm tryin' to text." None of which mattered, as the credits were beginning to roll.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 29, 2016, 08:38:49 PM

Ha! Good one Lester, though does the reader really know the gender of the swine? Of course, if one of the characters in the story state such it must be so, but how did the character know? The both of them were running terror while getting eaten alive.

On a related note, after have raised many pigs, once a pig gets the taste of raw blood, look out. From that day on, they will eat the flesh of any containing such. My neighbor actually used to shoot stray dogs and throw their bodies in his pig pen. When I used to care for his sows while he was on vacation, they always used to lunge at me with eating intentions in mind. I used to beat the crap out of them with a metal bucket, and thankfully I never fell into their pen.

You also captured modern day sentiment of many theater goers. Indifference. Rude. Cell phones. Throwing stuff. Laughing. And now I realize something between our interactions (still getting the beard taste out of my mind). Do you think that in this modern day period of insanity that the number of people actually reading books has fallen? Yes, I see the texters and some people still reading but I wonder if overall, people choose visual stimulation over the printed word. If this hypothesis is true then it would represent an evolutionary change in the species. Intellect regressing back to ignorance and physical.

I own and have read children's books written in the 1800's. The level of writing for children back 'then' would be of a higher grade than most college level reading. Plus, most people don't know that cursive writing is now obsolete. Many schools don't even teach, rather teaching how to type on a keyboard.

Interesting times, interesting time indeed.

Thanks for playing Lester. If you don't mind, please write a short story here so the parasite can feed in return for feeding.
***

I TOLD you

"What?"

I said, I TOLD you... Are you deaf or what?

"What?"

You are just trying to get me angry.

"Yes, yes I am."

Why?

"Uh, because?"

Bang!

***

Speaking of which, there are stories in everything. Today while driving on the highway I saw an older man standing next to his car by the side of the highway in a turnout. It was obvious he was upset about something so immediately the voices in my head started writing various stories as to why. It is fun to practice. Did the man just kill his son and throw the body into the river? Did the man just suffer a stroke and would soon collapse next to his car? Did he sit his pants because he ate some bad food in a small town he passed through two hours ago? So much to choose from when really the answer was probably as simple as the man got a cramp in his calf muscle and needed to stretch it out.

Post by **Lester Curtis** » May 29, 2016, 10:56:08 PM

You also captured modern day sentiment of many theater goers. Indifference. Rude. Cell phones. Throwing stuff. Laughing. And now I realize something between our interactions (still getting the beard taste out of my mind). Do you think that in this modern day period of insanity that the number of people actually reading books has fallen? Yes, I see the texters and some people still reading but I wonder if overall, people choose visual stimulation over the printed word. If this hypothesis is true then it would represent an evolutionary change in the species. Intellect regressing back to ignorance and physical.

I'm pretty sure reading hasn't gone out of favor yet. People are still buying books in pretty good numbers. Though I've heard that some people with e-readers will just buy content when it's free or really cheap, but then not read it. Maybe they forget they have it because their device never gets any harder to carry.

I own and have read children's books written in the 1800's. The level of writing for children back 'then' would be of a higher grade than most college level reading. Plus, most people don't know that cursive writing is now obsolete. Many schools don't even teach, rather teaching how to type on a keyboard.

I think you're right about the children's books. I think we are being dumbed down, the ones of us who don't see it happening or care, at least (which is way too many). Television is a bad influence, as is every form of "instant gratification," such as fast food: our attention spans are being eroded. Some years back I formulated the idea that Sesame Street was partly to blame for this. The creators of that show did a good thing in one respect in breaking the content into tiny chunks for kids who hadn't yet developed an attention span—but at the same time, they were *training* for short attention spans. Unintended consequences.

On the other hand, I think our modern culture has changed in the way kids are raised. "Back then' they didn't have Sesame Street, and kids were taught to pay attention anyway; they were *expected* to pay attention, and to learn patience. And maybe they *were* being taught in short, memorable chunks, but those chunks were then put together into a larger whole.

Think about tourists with cameras: they go someplace with marvelous scenery and they snap pics of it and leave *without ever really seeing it.* I forced myself to do the opposite once on a solo vacation trip: I left my camera at home and took a sketchbook instead. If you have to sit and actually *look* at something long enough to try to draw a picture of it, you'll remember it for the rest of your life, and if asked, you could probably draw most of it again cold from memory. There are probably thousands of people who look at their old pictures and say, "What's that? I don't remember ever being there ..."

I'm not sure about cursive writing. I think it may be a more recent branch of literacy, and maybe we don't much need it any more. Maybe we never needed it much at all. Keyboarding skills are a must nowadays. But simple basics like spelling and punctuation really need to be taught better.

Sorry, no story for you right now, but I'll try to come up with something soon.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 30, 2016, 11:59:22 AM

That's interesting to learn how in this world there is so much to choose from, so much so that much rests unread on an electronic gadget. I guess it's like the choice of music, there is so much that it all becomes mute. In the old days of yesteryear the choices were few and far between, today, yikes. Just doing a Google search on the food 'spam recipes' yields about a million choices.

That's also a good point Lester, regarding how modern media has changed the way children/adults attention spans are eroded. I greatly enjoyed your idea of sketching an object of study instead of 'click, snap, exit'. In a way writing is so. We as writers have fallen prey to comfort of spell check, ergonomically designed keyboards, etc... Using spell check is 'handy' but it leads to laziness. To actually grab a Websters dictionary and look up words is much like your sketching. It is supposed to stick in the mind.

You are correct about the need of cursive writing. Maybe it was something not needed but for me it is an art of discipline. To read such fine penmanship from days of old shows the mindset and discipline lacking in this modern world of mush. Yes, teachers today would be arrested for child abuse if they taught in the ways it used to be taught but what difference in what humans are today versus yesterday.

Thanks for presenting some excellent views on this thread Lester and for being a good sport in the writing. As for writing a story for the parasite to feed upon, you already did and now it is time for the creature to feed.
***

Sketch

Japanese tourists, American tourists, tourists of all nationalities -'Snap. Click. Click. Snap.'

"And over there is where the battle of Armageddon will occur," the tour guide pointed out to his daily herd of fresh visitors to the site.

Holding smart phones, cameras, and other gadgets high into the air and in front of their collective faces, many pictures were taken, much video was recorded.

"Now, if you'll board the bus again, we'll drive to the place where Jesus was crucified." The group shuffled their feet and headed toward the Mercedes bus, a very modern and comfortable machine complete with bar, toilet, and television.

As the people trodded like sheep back onto the bus a young girl asked her mother, "Why do you think that man is sitting in the sun drawing?"

Looking in the direction her daughter was pointing, the mother saw, analyzed, and stated with boredom in her voice, "Oh, he probably is a local with nothing better to do, " and with that the two boarded, quickly forgetting what was not important enough to remember.

As the tour bus left, it was replaced with another, and that too, replaced, and replaced, and replaced. An endless stream of buses stopping, puking out a herd of people who all 'Snap. Click. Click. Snap.' exit.

The whole time the shadows lengthened, shortened, and then lengthened again heading into darkness, a grubbily dressed man with a large hat, sat on a bench with many books filled with many sketches laying around him.

A mongrel dog looking for food found a lot of scraps left by the many tourists. There were pieces of sandwich, candy, odds and ends of what society had deemed worthy of casting aside, much like the mother and her daughter did when thinking about the man sitting and drawing. Yet, the dog found sustenance in the trash, enough to live another day.

While the dog was sniffing the area, his travel took him near to the man still drawing. As the dog neared the mans feet the man stopped his activities and his head in direction towards the dog now only a few feet away.

Yelping and with tail between leg, the dog leaped and ran away as fast as his skinny, bony body could run.

The mans face followed the retreating form and then returned to drawing again. On his face was nothing but a picture of blankness. There was no nose, mouth, eyes, nothing but grayed wrinkled skin, and from this skin tiny small pictures could be seen, pictures of war, of death, of endless streams of people clicking, snapping, being born, and dying.

Post by **Lester Curtis** » May 30, 2016, 09:10:55 PM

That's also a good point Lester, regarding how modern media has changed the way children/adults attention spans are eroded. I greatly enjoyed your idea of sketching an object of study instead of 'click, snap, exit'. In a way writing is so. We as writers have fallen prey to comfort of spell check, ergonomically designed keyboards, etc... Using spell check is 'handy' but it leads to laziness. To actually grab a Websters dictionary and look up words is much like your sketching. It is supposed to stick in the mind.

As to sketching things instead of 'click, snap, exit,' I think you'd get a lot more respect from the locals, too.

I prefer spellcheck because my Webster's weighs ten and a half pounds. It's true I could use the exercise, but I'll actually go for that before I go for any of the online dictionaries. Laziness takes some really weird forms; I'd rather reach up and slip this behemoth off the shelf into my hand OOF than open a new browser tab and type in a word. It's even worse when I'm offline; then I have to open Firefox first and then wait while everything initializes and finishes loading. There's a hazard with a paper dictionary, too: as I'm searching for the word, I *always* get stopped by some other(s) on the way. There are worse ways to kill time, though.

The thing I find so weird about using a dictionary is that you have to be able to spell the word in order to find it. What if the spelling is what you're trying to find out? I spent a half hour once looking at 'egg - ' while trying to find 'exaggerate.'

You are correct about the need of cursive writing. Maybe it was something not needed but for me it is an art of discipline. To read such fine penmanship from days of old shows the mindset and discipline lacking in this modern world of mush. Yes, teachers today would be arrested for child abuse if they taught in the ways it used to be taught but what difference in what humans are today versus yesterday.

I think cursive script resulted from somebody leaning over someone else's shoulder as they wrote and saying, "Can't you write any faster?" I don't think lower-case exists in a lot of Eastern languages. We're just used to thinking our way is better—just like everyone else. We're right, of course—it's better for US.

You asked for a story ... how would you feel about reading my unfinished novel a chapter at a time? Maybe we could swap crits or something.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » May 31, 2016, 11:18:49 AM

Absolutely Lester, it would be great to read your novel one chapter at a time...To tear and devour it until the words drip red with the blood of your soul, causing such grief that not even the safe space at the local college- the one with the video of kittens playing and the sound of ocean music in the background- can bring you solace...Or, translated into the modern vernacular of politically correct: Absolutely Lester, I encourage your endeavor...

Seriously though, Robin and the parasite truly would enjoy it Lester. I love reading other peoples work and lately there is a poet's work that fascinates me so reading your novel and inspiring the parasite would be excellent.

***

Swapping Crits

"You suck..."

"No, you suck..."

"No, it's you..."

"No. Your work is on par with a troupe of monkeys writing poetry."

"Monkeys can't write poetry."

"Exactly."

"Uh...Uh...shit, you got me."

Post by **Lester Curtis** » May 31, 2016, 12:35:45 PM

Swapping Crits

"You suck..."

"No, you suck..."

"No, it's you..."

HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Great!

Good, then, here we go.
*******************************

One
2129 C.E.
Earth

Leeta squatted on his haunches atop Mitzi's flat-roofed doghouse, holding a large chicken in his arms and watching the sun go down. The sky seemed to change slowly, but if he looked away he'd miss some of the colors, and he didn't want to, there were so many. It had been cloudy for so many days, and day turned to night by the sky just getting darker grey until it was black. That was all right; it was how things were this time of year. This was just better.

He was still puzzled about the men all fussing over him being two years old today, as though something had changed. Whatever it meant, he liked it; they'd all played with him a lot, and dinner was especially good. Jake had made a loaf of fresh pumpkin bread with nuts in it. He'd never had that before.

The chicken wriggled onto her side, and Leeta glanced down to see her looking up at him with a bright little eye. He rubbed a finger down her neck from the corner of her beak, and she closed her eyes and laid her head upside down in the crook of his elbow. He slid his hand under her wing and rubbed on her ribs, and looked back at the sky. Sunset was over, just purple and blue now.

His ear swiveled toward the farmhouse at the sound of the back door opening. Greg let Mitzi out, then stepped out and closed the door. Mitzi trotted off into the weeds to squat as Greg walked over. "You spoiling Dandelion again?"

"She likes this."

"She likes you. It's because you carried her around so much when she was little. It's done her good, though."

Leeta smiled up at Greg. "She lays lots of eggs."

"That she does. Well, go put her in the coop, it's time to come in for the night."

"But the sky's clear . . . can I look at the stars first?"

"Well—it is a nice night. Just a little while. Find one thing to look at, and I'll tell you about it."

Leeta looked up to the sky. "But there's so much to see—"

"All right, two things, and then we go in. Put Dandelion in the coop first, and I'll get my coat." Greg called for Mitzi to come, and started walking to the house.

Leeta shook the chicken gently and she squirmed upright and ruffled her feathers. "Sorry, girl." He set her next to him and hopped down, and she flapped to the ground and followed him to the chicken coop.

When Greg came out, Leeta was staring up at the Milky Way. "It's so big—"

"Yeah . . . there's an awful lot out there, all right. Now, what's the first thing you want me to tell you about?"

"Uh—" He turned all around, looking at everything he could see of the sky beyond the farmhouse and the barn and the leafless trees. He pointed to the southeast. "That one that's moving—what's that?"

"That's a spaceship. See how it's coming down? That means it's landing somewhere, probably New Detroit."

"Spaceship—?"

"Yeah. You see, long ago, people built really big boats—you know what a boat is—and they called them ships. Then, they learned to build machines that could fly in the air, and they called those airships. But then, not so long ago, we learned how to make machines that would fly out to where there is no air. That's called space, so those are called spaceships."

"Oh. What do they do with them?"

"Carry things, mostly. They carry people from place to place, and they carry things that people want to buy or sell. And sometimes, they just fly off to explore places that no one's seen before."

"What places?"

"Stars. Other planets. Now, what's next?"

"Oh . . . uh—there. That bright one."

"That's another spaceship, a really big one. It's called the G'Kuhru."

"It has a name?"

"A lot of ships have names."

"It's not moving—"

"That one always stays in the same place; it stays over one spot on the Earth, very high up."

"What's it do?"

"There are a lot of people in it, and they work for something called the Interworlds Market Collective. They help us—with trade, and other things."

"Oh."

"I'll tell you more another time. Come on in, now."

"Wait—I gotta squat." Leeta trotted away to a spot he hadn't used before, vaguely realizing that, while he had a hard time remembering anything else, he knew to avoid all the places he'd squatted before, even in the dark.

They walked back to the house together, and as Leeta was wiping his feet at the door, he remembered something that had puzzled him. "Greg?"

"Yeah—?"

"Will I look like you when I grow up?"

Greg stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned around. Even in the dark, Leeta could see a kind of tired sadness in his face and in the way he stood. "The short answer is 'no,' but—you deserve the whole story. Come on, let's go inside."

~~~~~

Greg sat him at the kitchen table and turned on the light. He brought out the data-pad that he'd been using to teach Leeta letters and numbers, along with a small black box with some little markings on it, and a leather pouch with a narrow strap on it. He sat down and leaned his arms on the table. "So—maybe you thought you'd change into a man as you grew up?"

"I . . . didn't know—"

"It's okay, Leeta. You just got a little confused. Now, when you grow up, you're going to look like a—grown-up version of what you are now. You'll still have the tail and the muzzle and all. What matters, though, is that you'll be a person.

"Think about the kinds of living things there are: the ones you know are plants and animals. Since men are alive, and they aren't plants, that means they're animals. The important difference is that some of the animals are people. That means they make machines and use them, and they have languages that they speak and read and write. So, you and me and Carlos and Jake and Walter are all animals, but we're all people, too. Understand?"

"Men are people—"

"Yes, and so are you. Men used to think we were the only people, but there are other kinds. They come from far off, in the sky—in space. I'll show you some."

Greg made a picture appear on the data-pad, a picture of some men. "See, these are people like me. We call ourselves humans. Now, I'll show you pictures of some of the people who live in space. Some of them don't look very much like humans, but remember, they're all people, because they all use language and machines."

He made a different picture appear. This one was of someone who was shaped like a human, but had grey skin with no hair and no ears at all. "This is a katesh. They're about the same size as humans, but they have some differences. See, the hands have four fingers, same as yours. And the feet are different, too."

"He doesn't have clothes on—"

"Not everyone wears them. You don't wear clothes."

"Oh—"

"Here's another kind who don't wear clothes—called gudk. They can change the color of their skin, and even their eyes. It's how they let other people know what they're feeling, if they're happy or angry or sad. Watch."

The image showed another human-like body, but with a larger head and very large eyes. At first it was all white, then turned blue, then yellow, and then waves of different colors moved all over its body.

"Oooh . . . how does she do that?"

"Well, this one's a male, but—I don't have time to explain it now."

Greg showed more pictures of space-people, and some were very hard for Leeta to understand, like the ones with two arms and four legs. One of those even had colored feathers, like a rooster. Greg said there were a lot of others, but he'd show the rest another day. "This last picture is the most important one—and remember, all these pictures are of people—people from space."

Greg made the picture change, and Leeta saw features which were immediately familiar: the ears, the hair color, the long shape of the face. He saw these features every time he looked in a mirror.

"Is that me?"

"No . . . that's your mother."

~~~~~

Something about the image looked wrong to Leeta. He reached out to touch the screen. "Is she asleep?"

Greg shook his head. "No, Leeta. When I took that picture, she had just died. It was just after you were born."

"What happened to her?"

"She'd been hurt, pretty badly. See, Carlos and I went out to sell a horse, and on our way back, we found a wrecked truck, off the road. Your mother was in a box in the back, and she was bleeding. There was no one around, and we didn't have any way to get help, so we brought her here. I did what I could to fix her up, but—she'd lost a lot of blood, and she was very weak. Otherwise, I think she'd have lived."

"Are there any others like us?"

"Not on Earth—at least none that I know of. These pictures, of the space-people—you and your mother are different from all of them. Your mother wasn't born on any world we know of, Leeta. Somebody brought her here."

"Why?"

"I don't know, but it couldn't have been for anything good. She didn't want to be here; she just wanted to go home."

Leeta turned to look at Greg. "Did she talk to you?"

"Yes, but she didn't speak the language we're using." Greg picked up the black box and pressed one of the little markings on it, and part of it lit up. "This is a machine called a translator. We found it in the truck. It—listens to one person's speech, and then repeats the words in a different language. Whoever took her was using it to talk with her, but they left it behind, and we used it. It has her voice on it. I can play it for you, but you may not like what you hear; she was hurt and afraid."

Leeta looked at the device and felt himself drawing inward. "I—don't know—"

"Another time, then. It'll be here." Greg made the translator go dark, and set it down, picked up the pouch and placed it in front of Leeta. "This belonged to your mother, and I'm sure she'd want you to have it. Go ahead."

Leeta pulled it toward him and ran his fingers over it. The leather looked and felt nearly the same as what he was familiar with, but it smelled different. He sniffed at it closely.

Beneath the scent of the leather was another, like that of his own hands, yet unlike it, too, in a way that made him feel safe and comforted. This scent was strong on the closure strap, but the inside of the pouch held even more. He started pulling on the flap, but it wouldn't open.

Greg reached over and showed him how to unfasten the strap, saying something about 'D-rings,' but he couldn't concentrate.

And then the flap was loose.

~~~~~

He opened the pouch, but didn't even look inside at first, just hovered his nose above the mouth of it and drew in the scents it held: more of that skin-scent that was like his, but wasn't; a scent of fur that was like his own, but again, different. There was old, seasoned wood; dry stone; ground steel.

He looked in, and took out the topmost item, a hairbrush. The handle was of dark, fine-grained wood, a little too big for his hand, with shiny varnish that was worn off at the edges, dented and flaked in places. A line of little symbols was stamped into the back of it.

He touched a finger to the tips of the bristles, then pulled it across them, releasing a little cloud of fine dust. More scent, of fur, and now of skin-dander as well. There were a few hairs stuck in the bristles, red; white; long, like his own. He pinched them free and held them close to his eyes, then put them back.

The next thing in the pouch was a knife, in a hard leather sheath. All of the men carried knives, but he wasn't allowed to use one yet. He looked at Greg and held it out to him. "Show me, please—?"

Greg took it out and showed him the things about it that made it a good knife, and showed him how to make sure it was sharp. He said the blade was a hawkbill, and let Leeta hold it, but the handle was too big. "Using that knife," he said, "I think your mother would have liked to live here, on the farm, or someplace like this."

Leeta looked at the image on the data-pad, and then at the knife. "What would she do with it?"

"That type of blade—probably make things out of wood, maybe work with rope or cord."

"Oh."

Leeta put the knife down and reached back into the pouch and came out with a long, narrow stone. "What's this for?"

"That's a sharpening-stone, for the knife."

Leeta sniffed at it and smelled the stone and steel together, with more of the scent from his mother's hands. Something about the combination felt right to him.

He put it aside and took the last thing from the pouch, a loop of soft, braided cord with three little carved figures on it. The shapes were of creatures like himself, with tails and high ears, but in different colors; one green, another blue, another yellow. The color was worn off in places, yellowish white underneath. "What are these?"

"May I look?"

Leeta handed the item to Greg, and he looked closely at the things, and then at Leeta. "You know that metal thing that Carlos wears around his neck? You see him touch it once in a while?"

"Yes—?"

"I think these might be something like that. It has to do with religion."

"What's that?"

"It's when someone believes that there's a—person, or people—they call them gods—that can't be seen or touched or heard, but who help them."

"How can they do that?"

Greg handed the item back and sat back in his chair. "As far as I'm concerned, they can't. But—a lot of people like to believe they can."

"Why?"

"It just makes them feel better—mostly when they're afraid."

Greg had put the knife back in its sheath, and now Leeta gathered all these things together and looked at them, all that was left of his mother. He put them back in the pouch and drew in all their scents again before he closed it. "Where is she?"

"We buried her, under a big tree out beyond the pasture. I think she'd have liked it there."

"Could you show me?"

"Sure. I think you'll like it there, too." Greg cleared the image of Leeta's mother from the data-pad and replaced it with the picture of the school-book. "Okay, time for your lessons, now. Don't want you growing up unprepared."
_______________________________

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » June 01, 2016, 12:09:31 AM

Hey Lester, interesting chapter...(Interesting: A code word writers use when reading another writers work. It is a nice way of saying, holy shit, what kind of crap is that!)

tick
tick
tock...

Just kidding Lester, good to get your blood flowing though. I read the piece a couple of times as usually the first round misses so much. Likes: The dog, the discussion, the chicken. Dislikes: A bit disjointed in dialogue though make sure you look at the source writing such, I'm about as disjointed as they come. Now, sticking my foot into my mouth I must clarify my position.

I like how in the future animals will have evolved differently, much as humanity has. Your story touches on this very well. Now, the dialogue part. In my opinion you covered a lot of territory that needed more time in each idea. Chickens. Dogs bathroom habits. Spaceships. Death. A whole lot for a reader to digest and a lot of readers forget what their middle initial stands for...

Since it is a novel and not a short story I feel the writer can really have fun with their idea's, just the one regarding the space ships could have been the entire chapter. Doing so I feel, will allow the reader to 'believe' and digest what your mind see's so clearly while their minds are dealing with the story, pizza, sex, and a bloated feeling from eating too much pizza.

I like it Lester, as I like all peoples sharing of what's inside. Looking forward to the next part. Oh, on a side note: I am one of those people who is very bad at names. Robin, Lester, Mike, Merriam, such names are easier for me but G'Kuhru and those other names thrown into the mass of confusion, confuse the shit out of me. But that's just me, other people can remember names better than I can remember the last time this country had a great president.

Thanks for sharing, it will be nice to see how it all unfolds.

Now, of course, the parasite must feed.
***

"Cluck, cluck, cluck..."

"Hey, looky there, that there chicken looking goood..." Rastus was a thief, a hungry thief, a thief licking his lips watching the fat plump hen pecking at grain on the ground.

"You'se think we can catch her?" Ralph was the sidekick to the operation. He was the dim bulb following the dimwit, Rastus.

"You betcha. That there chicken won't even know what a hit her." And saying so, Rastus leapt towards the feathered fowl.

"BA Wrack!" The chicken tried to escape but the hunger of the thief was stronger and faster.

After killing and cleaning the chicken, Rastus and Ralph set about lighting a fire and were in the midst of cooking the fine meal when they heard, "So, you like chicken?"

"Huh? Who said that? Who'es dar" Rastus asked, looking into the darkness surrounding them and the meal.

Stepping into the light was the biggest, ugliest, nastiest rooster that the world had ever seen.

"Oh bat shit! What the hell is that?" Ralph and Rastus rarely could form a whole sentence but they both said the exclamation at the same time using the same words.

(I could go on but to make the story short: When the rooster was finished roasting the two over the same fire the two had used earlier, he said, "Mmm, good. Tastes like chicken."

Post by **Lester Curtis** » June 01, 2016, 02:45:23 AM

What, you thought Leeta was some kind of evolved dog? Hmm ... first time I've heard that, but now I'm wondering why. It is true in a sense.

Since it is a novel and not a short story I feel the writer can really have fun with their idea's, just the one regarding the space ships could have been the entire chapter. Doing so I feel, will allow the reader to 'believe' and digest what your mind see's so clearly while their minds are dealing with the story, pizza, sex, and a bloated feeling from eating too much pizza.

Just feed the leftover pizza to the parasite, and sprinkle a few dozen crushed-up Valiums over it, then you can read in peace. Throw a slice to that nasty rooster, too.

This does start out a lot quicker than the earlier version (http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/newforu ... 46&t=12851). Hard to believe it's been three fucking years since that, and that whole thing was a huge digression from the MC's story, so you may want to just bookmark it and look at it later. In my very first version I had this humongous info-dump, but on the rewrite (the one linked to above) I made it worse—I still frontloaded all that backstory, but made it outrageously cumbersome by making up scenes and characters to support it.

Anyway, don't worry; everything gets explained, just not all at once.

So. Onward.
_____________________________

Two

2133 C.E.

The farm had electricity again, most of the time, but Greg kept the solar chargers hooked up anyway.

The city—Midland—had always had electricity, at least as far back as Leeta could remember. He'd never been there, but at night, he could see the sky-glow in the south, and sometimes he could see spacecraft coming and going over the Griffin Company spaceport.

Lately, there'd been a lot of them. Never two in the air at once, but every couple of hours one would descend slowly and carefully, or depart with a sonic boom.

~~~~~

Leeta was in the barn cleaning harness leather when he heard the noise approaching. He picked up a rag to wipe the saddle-soap off his hands with and headed toward the house to investigate. Walter was just coming out of the bunkhouse, and they saw each other.

"Walter, can you hear that? Something's coming."

"What?"

"I don't know; I've never heard it before."

"Where—?"

Leeta pointed toward the road. "It's getting closer."

Walter closed his eyes and turned his head to listen. "It's a car." He waved Leeta toward the house. "Quick, go get Greg." He stuck his head back through the bunkhouse door. "Guys, I think we got company."

As Leeta got to the back door of the house, he heard the front door open, and Greg's footsteps going out onto the porch. Leeta's feet were muddy, so he went around to the front. Walter was ahead of him, and they rounded the front corner of the house, where Greg stood in the yard, facing down the driveway. He looked at Leeta for an instant and opened his mouth as if to say something, then turned back, his hands clenching and opening at his sides.

The car approached slowly, with hardly any noise other than that of its tires splashing through the mud and slush, the same sound Leeta had first heard from it. Now he could hear a faint, high-pitched electronic noise as well. Jake and Carlos joined them as the car pulled into the turnaround and stopped.

A man in clean, new-looking clothes got out with a clipboard in his hand, and said hello. He walked carefully around the puddles and stopped a few meters from Greg. He was trying to smile, but Leeta could tell he was nervous. "Uh, is this the Stanton residence?"

Greg said, "It is."

"Is Gregory Stanton here—?"

"That's me."

The stranger made a mark on his paperwork. "Well. I'm distributing important information from the new administration of the Terran government. Are you familiar with the new laws regarding non-human intelligent species?"

"Aliens? Last we heard, the TFT party was talking about breaking relations with the Collective, but we don't get much news out here. No phone, no 'net. What are they up to? I heard they won a majority in the Terran government."

The man nodded. "Yes. Anyway, the law—" he took a pamphlet from his clipboard and stepped forward to hand it to Greg at arm's length. "The law takes effect at the end of January, and forbids permanent residence of any non-human intelligent species on Earth, or closer than geosynchronous orbit. Temporary residence is granted to ambassadorial personnel only. The details are in there."

"That's insane—"

"If it makes you feel better, it's being appealed. Frankly, though, by the time it gets to court, it'll be too late."

"But—end of January; that's less than a week—"

"Oh—there's a one-month grace period—an amnesty—"

"Amnesty—what are they, now, enemies of the state?"

"Sir, I'm sorry. I didn't write it; I'm not enforcing it; I'm just out telling people about it." The man took a slight step backwards and nodded at Leeta. "I hope you're not too attached to that one—he'll have to emigrate. What is he, anyway?"

"He's a CanAmerican citizen, by birth, according to the constitution. Or did the TFT nullify that too, while we weren't looking?"

"I meant, what species? I haven't seen one of those before."

Jake said, "I think he's one of those Chinese underground gen-lab experiments. They're all over the place. Maybe Russian; they were doing it too."

Carlos said, "Nah. You seen those? They all got tiny brains and big penes. He's a chupacabra." He touched Leeta on the shoulder, and gave him a wink and a grin.

The man with the clipboard shook his head. "It doesn't matter anyway. The law says 'non-human intelligent species,' so he has to go. Is he intelligent?"

Walter said, "Shitloads more than the fools that wrote that law. And you're all gonna find that out soon."

"I'm hearing that a lot. I have to go now." The man's shoulders drooped, and he turned toward the car. "Look, I'm not supposed to say this, but—if you care about him, get him off-world as soon as you can."

The car's departure was accompanied by the muted percussion of another sonic boom.

~~~~~

Leeta looked around at the others. Carlos and Jake and Walter were all looking at him, and then at Greg, and back again. He looked at Greg. "What did he mean?"

Greg came over and squatted down to eye-level and put his hands on Leeta's shoulders. "Leeta—I'm sorry. I kept hoping this wouldn't happen, but it's here now, and there's nothing else I can do. You have to leave."

"Leave? Why?"

Greg shook his head, almost as if he was trying to shake water out of his hair. His hands trembled, and there was white showing around his eyes. Leeta had never seen him like this. "I don't think you'd understand—a bunch of—hateful, stupid people have just ruined the Earth—they've stopped a lot of good things that were being done. They're chasing all the space people away, and if you stay, they'd come and take you from us, and—it'd be real bad for you. Real bad."

"I don't understand—"

"I'll try to explain it better on the way, but we have to go."

"But I haven't finished cleaning the harnesses—"

Walter squatted down next to him. "Don't you worry, Leeta. I'll take care of that." He looked at Greg. "How soon?"

Greg stood and rubbed a hand over his head. "Today. We can't wait."

Carlos said, "Greg—come on, now, can't we figure out a way to keep him? Hide him somewhere—?"

"No. We can't." Greg waved an arm toward the road. "That guy's seen him and he's gonna report it. If they've already negated his citizenship, do you think they're going to honor that amnesty?" He shook the pamphlet. "There's a reason that guy said 'as soon as you can'—anybody wanting to do business with the Collective will already be leaving Earth."

Walter said, "That explains all the activity at Griffin; they're pulling up stakes."

"Right. And what do you think's been happening to available habitat in-system?"

Jake spat. "Shit. Any box that'll hold pressure is worth its mass in cantaffordium by now. Recycled air, recycled water, and recycled food not included."

"Madre de Cristo—where's he going to go?"

"Someplace where he can grow up free. I'm damned if I'll let the TFT take him. He'd be better off in the Fringe." Greg crushed the pamphlet in his fist, then stuffed it in his pocket. "We have to get moving. I have to get—" he turned to look at the house, "—I have to get a few things together. Look, uh, the rest of you—go get ready to hitch a horse to the cart—"

Carlos asked, "Which one—?"

"Uh—take Chloe; she's the steadiest. Put the hood on the cart; it's looking like it might rain."

Leeta said, "Can I help with that?"

"No, Leeta, I—we need to get you ready, and—I need to talk with you. It's early yet, but I'll make us lunch, so we won't have to stop."

Jake said, "I'll get that; I'll make some sandwiches so you can eat on the way. I'll put some soup in a vacuum bottle for you, too."

"Good; thanks."

Walter said, "Greg? Where you taking him?"

Greg blew out a deep breath. "Griffin . . . "

Walter pointed at the horizon. "You seen those ships—they're not hauling people—"

"I know. But they're sympathetic, and I knew some people there, from before; maybe—"

"It's a slim chance. You sure you don't want the wagon? We can stock it with feed, and some water and food—blankets—you could go on to New Detroit—"

Greg shook his head. "No; that'd take another three days, at least, and where would we get the money for a ticket for him? If no one at Griffin can take him, they can at least let me make some calls. I'll find him a ride out of here. I will."

"Well, who's gonna take care of him?"

"I don't know."

~~~~~

It didn't take long to get ready. Greg took Leeta into the house and told him to gather all his things, then Greg went into his room. Carlos and Walter came into the house while Jake was packing food into a basket.

Walter had a tooled leather satchel with a shoulder strap, and he handed it to Leeta. "Here, guy. You're gonna need something to carry all your stuff in . . . it's a little big for you now, but you'll grow into it."

"But that's yours, isn't it? The one you made?"

"Yeah, but I don't use it anymore. Go on, take it. If I need one, I can make another."

Leeta looked up at him and took the bag. "Thank you, Walter . . . " He undid the straps and looked inside, smelled the leather and the faint scent of Walter's hands, then set it down and began fitting his possessions into it: his hairbrush and nail-grooming tools, the little data-pad that Greg had gotten for him a couple of years before for his schooling, and finally, the leather pouch that had belonged to his mother, sealed in a plastic zipper-bag to preserve her scent.

He began pulling the flap over, and Walter bent down. "Here," he said softly, showing Leeta how to tuck in the pleated flaps at the sides of the opening. "These help to keep things from falling out."

Carlos then squatted down and said, "I got something for you too." He reached into his pocket and took out a little silver medallion on a chain and hung it around Leeta's neck.

Leeta fingered the little oval, looking at it. "What is it?"

"It's a Saint Christopher medal. He's the patron saint of people who travel, and you're gonna be going a long way."

"Greg says that doesn't work . . . "

"Hey, it can't hurt, huh?"

Jake came into the room with the basket and set it next to the door, then took something from his back pocket, a rumpled-up thing of straps and red-and-black synthetic cloth. "You might be able to use this." He stretched it out; it was a small zippered pouch with straps that buckled together. "It's a waist-pack. You can carry your hairbrush in it—whatever small stuff you need to keep with you. I used to wear this when I ran. The straps are probably too long, but I think you can figure out a way to make it work. You're clever."

A door opened behind them, and Greg came out wearing a set of clothing Leeta had never seen: dark blue pants, and a matching shirt that had shiny diagonal stripes on the sleeve and a peculiar, colorful symbol on the chest. Sturdy-looking cloth boots in the same color.

Everyone turned to look at Greg, and he looked around the room in return. "Huh," Walter said.

Jake said, "Still fits, I see . . . "

Greg stretched a sleeve. "Yeah. I'm a little surprised." Then he looked at Leeta and stepped forward. "I was going to wait 'til your next birthday before I gave you this, but . . . " He held out his hand and opened it to reveal a small cardboard box. "You're grown up enough to have it now."

Leeta took the proffered carton and slowly drew the lid off. Inside were a small folding knife, and a sharpening wand on a keyring. He looked up at Greg, and his hands started shaking, and he flung himself forward, clutching Greg around the waist, clutching the box in his hand.

Greg hesitated, then awkwardly patted Leeta on the head and the back. "That's all right . . . it's all right . . . "

Leeta craned his neck up to look Greg in the face, eyes wet. "Thank you—" and then he let go and stepped back, suddenly intent on examining the knife. He opened it, tested the blade against a fingernail, and looked up. "It's sharp."

Greg nodded. "That's a good one. It should last you a long time."

Leeta folded the knife and put it back in the box.

Jake stepped forward, still with the waist-pack in hand, and crouched down. "Hey, I think I know how to make this fit." He crossed the pack's straps around Leeta's back and buckled them in front, snugged up the adjusters. "There—" He unzipped the pack and held it open. "See? You can put your knife in there, box and all. Have it right with you." Leeta put the box in and pulled the zipper shut. Then Jake flicked the pack with a finger. "And it even makes a porch roof to keep the rain off your pecker."

Leeta barked and snickered, and there were various snorts around the room, and whole-belly laughter.

"You're unfit for civilization, Jake." Greg looked at Leeta. "Got everything?"

Leeta nodded and picked up the satchel.

"You sure? Let me look."

Leeta opened the satchel and Greg took inventory. "Oh! Almost forgot—" He quickly walked back into his room and came out a moment later with the translator and its charger, and put those into the bag.

"Thank you."

Greg put on his coat and hat and picked up the lunch basket. "Come on. We've got to go."
__________________________________

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » June 01, 2016, 10:37:47 PM

Pizza and drugs...it was wonderful though I think the pills were vitamins; didn't trust the kid I bought them from in the soda department of
Walmart.

Okay Lester, the second chapter defined who Leeta is becoming. You must remember my mind is not normal and 'sees' things so the first chapter could also be taken down the evolved dog route (maybe write another story going that route, I think it would work)

What I see in the second is first, a different style of mind thought process going on inside you. It became obvious as you put great effort and love into word choice and plot flow. Reading the first and second show a definite connection but also, a bit of a disconnect. For me ( a mentally unstable being) you rushed the story though a bit slower than the first chapter. The second chapter definitely revealed the plot, but (Don't you just hate that word, but? Sometimes when someone tells me, 'but' I want to shove their words up their butt)
but I feel you are trying to cause the story to flow too fast. A comparison would be like throwing a beautiful piece of wood into the turbulent fast water of rapids instead of a slow, meandering stream. An observer from the bank would only see a blink of wood flying by instead of enjoying the beauty as the wood twirled and swirled slowly by in the calmer current.

Call me crazy but I'm an official speed reader. When in my proper form I can read up to three books a day. Front cover to back. On a slow day, an entire book is easy stuff. I say this not to brag but after digesting thousands of books there are 'things' that truly draw my attention. Example: They swam. Naked. Feast. Ambush... (this is a story written to flow fast, thus, boring. The other way: Water was a ritual to this tribe, these sons and daughters of the god, Ramus. Casting aside inhibitions (a whole lot of words later) Leaving the water, both the skins of the people and the world (a whole lot of words later) Beastly flesh of the Kalur was (a whole lot of words later) Rocks hurled (a whole lot of words later)

What I'm trying to point out is not geared entirely to you Lester but to other writers. If you write a lot of short stories as I love to do, a few words are needed to describe a whole story in a readers mind, this is why I love short stories. Now, Novels, whole other story. Novels are like long-lasting sex, years in preparation, participation, and conclusion.

Lester, I can feel the story you are writing really starting to form in the second chapter, but (Bang! fucking Robin) I feel it best for you to expand, enjoy your creation, let your creation surprise you.

"The farm had electricity again, most of the time, but Greg kept the solar chargers hooked up anyway." This is the first line of the second chapter. It states the basics and the readers mind now knows the farm had electricity again... An illusion of power failure being common was in, 'most of the time', and that supplemental power was needed in the form of solar 'chargers'...

I'm going to give my version. Hell, I'll make it crazy to prove a point: Even with the constant cloud cover-a cover consisting of smoke from the crematoriums just down the road from Greg's farm- the ancient solar panels still provided some back-up power. These panels were coated with a coating designed to resist ash from burnt flesh, just as the ancient power lines were designed to deliver utility power, both ancient, both fickle and unreliable.

In my sick mind I now see Greg's farm being electrified, albeit by ancient and unreliable means, plus the crematorium adds a weird twist to the story.

Anyway Lester, enjoying the story. And any opinion by me is meant to be constructive and not destructive, but (Bang! Fucking Robin. I'll show you what I do to but...)
***

Now, the parasite feeds...

"Yes?" Who are you?

I am "What?"

Why? I don't know...

If words are underlined CAPITILIZED o-r spelled...

it does not matter as the parasite is still a parasite.

Post by **Lester Curtis** » June 02, 2016, 06:03:45 PM

Very interesting. It almost sounds as if you read so fast that you want more detail to slow you down. Will it make you feel better to know that the next three days of story time uses up eight more chapters?

Anyway, you probably noticed that Chapter One is basically a prologue, and yes, it has a different feel to it. I think that in one of the crits, I got the suggestion to just start with Ch 2, but I felt that would leave the reader lacking a little too much.

And that opening little bit in Ch 2 ... awkward, but I haven't yet come up with a way to improve on it. Feel free to offer a suggestion if you can think of one. Oh, and I trust you noticed the difference in the dates of the chapter subtitles. I think I might add the day and month to the first one. What say ye?

I think you might like this one better; not as much dialog, more sensory detail.
_____________________________________

Three

It wasn't until they'd been on the road for over an hour that Leeta understood the possible outcome of this trip, that in his whole life he might never return, might never again see the only people he'd ever known. He clung to Greg and cried for a long while, and for once, Greg didn't tell him to stop, but held him until he was quiet.

"Leeta—?"

Leeta raised his head from Greg's rough canvas work coat. "Yes?"

"You know how I said you were grown up enough to have your own knife?"

Leeta nodded quietly.

"Well—" Greg lifted his chin toward the road ahead of them. "You're grown up enough for this, too. Not enough to be all on your own yet, but—there's not much more we could have given you or done for you on the farm. You've been learning a lot . . . I think you want to learn more, and you'd get bored there pretty soon. Have you tried learning your mother's language yet—with the translator—?"

"No."

"I think you should. I think you're ready. And you should listen to that recording of her, too. Do you want to do that?"

Leeta looked up into Greg's eyes. "Is it scary?"

"Well—not so much scary as it is sad, really—it has some good things, too. She said you were beautiful. Said your father would be proud, and that you looked just like him. And I can explain it for you—answer questions. We don't have much more time together, you know, and—this is something I'd like to do for you. What do you say?"

Leeta's ears were down a bit, but he sat up on the seat. "I'll try."

Greg pulled Leeta close and patted him on the back. "Good. That's good. Tell you what, why don't we stop for a bit? Give the horse a rest, eat our lunch. I can show you how to work the translator, and then we'll listen to the recording. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks."

~~~~~

They'd scarcely been stopped long enough to pee in the weeds before a light rain began to fall; still, they walked back and forth for a few moments, Greg with his collar up and his hat-brim down, Leeta ignoring the weather. Greg went to the back of the cart and got the lunch basket and an old scrap of waterproof tarp, and climbed back up on the seat. Leeta stroked the horse's face and neck, then shook the rain off of himself and hopped up.

Greg offered the end of the tarp. "Here, tuck this in around you so you don't get wet again. We'll sit here and have this soup before we move. We can eat the sandwiches while we ride."

As the soup steamed their faces, the rain began to freeze, tiny ice crystals hissing on the roof of the cart and in the trees along the road. Greg asked, "You like this weather, don't you?"

"Yeah."

Greg nodded out at the woods and the sky. "You may not see any weather for a while. They don't have any aboard spaceships, you know."

"Oh. That's right." He held his hand out and let some of the sleet gather on it while he emptied his mug and handed it to Greg. He watched the ice melt on his hand and then touched his tongue to it, trying to hold the experience in his memory.

Greg put the empty mugs into the basket, then took the sandwiches out. "Where's your satchel?"

"Behind the seat—I'll get it." He twisted around and got the translator.

Greg handed him a sandwich and showed him how to use the translator, then took the reins. "Chloe, gitup."

~~~~~

Leeta listened to the recording of his birth, then shut the little machine off and sat silently for a long time. "My name means 'removed.' Is that because you had to take me out of her?"

"The C-section . . . I suppose so, but it could mean something else. You noticed the little yellow light flashing at that word?"

"Yeah—?"

"That means the translator isn't sure about it and it doesn't have anything better in memory."

"Oh."

Leeta stared ahead at the road for a while. "How did she know she was dying?"

"Well, I suppose it's—kind of like when you get hurt, or like that time you were sick . . . you know your body has something wrong with it. She'd been hurt real bad . . . she just—knew."

"Did you know?"

"Yeah. We just didn't know when."

"Would she have lived longer if you hadn't taken me out of her?"

"Oh, no, Leeta. She'd have just suffered a lot more, being in labor with her injuries. She probably would have died even sooner. You might have died. We did the best we could for her. For both of you."

"Do you think maybe she knew that? She got a lot quieter toward the end."

Greg nodded. "I think so. And as soon as I got you breathing, I gave you to her . . . she got pretty sad, about your father not being there and all. She died holding onto you. I wish I could have done more, Leeta. I really do."

Leeta stared for a while at the translator in his hands, then looked up at Greg. "Thank you."

~~~~~

Maybe he'd done it himself, by accident; maybe he'd forgotten to reset the mode. However it happened, when Leeta pressed the Play key, he got pure recording without translation. For a moment, he thought of stopping the machine and trying again, but instead he let it run.

Listening to his mother's language gave him a mixture of feelings he'd never experienced before. Sentences had beginnings and endings, of course, but their rhythms felt like memories. Each word was like a little puzzle piece, and he felt as if he knew something about them, but didn't know why, or how they went together.

It all teased his brain, but in a way that surprised him: instead of pushing buttons and being given the translation, he wanted to listen to it. He closed his eyes and let the words flow.

He didn't notice when the sleet changed to a light snow, and he only returned to the here-and-now when Greg said, "Aw, hell . . . "

A few dozen meters ahead, the road surface on the right was cracked and sagging, and a little beyond that, a battered yellow saw-horse stood across the center of the road.

Greg brought Chloe to a stop and draped the reins over the dash rail. "Come on, let's go see what's up here and how to get by it." He pulled the tarp off and stepped out.

"Okay." Leeta reached behind the seat and put the translator back in his satchel, then slid out from under the tarp and hopped to the ground.

The creek bed was only about two meters or so below the road surface and maybe twenty meters across. It held only a few centimeters of water now, but there had been a serious flood. There was a square cement pipe under the road, and on the right, it was choked with deadfall and wads of sodden leaves. Parts of the stream-bed were washed out, the soil around the pipe had been eroded away, and the blacktop was undercut.

Greg shook his head. "Well, we're not getting across over here. Let's go see what the other side looks like."

Another sonic boom shook the air. They both looked toward the sound, but saw only snow through the trees, and the low-lying clouds that were producing it.

"Can't we just go across on the road? The left side of it looks okay."

"No, it's too dangerous. That pavement could fall in." Greg nodded toward the downstream side of the road. "I think we can get across over there."

Leeta followed Greg down the bank. It wasn't too steep, and seemed firm enough, but had lots of dead branches in the way. They cleared a path and went back up to the road.

Leeta led the horse, and they made it down all right, with Greg holding the back of the cart and braking with his legs, then pushing as they went across the creek-bed and up the other side.

They were almost to the top when Chloe lost her footing and began to stumble. As she tried to surge forward, part of the bank gave way beneath her, and she slid back. Greg yelled a curse and disappeared beneath the cart with a thump.

When everything came to a stop, Leeta ran back to find Greg face-up under the cart. "Are you all right—?"

"Uhn—I think so—maybe—couldn't get out of the way in time—the axle hit my knee." He grabbed the back of the cart's frame and slid himself out, but hissed between his teeth when he stood upright. "Ah—! Damn . . . " He looked down at himself, mostly wet and mud-covered. "So much for showing up neat and clean . . . how's Chloe? Can she move?"

"I'll see—" Leeta went forward and tried coaxing the horse. "She doesn't want to move . . . I think she's hurt. Her eyes are wide, and she's holding her left foreleg up a little."

"Aw, shit . . . Leeta—you're going to have to go on alone."

"I don't want to leave you here!"

"I'll be fine; I've been through a lot worse than this. But you have to get off of Earth; that's the important thing, and don't delay on my part. You understand?"

"Yes . . . no—I still don't understand, and I don't want to leave—"

"Leeta—listen—do you trust me?"

"Yes, but—"

"When you get to Griffin, they'll answer all your questions, but you have to go. One thing I need from you first, though—" Greg took his folding knife from a pocket. "I need you to cut that sapling over there and bring it to me so I can make a walking stick."

Leeta looked at the knife, then at Greg. "Can I use my own?"

"Well, hell, yeah. Go break it in."

Greg leaned against the cart while Leeta cut the sapling and brought it to him. "Thank you. Now, I can do the rest from here. You just get to Griffin and send somebody after me, but you go on. Don't try to come back for me, okay?"

"How will I find it?"

"Just stay on this road and you'll see a big chain-link fence on the left—"

"Chain-link—?"

"It's made of woven wire, held up on metal posts. Follow that; you'll come to a gate with a sign and a small building. Go in there. Oh—" Greg wiped a hand on his coat and took a folded paper from its inner pocket. "Give them this, and they'll know what to do. Put it in your satchel; make sure you've got everything."

Leeta got the satchel out of the cart and checked its contents. "Everything's here . . . "

"Good. And stay off the pavement; it'll hurt your feet, since you're not used to it." Greg held his arms out. "C'mere."

Leeta clung to him. "I don't know what I'm going to do . . . "

"Well—somewhere out among the stars, you've got family—a whole world full of people like you; the world where your mother grew up. You belong there. Go find your home."

~~~~~

The tall wire fence seemed to go on forever, and the satchel seemed to get heavier and heavier in his arms. Everything was in it. He had put the St. Christopher medal in the waist-pack because it flopped around, and he'd put the waist-pack in the satchel because its strap rubbed his fur against its lie and itched.

Still, he ran, and thought about all the times on the farm that he'd run for the sheer fun of it, chasing and being chased by the animals and the men. He could catch most of them except for the chickens and goats, which turned more quickly than he could, and always without warning.

He ran differently from the way the men did, swinging their arms; he kept his hands against his chest and swung his tail. He was never aware of this and didn't know what it looked like until Greg made a little video of it and showed him. "It undulates," he'd said, and had to explain the word. Curious, Leeta had tried to run while holding his tail in his hand, and he almost fell down. That had been over half a year ago.

Now he was running to get help for Greg, his feet plat-platting over the slushy brown roadside weeds. For a long time, it seemed, that and his breathing were the only sounds in the world, but there were others ahead now, a faint blend of low hums and rumbles. Midland? Griffin? Maybe both.

The snow had stopped, and far off to the west there was a break in the clouds, a shifting curtain of sunlight brightening the mostly grey landscape. He wanted to stop running, to pause and fix this scene in his memory for the time ahead when he wouldn't have sky to look at, but he kept going, just stealing brief glances instead.

The patch of sunlight moved in his direction, but was still not close when he realized something else was happening: not a sound he could hear, but a vibration of the air itself, of a kind he'd never felt before. There were sounds in the trees, of branches flexing in the wind, though the air was calm, and then he could feel the vibration in his lungs. The hair in his ears tickled and the fence-wire rattled and chinged against its posts.

He stopped and tried to locate the source of the disturbance, and found it straight overhead.

There, the bottom of the cloud was disturbed, wisps of vapor shaking and breaking apart like the clouds of his own breath. The agitation was moving southeast at the speed of crow-flight, and then the clouds parted around a smooth, round expanse of unpainted steel that just kept getting bigger and bigger as it came closer to the ground. Its shape began to resolve: a sphere, or part of one, like a shallow barn-sized bowl hung from the cloud. Lower it came, revealing even more of its size, and then there was a belt of squarish flat shapes around its middle. Yellow lights flashed silently in unison, pinpoint-small but almost painfully bright, reflecting off the cloud that still hid part of it.

Leeta's ears were flat and all his fur was on end. He fell to his haunches and couldn't close his mouth.

A ship.

A mining ship, an asteroid miner, like the ones he'd seen all the way from the farm, three hours' travel away. Maybe—must be, three times bigger than the tallest tree he knew of.

He followed it with his eyes until it floated down out of sight and he could no longer feel the vibration.

He got up and shook his fur out, then ran.

~~~~~

The gate was closed, and the sign on it read,

World Headquarters

Griffin Reclamation and Mining Company

Griffin Research Institute

Gate 5

NOTICE:

THIS FACILITY IS CLOSED

The building—no bigger than the bunkhouse on the farm—had windows he could see into, but there were no lights on inside. He pushed and pulled on the door handle, but it wouldn't open.

There was a kind of open box on the side of the building; he didn't know what it was for, but he glanced at it out of curiosity. It had a glass screen in it, like the screen on a data-pad, but he couldn't find a button to turn it on with. He reached up and touched the screen, but nothing happened. He leaned his satchel against the wall and tried again, with both hands, running his fingers over every bit of its surface, and still nothing.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Greg had sent him here, to this gate; he'd said they would help, but where were they?

Someone had to be here; he'd seen the ship come in to land. He looked off in the direction it had gone, but didn't see it. It must be on the other side of that cluster of big buildings.

Someone was here; there were a lot of lights on over there, some in the buildings, some outside—and there were sounds of activity, and he could see huge machines moving. They were too far away to hear him if he yelled . . . they'd never see him.

He had to get to them somehow. Where were the other gates? He couldn't see any; the fencerow continued in an unbroken line for as far as he could see. And if he went looking, and did find another, would it be locked like this one, with no one around? That could take hours, and get him no closer to help.

Those buildings were only minutes away.

But they wouldn't want him in there. This fence was built to keep people out, maybe so they wouldn't disturb their work or get hurt by the machines. So, he'd stay away from the machines; the building with the big windows looked safe, and had lights on inside it.

He looked at the gate again. It was made of the same woven wire as the fence, but had a metal frame around it. There was another frame above it; the gate was hung from that and rolled sideways in a track. He pushed at the gate, but it wouldn't move enough for him to squeeze past it.

He could climb over. It looked easy; his hands and feet would fit easily in the spaces between the wires. The hardest part would be going over the top; the ends of the wires were twisted together and looked sharp, so he'd have to be careful not to get cut. He could climb up at the side and hold onto the upright part of the track frame to steady himself.

~~~~~

The security guard was taking her time making her rounds on the electric cart. Not much ever happened here, she was scheduled to be laid off in less than a week, and the batteries in the cart were overdue for replacement. So she kept to a leisurely speed around her assigned circuit, appreciating the superb Company-issued outerwear, a high-tech two-piece set which she would get to keep as part of her severance package, boots and gloves included.

She used to enjoy this job so much, with the daily greetings and exchange of gossip with the personnel, the excitement of discovery and accomplishment in the air, the ship traffic and occasional encounter with aliens. More than a few of them came to be treated at the hospital; it was the best in the Great Lakes region. Others came to teach or learn there, or elsewhere in the Institute.

Now the aliens were gone, most of the few people left were angry and stressed, and the constant ship traffic was only a reminder of all that was being lost here. She wanted to grab the next TFT supporter she saw and shake sense into them. They'd learn the hard way, of course, but Earth was going to suffer for their lesson.

Her headset chirped and announced a possible intruder at Gate 5. Probably just an animal; the perimeter alarms were crude. Still, she twisted the accelerator and called the security desk to let them know she was on the way to check it out.

Rounding the northeast corner of the Engineering Admin building, she could see something up on the gate, but she was still too far off to make out what, as a shaft of sunlight advanced across the empty parking lot and cast a silver reflection off the wet blacktop.

She glanced down at the cart's instrument panel. Power usage, maximum; speed, 30kph; power remaining, thirty percent. Then twenty.

This thing was going to make her get off and run; the only question was how far. Something was definitely climbing the gate, but she still couldn't tell what it was against the glare. She called the desk for backup.

Ten percent power left, solid, but then it started flashing. She held it wide open until the display went black, and the cart hadn't quite coasted to a stop when she jumped off and ran.

~~~~~

Climbing the fence was harder than it looked. The wire was rough and painfully cold, and the V-shaped gaps pinched his feet severely no matter how he put his weight on it. Still, it wasn't far and wouldn't take long. He'd be sore, but he'd keep going.

The satchel was a different problem; even after shortening the shoulder strap as much as he could, it still hung to below his knees. Every few steps up, he had to pause and push it around behind him. He was halfway up when the sunbeam behind him cleared the top of the fence with no effort at all.

He was scared by the time he made the top; his arms were shaking from the effort. He'd been trying to keep his weight off his feet, and the more he tried, the worse his fingers suffered for it. He just wanted to quit, to sit down and rest. Maybe he could hang onto the upright frame and catch his breath, but he was going to get on the other side first.

That was the worst part yet. To safely get his legs over, he had to hold onto the upright and climb high enough to step over, and the frame could only steady him, he couldn't pull himself up on it.

He did it as quickly as possible and hurried to lower himself far enough to support his weight with his arms—

—and got stopped by the satchel's strap tugging on him. It had snagged on the jagged wire atop the fence. Now he'd have to stop and climb back up far enough to free it.

This was too much.

For a moment he wanted to just let go and fall; the pain of hitting the pavement couldn't be any worse than standing on this awful wire another heartbeat longer, but he couldn't leave the satchel. Greg's paper was in it, and his mother's pouch, and the translator with her voice . . . and what would Walter think if he left his beautiful bag hung on a fence? With his new knife inside, and the other gifts, and his data-pad? What would they all think?

No. He had only to free the satchel, and gravity would help him down instead of fighting him. He could get to the building. Once he was on flat ground again, he might even be able to run.

This would have to be quick. He took a breath and clenched his jaw, drew one foot up and found a hold, then lunged his body up and grabbed the upright with one hand and got the other foot placed.

The satchel's shoulder strap was slack now. He took his other hand off the fence to lift the satchel off the wire it was snagged on. The bag shifted, top-down, and something slipped out from under the flap.

The translator.

He made a grab for it—

—and his other hand slipped off the upright.

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » June 03, 2016, 12:02:17 AM

Good point Lester, maybe my mind needs to to digest as when cruising over many stories my mind finds much missing, thus 'choppy'.

The story is really starting to flow now. But first, (fucking, 'but') in answer to your question regarding the beginning of Ch2. You feel it needs something, which is good for a writer to realize. What's bad is to take my advice...I'm a fucking loon, BUT, in your mind you know exactly what you need to do, and doing it YOUR way, and it will be good. Experiment, write a beginning in a way you've never thought to try or think 'will' work. Let your work surprise you, you will be surprised.

Now, getting a feeling for Leeta now. Some things I like and noticed were, 1. Bathroom, ie, pissing and shitting, most writers never talk of such unless a serious part of the plot, such as in Aliens when the guy got whacked taking a shit. And in movies you hardly ever see bathroom practices, but for me, it is attention to detail and I enjoy it, so, good job.
2. Meters versus yards. A wise move to use meters especially if the novel is geared towards an international audience.
3. A common theme emerging is how Leeta questions everything. You are presenting a psych profile as to the understanding of an obviously young creature. I like it though to some reader the constant."Why, who, what, where, when?" can get on the nerves. A small matter of intelligent readers and idiots, idiots never ask questions as they are stupid by definition.
4. I thought the St. Christopher mention was great but you are showing your age, and a tradition that is not really recognized by the world audience. (St. Christopher medals were/are commonly used in many vehicles for reasons ranging from religious to fantasy for those of you not knowing of such before.) I like it, some readers minds would just glaze over and keep on reading, not giving a shit.

Story is starting to settle and I've already mentioned that I think you could double the size of each chapter, even the mention of the knife Leeta received, but I'll leave it alone now as we already covered my distractions.

Looking forward to see the next.

Now, the parasite feeds and says, 'thanks' for the fodder.
***

Translation.

How are you this morning? ( Translated: Oh shit, you're still alive? Why?)

"I'm fine, and you?" (You prick, I hate you and your whole family)

Couldn't be better (Yeah, got laid, twice, you miserable bastard)

"Great. Good to hear. Well, enjoy your day (Get out of my life and get hit by a car sometime in the near future)
***

Humans are great for saying one thing and thinking another. And what's amazing is the reprocrocity - "I hate you! (I love the heck out of you)

Back and forth, forth and back.

Post by **Lester Curtis** » June 03, 2016, 03:08:42 PM

Moving right along ...

1. Bathroom, ie, pissing and shitting, most writers never talk of such unless a serious part of the plot, such as in Aliens when the guy got whacked taking a shit. And in movies you hardly ever see bathroom practices, but for me, it is attention to detail and I enjoy it, so, good job.

I always feel the unreality in books and movies where somebody is fighting and/or running for his life for like fourteen hours straight without once having to so much as piss. I may have taken my views a little over the top in this chapter; let me know what you think.

2. Meters versus yards. A wise move to use meters especially if the novel is geared towards an international audience.

This isn't so much to appeal to international readers as it is just a bit of scenery in my future Earth. If nothing else, the planet had to standardize in order to trade with the space people.

3. A common theme emerging is how Leeta questions everything. You are presenting a psych profile as to the understanding of an obviously young creature. I like it though to some reader the constant."Why, who, what, where, when?" can get on the nerves.

Part of it is just his being a kid (and being in unfamiliar circumstances), but if you look closely, you'll see it's also a convenient device for slipping information to the reader. Oddly, it's only quite recently that I myself noticed how much of his dialog begins with 'W' and ends in '?' I'm sure you saw more than just that in his psych profile, too.

Next round downrange.
______________________

Four

"Leeta? Can you hear me?" The voice was unfamiliar.

Strange smells, mostly unpleasant—unnatural. Leeta's eyelids came half open. A man with blue eyes and white hair and clothing sat very close in a chair; he looked tired but happy.

"Yeah . . . where am I? Who are you?"

"You're in the Griffin Institute's hospital—what's left of it, anyway, which isn't much. I'm Doctor Alfred Mabrey. You can call me 'Alfred,' or just 'Doc.' "

"Doc . . . " Leeta looked around the room. A window, showing only darkness outside. A lot of light; the whole ceiling was lit, the color of sunlight, but not uncomfortably bright. He felt softness under him and saw that he was on a bed, covered with a sheet. He'd never been in a bed before. His right arm was a little sore, and it was wrapped up in something. He tried to get up. "Greg—! Where's Greg? You have to help him—"

The man pressed Leeta back down, gently. "Easy, now, he's fine. He left a message for you." He picked up a small box from a table next to the bed and turned to point it at the far wall. A screen lit up, like the ones on data-pads, but much, much larger.

Greg appeared, in front of a blank grey wall that seemed to be curved. "Leeta—I'm back at the farm now, but they're letting me do this recording before they leave.

"It's been a hell of a day all around . . . they told me your story, that you fell and everything—scared the shit outta me, but they said you'll be all right. Anyway, when they found the letter, they wanted to come talk to me and check the facts. They sent an air-car to the farm, and when they figured out I was neither here nor there, they followed the road . . . Leeta—Chloe's gone; she had a broken leg. They could have fixed it, but I'd have had to pay, and it was too much, so I had to put her out of her suffering. They offered, but I did it myself. Then they hitched a cable up to the cart and airlifted it back, and I've got Chloe's harness and the other stuff.

"Anyway, they fixed my knee; I just have to go light on it for a while. Oh, and they said your translator got broken, too . . . if they can't fix it, they'll find someone who can. In any case, there's a file copy in your data-pad of the video recordings I'd made. It picked up the translations of what was said, so you'll have that much, at least.

"Leeta, I'm sorry for all this, and it's partly my fault. I wasn't thinking; I should have told you that if you couldn't get in at that gate, you should keep going until you found one where you could. That's life, though . . . I'm not happy that you went over the fence—even less happy you got hurt, but—you didn't quit, and—for that much, I'm proud of you."

Greg looked down and rubbed at an eye, cleared his throat and looked up again. "You do what those people tell you, and they'll take good care of you. And if things change and you get the chance, come see us again.

"Safe skies to you, Leeta. Goodbye."

The screen went dark.

The doctor said, "He seems like a good man. He cares a lot about you."

"I know . . . Doc—am I going to be in trouble?"

"What for?"

"I climbed over the fence—"

"Oh, that!" The doctor chuckled a little. "No. Don't worry about that at all. Your motives were good."

"Oh . . . thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, how do you feel? Physically, I mean."

"My head hurts—here—" Leeta put a hand to the top of his head and felt an unexpected rubbery substance. "What's this?"

"It's a kind of bandage. You hit your head on the pavement. Sorry, but we had to shave off some of the fur there to treat the wound. Anything else? Any nausea?"

"No . . . I feel a little dizzy. What's this on my arm?"

"That's a cast. You broke your wrist, and that keeps it immobile—holds it in place, while it heals. It will start to hurt in a little while, when the pain medication wears off."

"Medi—cation . . . medicine?"

"That's right. You're a smart little boy. How old are you?"

"Five. My birthday is October thirteenth."

"I see. Well—are you hungry?"

"Yeah, I am."

"That's good." The doctor handed Leeta the little box. "This red button is your call button. If you need anything, press that and someone will come to the room. For everything else, these other buttons work like the controls on your data-pad."

Leeta found the screen's main menu, then 'Kitchen,' and got stopped by the variety of selections that were available. "What are all these—? I just want some food—"

"Well, how about eggs? Do you like those?"

"Yes. Fried, or scrambled—as long as the whites aren't runny."

"Bacon—?"

"I haven't had that, but I'll try it."

"It's meat. I think you'll like it."

"Okay."

The doctor smiled and nodded, highlighting choices on the screen.

"Doc—?"

"Yes?"

"Do I have to have this sheet on? It's making me hot."

"No problem." He got up and folded the sheet across the end of the bed. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Leeta turned onto his side and tucked his legs up a little. "Do you think they'll be able to fix the translator?"

"I wouldn't know, Leeta. I fix people; I don't know much about machines. Greg was right, though; we have some of the best technicians here."

"Could you find out?"

"Well—I wouldn't want to disturb the people working on it, but I'll see if anyone knows anything yet."

He reached into a pocket and took out something that looked like a small data-pad. He tapped the face of it and said, "June?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Is there any word from the E-lab yet on that translator?"

"No, Doctor. Would you like a notification?"

"Yes, please; personal."

"Very well, Doctor; I'll let them know."

"Thank you." The doctor pocketed the device. "That translator's pretty important to you, huh?"

Leeta nodded. "It has my mother's language in it. I was starting to learn it when we were on the way here. I wanted to keep going."

"Oh. Well, that is important."

Leeta's dinner arrived, delivered by a young man who smiled at him. The doctor helped Leeta sit up, and watched him devour his meal and then lick his fingers clean. "Thank you, Doc. How did you know I'd like the bacon?"

"The salt. Your blood has a little more salt in it than ours."

"Oh . . . how do you know that?"

"When they brought you in, we scanned your whole body."

"Scan—?"

"It's like a picture, but we see all the parts of you, inside as well as out. Would you like to see it?"

Leeta rubbed his casted right arm. "Mmm—maybe later—"

"Is the pain coming back?"

"Yeah . . . "

The doctor nodded. "I'll get you something for that, but it will make you sleepy. Do you need to use the toilet first?"

"Yeah. Where is it?"

"Right in there."

"Okay."

Leeta started trying to get out of the bed, but the doctor helped him to the floor. "Easy. You might still be a little dizzy."

"Mm—this arm is heavy . . . "

"That might put you off balance. Here." He offered a hand and Leeta took it and followed. There was a toilet next to the wall, but next to it was something that looked more like a hole in the floor with a raised rim. Doc pointed at it. "Try that one."

Leeta found that he could squat over it quite naturally. He finished, then sat on the floor to lick himself clean, but paused and looked up. "Do any of the other space people do this—?"

"Lick?" Dr. Mabrey nodded. "Uh-huh. Kaitwaugh. Tchak. Thelaric. Kainu."

"Oh." Leeta finished his chore, and the doctor helped him back onto the bed.

"I'm going to go get your pain medication now; I'll be back in just a couple minutes."

Leeta turned on his side again. "Doc—?"

"Um?"

"Where's my satchel? Could I have it, please?"

"Oh—sure." He got the bag from a closet and put it on the bed. "Here you are."

"Thank you." Leeta began taking items out and placing them on the bed next to him. The pain was getting worse now, throbbing hotly in his right arm, putting his nerves on edge, making his teeth press together. He wanted away from it, wanted his mother's voice on the translator, but took the next closest thing. He shakily drew out the plastic bag with her waist-pouch in it. He fumbled to unseal the bag and stuck his nose in, inhaling the scents of her hands and the things she'd held in them.

A little bit of her scent, a few electronic recordings . . . these were the most he could ever know of who she'd been. Her bones would be all that was left of her body now, but he was alive, and carried part of her in himself . . .

"Leeta—"

He looked up and blinked; he hadn't noticed the doctor leaving, but there he stood, with a small device in his hand.

"Hold still. This won't hurt." The doctor pressed the device against Leeta's thigh and pushed a button on it. It made a snapping sound, and he dropped it in his pocket. "There. It won't take but a few minutes."

Leeta shivered, still tense, and inhaled at the bag again. Dr. Mabrey picked up the button-box and did something to 'Lights' on the screen menu, then put the box on the bed and clipped a little cord onto it. "If this falls off the bed, you can pull it up again. And the buttons light up when the room gets dark."

The pain and tension began to fade, and the light in the room grew softer, its color shifting to red. "Thank you." He took a long breath and closed the plastic bag, then repacked the satchel and held it against his chest. "Doc?"

"Yes—?"

"I don't know if I can sleep."

"Why not?"

"I miss the farm."

"Oh. Do you want me to stay here with you?"

"Could you?"

"Of course."

The bed was amazingly soft, and Leeta felt as if he were floating in it. There seemed to be more light coming from the hallway now than from the ceiling, and the doctor sitting in the chair had become a grey silhouette. It was like being outdoors when the sun set. "I can't see the stars . . . "

"You will, Leeta. Soon."
_______________________________

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » June 04, 2016, 11:31:50 PM

Alrighty then, for me much better. Like how it started and how the ending alluded to what's coming. That's the good news. The bad, well, it is only bad if the reader is an idiot and hates questions or answering questions. I counted forty question marks and yes, needed but remember, a whole lot of readers are -to put it bluntly - retards, idiots, stupid, or, if one wants to be politically correct, they can find fault.

Sadly to write as one wishes will find many who will criticize. This is true for all stories ever written or ever will be written, the trick thus is to write a story that more people like than criticize. This is why I could give a shit about what people think of my writing, and why no book publishers would touch those such as myself. In fact if one were to criticize what I write/wrote, I'd ask them, and what have you written? If they smugly say, "I wrote, The Illiad, I'd tell them," well la de da, good for you. You stick with yours and I'll stick to mine. And if they said, "Now, if you change this or do that..." I'd tell them to go fuck themselves (if they were obvious assholes) OR if seemingly nice but closet pricks, I'd tell them, On second thought I don't think you're worthy of reading my crap.

Now, Lester, a question: Are you writing this story for personal enjoyment or for future submission to one of those many rotten bastard publishing 'firms'?

The answer does not really matter to anyone other than yourself. If you're prostrating yourself to the buying masses, good luck. If you're writing for yourself, great job.

I do find defiance when writing, it is a most wonderful form of therapy.

Looking forward to the next chapter and I like how the story is lining itself out now.
***

Defiance

From the moment of first grasping life to the last moment of last gasp
always following a set path.

A map
A destiny
A life

"Do this"
"Do that"
"You're a newbie, just wait and see how it's done"

Horseshit, that's what i say
Do and do what they don't say.

If I'm told to go right, I won't go left
no
I'll go up towards the sky looking down and laugh.

If told how to build, write, speak, love, hate...
or
it can't be done 'your way'
I'll smile and do it the way it must be.

The beginning is the same as is the end
but the fun is, the difference is, what it is,
in between.

Post by **Lester Curtis** » June 05, 2016, 11:35:26 PM

Lipinski wrote:Alrighty then, for me much better. Like how it started and how the ending alluded to what's coming. That's the good news. The bad, well, it is only bad if the reader is an idiot and hates questions or answering questions. I counted forty question marks and yes, needed but remember, a whole lot of readers are -to put it bluntly - retards, idiots, stupid, or, if one wants to be politically correct, they can find fault.

You *counted* them all? Man, you *are* strange.

Out of the dozens of crits I've gotten on this material, I think only one other person ever commented on the questions. I take that as an indication that, for the majority of readers, all the ?s seem natural to the circumstances and the character.

The most common comment I get about Leeta is that maybe he's too nice.

snip

Now, Lester, a question: Are you writing this story for personal enjoyment or for future submission to one of those many rotten bastard publishing 'firms'?

Personal enjoyment, but I would like to finish the blistered ancient many-times-rebuilt thing and get it published. I have no intention of trying to go through agents or traditional publishers, though; if I get it done, I'll self-publish.

snip

I like your poem. It reminds me of something else I'm really tired of in books and, to a greater extent, movies: some character saying, "There's no other choice!" I say, BOLLOCKS! This is a device used by lazy writers to keep the action moving—and just maybe, to keep the audience from thinking up a different alternative or noticing a plot hole. It's one of the reasons I don't go to movie theaters: I want the freedom to yell "NONE OF THE ABOVE" at the screen.

Next!
__________________________________

Five

Thomas Alva Griffin got to his office ninety minutes before the beginning of the business day, despite having slept in an extra hour at his wife's insistence. He activated his computer terminal and immediately thought, I'm probably going to be glad I got the extra sleep.

Dominating his screen was a large folder icon, labeled 'Gate 5 Incursion, 29 Jan 2133.' It was pulsing like a panicked heartbeat and alternating between yellow and red. He tapped his touchpad and the icon spread into an array of subfolders: Security (10 items), Medical (5 items), Miscellaneous (10 items), Tech (3 items), Collective (5 items), Terran Government (4 items), CanAmerican Government (4 items), Terran Space Forces (4 items), Interpol (5 items), Other Law Enforcement (11 items), In-house Legal (72 items). Most of them were cross-referenced.

All this for a gate-crasher?

"June, give me a quick summary of this mess."

"Sir, at sixteen oh eight yesterday, a young alien of previously unknown species was found climbing over Gate 5 to gain access to the compound. He fell and sustained injuries, and is here under the care of Dr. Mabrey. The alien was carrying a letter from retired Terran Space Forces Captain Gregory William Stanton, requesting material support and transportation offworld for the alien. Stanton had been escorting the alien, but was injured en route and unable to complete the trip. Security located Stanton and rendered assistance and transportation; they also recorded statements from him and three employees living on his property. By all accounts, the alien was born on Earth and Stanton was his lifelong caregiver.

"All available information on the incident has been forwarded to the Collective and all pertinent law enforcement agencies.

"The Collective and the TG have procedural interest concerning the alien. The TG, the TSF, Interpol, and other law enforcement have illegal importation and abduction interest. Tech is working to repair a language translator that the alien had with him; it was damaged during the incident. The Collective and Interpol have interest in that as well."

"Hold all my calls until opening time, with the usual exceptions. Tell the Collective and TG that we'll seek stable accommodations for the alien, and if the translator can be repaired, we'll share its files. Advise Ops that we may have to change schedules or priorities on short notice. Is Stanton able to communicate with us?"

"No, sir. Common carrier is still offline in his reception area."

"Send him one of our private-channel phones by mini-flyer, and include our newsfeed. Priority. Make his contact code available to all interested parties, and arrange legal coverage for him and the alien, starting with the Collective. Thank you, June."

"Very well, Mr. Griffin."

A new alien, he thought. Why couldn't he have shown up a month ago? Even a week?

The Legal folder blinked, and its item count dropped to sixty-one. June on the job, saving him thousands a minute on legal expenses.

He began opening the subfolders and flicking through their contents, looking at each item just long enough to know what it was and where. Then he went back over a few select subfolders in more depth.

In Security, he skimmed the officers' reports, but watched all the video records, with special attention to the statements given by Stanton and his farm-hands. They all told the same story, with slight variations from their own perspectives. One of Carlos' comments stood out: "He speaks real good Spanish, but I never had to teach him. He learned it just by listening to me, and I don't use it too often. I had to explain a few words to him once in a while, but not much." Not unusual for a child growing up in a multilingual environment, but still worth note.

On to the Medical file. Griffin read the short plain-English summary and looked at a few still-photos. The boy was fairly pleasing to the eye; digitigrade, long fur, coloration and tail similar to a red fox. Upright ears, short muzzle with no nose leather, inverted-L-shaped nostrils. Upper and lower lips that closed on each other, the upper not bifurcated.

Griffin then went to the video records made in Leeta's hospital room when he woke up. There wasn't much, and he sped up the playback through much of it.

That sent him to the Miscellaneous file to look at the items Leeta had been carrying. They'd all been scanned or examined, and everything was Terran-sourced except for the contents of the plastic bag.

Interesting stuff in there. Alien DNA in the leather of the pouch and knife sheath, the bristle and wood of the hairbrush, the wood of the knife's handle scales, and the little carved ivory figurines. The loose hairs in the hairbrush connected the boy to a deep heritage, while showing no trace of genetic manipulation.

The knife's blade had little to tell, except that it was chisel ground, on the right side—made for a left-handed user. Griffin wondered if Leeta's species might be mainly left-dominant.

He looked again at the image of Leeta's data-pad, one of the children's educational models. Lacking a comm-link, it would be nearly useless in space. "June, do we have any spacers' data-pads in stock?"

"No, sir."

Damn. "Are there enough repair parts in stock to assemble one?"

"No, sir."

Double damn. And good luck finding one now. Still, he had to ask. "Are there any available for sale?"

"No, sir. Demand is ahead of supply by at least two weeks."

"June, put me through to the Collective envoy, please."

"Yes, sir."

The screen blanked, then cleared to show a male katesh. This one was clothed—the part of him in view, at least—he wore a nicely tailored white jacket with a mandarin collar and the Collective logo on the breast pocket. "Greetings, and—oh—Mr. Griffin!" He gave a quick bow. "The Interlocutor wishes to speak with you. Please stand by, sir—"

"That's not why I—" The screen blanked again. "—called—"

The screen cleared to show the Collective logo overlaid with a sedately crawling blue sine wave.

Griffin waved the comm-call image to a corner of his screen and found the Miscellaneous file labeled Data-pad and tapped it open. Good; someone had thought to upload its contents. He glanced at the records of Leeta's progress through the tutorials and found him a few years ahead of his age group in literacy; somewhat above average otherwise. He'd been reading a lot, especially about space and ships—and the other offworld species.

A few video files had been added to the 'pad's auxiliary memory: Play, Running, Birth. He selected Birth and keyed the playback.

The recording was discontinuous, obviously because there wasn't always a spare hand to hold the device. It was kitchen-table surgery, literally, but Stanton continually coordinated the other men. Each one had a task to keep his mind off the bloody tragedy, but eventually there was nothing left for them to do but comfort the poor mother with soothing words and gentle touches. Griffin could actually hear them collectively holding their breath as she died.

The comm-call bloomed to fullscreen and startled him back, open-mouthed. "Goden—" he bowed reflexively and said, "—my honor—"

The Interlocutor's skin, at first appearance, had shown a patchwork of faded blue and yellow, but quickly took on orange blotches, and her eyes widened. "Griffin . . . is something wrong—?"

He took a breath. "My apologies, Goden. I was watching the video of the boy's birth just now . . . have you seen it?"

Her color changed to dark mottled browns and black, then started to lighten again. "I have, Griffin. But what prompted your call?"

"I need a simple favor, if you can help. This new alien we've got will need a spacer's data-pad, and we don't have any here. Can you spare one?"

Her skin went light green. "Such a modest request! Please wait while I look."

She didn't put him on hold, but went after the information herself. It took her less than fifteen seconds. "We have several; they were issued to the human members of our diplomatic team who worked here on the G'Kuhru. I would offer to send you one by special courier, but we're still moving things up here and we have no shuttles to spare. We'll have a shuttle going down later today, close to sunset where you are; we could send it on that flight."

"Where is it landing?"

"Geneva. And our flight schedule is not firm. We could call you."

"Hmm . . . do you have an open docking bay?"

Her color shifted to pale blue-green. "Yes. Are you thinking of coming up?"

"I don't know yet. It may be convenient, if I need to fly for other purposes. But tell me, Goden, what was it you wanted to talk with me about?"

"I wondered if you had any further information to share about this new species. We were suspicious at first that he may have been an artifact. That would have made things easier."

"You probably know more about him than I do. When did you first get the news?"

"It would have been—after dark, your time, yesterday. We expected to hear from you in person, but I understand you were on Mars."

"Yes; I was overseeing the final arrangements at my branch office there, and I didn't want to be interrupted. When I got home, my wife insisted I get extra sleep, also uninterrupted. So I found this on my desk when I came in, about an hour ago. I've only skimmed most of it."

"How is Elise adjusting to your move to Jettison?"

"She's actually becoming enthusiastic about it. She wants to spoil the grandkids."

Goden's skin showed moving bands of pink and purple. "She is a good mate for you. She'll help you to be happy there."

"She always does. But I need to get back to work now. I haven't spoken to the doctor yet, or the techs, but I'll have any new information sent to you as it becomes available, and I'll call back about the arrangements for the data-pad. Thank you for that, too."

"Consider it a gift to the boy. We're eager for more news. Be well, Griffin."

"You too, Goden—and give my regards to Captain Soguk."

He clicked off, to find his screen cluttered with columns of mail and calls awaiting his attention. He did a double-take and glanced at the clock; it was 08:02. Time sure flies when you don't have enough of it. "June, has this list been filtered?"

"Yes, sir. And there's a reporter from Nullspace 5 News at the main gate."

"Don't let them in, but quote me on our outgoing newsfeed that an alien has shown up unescorted and that we'll be working with the Collective to see that he gets offworld safely."

"Yes, sir. And there's a man here from Interpol who wishes to speak with you: Inspector David Chu. Shall I send him in?"

"One moment—" Griffin filtered the message stacks himself, for Hospital, E-lab, and Stanton; he had incoming from all three. He sent them all a one-word text message: Wait. "June, I'll go to meet the inspector. Is he in the lobby?"

"Yes, sir."

He took his own data-pad from the desk drawer, slung its carry-strap over his shoulder, and vacated his chair.

~~~~~

When Griffin walked into the lobby, the man there was facing away, watching one of the company's promotional videos on the large wall-screen. His hands were clasped behind him, his posture upright and alert.

"Inspector Chu—?"

The man kept his feet planted, but turned from the waist and made eye contact, smiling faintly. He had a slender build and Asian-Caucasian features, and was dressed all in black—suit, shirt, and tie.

He stretched an arm toward the screen and turned to face it again. "You've done such amazing things here . . . "

Griffin walked over to stand next to him. "Thank you. I get impressed with it myself now and then."

"Such a shame, your leaving. I've long been a follower of your work." The inspector turned to face Griffin, introduced himself, and shook hands. "Please excuse my unprofessional behavior, gawking at a sales presentation—"

"It's supposed to make you gawk. And don't worry about formalities; I'm in get-it-done mode." He was wearing jeans and a chambray work shirt over chukka boots. "I have to say, though, I wasn't expecting anyone to show up in person. You did get all the information we have on this situation, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I understand there was a translator found with the alien—the boy's mother, I mean—"

"That's right. It's in our Tech department. You're thinking it may offer evidence in finding out who brought her here? Tracing its serial number?"

The inspector nodded. "More than that, though, we need to examine it for any DNA that might have been left on it by the perpetrators. And—I'm almost embarrassed to say so, but I have a warrant to take custody of it."

"Oh. May I see that, please?" The inspector took the paper out and unfolded it while Griffin opened the Legal file on his data-pad and prepared to photograph the document. "Just hold it up there for a second—got it; thank you." He tapped the synch button and lowered the 'pad. "Are you working to a deadline on that—?"

Inspector Chu put the warrant away and shrugged. "I don't have to have the item immediately, as long as I can be assured of getting it."

"You'll have it; I just can't say how soon. My first priority is the safe extraction of the files that are on it. I don't want the boy leaving without those, in a form he can use. I don't yet know where he'll be going, but to me, those files belong to him more than to anyone else. It's his mother's language, in her voice."

Inspector Chu stood a little straighter and nodded slowly. "I agree. The law doesn't always see what it does to people."

"I know. Come on, we'll see where they're at with it."

Griffin led the way into a stairwell, which was open on one side to a very large square skylight shaft. They went four flights down, to the bottom, where tunnels led out in three directions.

There were little alcoves in the walls with low-slung three-wheelers parked in them, some single-seat, some tandem, all with fairings that nearly touched the floor. Griffin rolled a two-seater out and took the front position. "All aboard. Next stop, E-lab."

Inspector Chu settled himself in the steeply reclined seat, and they entered a tunnel, accelerating slowly at first. "These are pedal-driven?"

"Yes. They're nice, though; they have automatic transmissions. And I'm surprised you didn't ask about the elevators."

"I thought they were around a corner or something. You must have some."

"Each building has at least one freight elevator, but the only passengers who use them are in wheelchairs. The only exception is the hospital."

"That's—"

"The last thing you'd expect here, I know. Everybody says the same thing: 'Where's all the high-tech stuff at?' It's off costing someone else a lot of money that I can use for better things. I don't like to use more technology than it takes to get the job done."

"That's an interesting operational philosophy. How did you arrive at it?"

Griffin laughed. "My granddad started the company, way back in the days of rocket propulsion. When I was a little kid, I remember him bitching about toothbrushes, of all things.

"He went off on this long rant about electric toothbrushes and how wasteful and expensive they were compared to the manual ones. Hilarious to listen to. But he wasn't just idly blowing steam; he had research and documentation to prove it—pages of stuff about resource waste, environmental degradation, landfill usage, bandwidth wasted in advertising, and on and on. Somehow that made it even funnier, and for years, I just thought he'd been entertaining me.

"When I realized he'd actually been serious, I was floored at what I'd missed. Granddad had died by then, so I talked to my dad about it. He said the point to take home wasn't those pages of figures, but a lesson about human nature: that as a species, we have this compulsion to improve things, even if they don't need it, and we should learn when to leave a thing alone."

"The same as with reductionism."

"Yes. What's really funny is that I get criticism about it from total outsiders. People who don't even do business with me call me a cheapskate."

"How do your workers feel about it?"

"Pretty good. It helps that they see me climbing the same stairs they do. And they get the best pay and benefits package in the industry."

"How many of your workers are going with you?"

"About three hundred; that's less than half. I made the offer to everyone. Some had ties to family and social groups. Some didn't want to go to the Fringe. A few said they'd decided to stay and oppose the TFT. I'd have done that myself, but it would have doomed the company; too much of my business is with Collective members. That reminds me, I heard a new joke yesterday."

"What's that?"

"It goes, 'What's the worst 'stupid human' joke ever told?' And the answer is, 'TFT. But nobody laughs at the punchline.' " Griffin pointed ahead, to where they were approaching another skylight shaft. "We're almost there. E-lab's just up ahead, around the corner."

Griffin sounded a horn, and they coasted down to a low speed and into the bright light. He made a right turn into another tunnel and parked in a smaller skylight shaft about a hundred meters further.

There was another stairwell, but instead of going up, they went to a blank steel door beneath the stairs, where Griffin gestured with a finger on his data-pad. The door clicked open, and they entered a small foyer. Griffin looked up at the camera above the inner door and said, "The boss is here. Look busy."

"Oh—! There—just a—"

They waited a few seconds, and the door was opened by a breathless little woman in a white lab coat. "Oh, gods, Tom, I'm so sorry, we tried to get hold of you, and June told us you were headed this way, and we—we can't—"

"Slow down, Mazey—"

"—and who's this—?"

"Professor Mazey Cavanaugh, meet Interpol Inspector David Chu. He's here about the translator."

"But we don't know how to proceed with it, it's—pleased to meet you, sir—it's broken—"

Griffin put a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down. Just show me what you've found out."

"This way." She led them to a lab bench, where the parts of the device were neatly laid out. She picked it up and turned it to display the damaged area at one corner. "See? It had the bad luck to land right on its little weak spot, right here at the I/O port. And the I/O connector is surface-mount, so it transmitted the impact to the main board and cracked it as well as breaking the connector itself." She held the translator up to Griffin's face. "See? Can you see that?"

Griffin leaned back a few centimeters. "Okay, I think I see a fracture line there . . . are any of the traces broken?"

"Yes, but we don't know where, and we can't find out, because it's a five-layer board and we can't scan it because without our pinpoint scanner, the radiation would destroy the AI block and—oh, gods, Tom . . . it works, though; here—" she turned it on and spoke into it, "The sky is blue." The device responded with kiar aiyah tay. "But we can't get at its files—" The device began producing more translation, and she shut it off.

"Okay," he said, "first things first. Show the inspector—"

"Please, call me David."

"—show David the serial number and any other physical markings so he can start tracing it for his investigation. Have you tried calling Kashikoi?"

"Yes, but it's nighttime over there and I couldn't reach a live person. Here, David . . . "

Inspector Chu took a tablet device from his coat pocket and began photographing the translator. Mazey hovered next to it and pointed out distinctive features, then she looked up at Griffin. "Tom, we photographed this under the optical microscope at all wavelengths and polarizations—should I—"

"Yes, give him that, too; everything you've got."

"It's a big file; I don't know if his tablet will take it all—"

"Drop it on a data-stick for him, then—and let him call his desk from your workstation and send him another copy there. June?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I need to speak with a living person in the repair department at Kashikoi Electronics, preferably a manager."

"Yes, sir."

Mazey said, "Tom, can I come with you—?"

"Whoa—Mazey, I want you here. Besides, I don't even know if I'm going, yet."

"But it's Kashikoi—and I don't have any other projects and there's Jeff and Iggy here and—"

"Mazey." Griffin locked eyes with her and kept his voice calm and even. "You're here because I want you on call in case of incredible events like this one." He nodded in the direction of her terminal. "Now, go help David do that upload, please. Oh, and while you're at it, give him Captain Stanton's contact number."

"Okay. Sorry."

She led the inspector to her desk, and Griffin tapped his data-pad. The 'Gate 5' folder was flashing to notify him of updates. He opened it and saw that there were changes in Medical and Tech. He opened the Medical file and saw a list of completed tests and the results.

"June, where is Dr. Mabrey now?"

"He's in the hospital cafeteria, sir."

"And where is Leeta?"

"He's having breakfast with the doctor."

"Good. Tell them to stay there until I arrive."

"Yes, sir. Sir, I have Kashikoi Electronics."

"Thank you, June."

He opened the comm and was greeted with the image of a middle-aged man wearing a polo shirt with the Kashikoi logo on it. "Hello—Thomas Griffin?"

"Yes—is this the repair department?"

"That's right. Sam Epstein, team leader. Nice to meet you, sir. How may I help you?"

"I'm sorry to bother you at this time of the night, but we've got a model UG3 here that's taken some damage. The device itself isn't as important as what's on it; we need to copy that into a new machine."

"A UG3? That's old. What's on it that you couldn't get on a new preloaded unit? We have every known language available—"

"Not this one. The unit was found in the possession of a new species, never seen before. He's five years old, his mother died in childbirth, and this translator has her language on it."

Sam let out a low whistle. "Ho-ly shitknickers! I'm gonna have to get the boss out of bed for this! How soon can you get it here?"

"A few hours, give or take. Do you have a landing pad for a shuttle?"

"You can use the shipping and receiving yard; I'll make sure they keep a parking space open."

"Any idea how long it would take for this job?"

"Depends. Can you describe the damage?"

"Here, I'll let you speak with my tech. Mazey—?"

She was already at his elbow, so he handed her the 'pad. She sent the photo file across and called out the relevant images as she explained the problem. Griffin watched over her shoulder.

Sam said, "We'll have to get that connector out of the way and see what that corner looks like, first. Depending on the integrity of the traces, maybe—three, four hours."

Griffin said, "Firm?"

Sam smiled slightly. "I could have said two, but this could be delicate, and I don't want to rush it. What kind of replacement do you want?"

"Well, a rugged one, for starters . . . " Mazey handed the 'pad back to him.

"That's the easy part; all our models are shockproof to military standards now. How about top-of-the-line? It's got full graphic capability in all modes and a built-in OCR scanner."

"Excellent. Load it with everything. Oh, and we need the old one back. There's an Interpol investigator who needs it for evidence."

"Oh. Well, no problem with that. I'll get things ready for you. See you soon."

"Thanks."

Griffin tapped the 'pad to end the call. "June, tell the port to prep my shuttle; have them check the stasis locker and top it off. And tell Collective traffic control that I'll want an expedited flight path to Kashikoi."

"Yes, sir."

"Mazey, bag up all those parts, please. David, if you want to ride along, you can report chain of custody, or you could come back and pick it up tomorrow, if you have other things to do."

"This is my priority for the day. I hope I'm not inconveniencing you—"

"Not a bit."

Mazey stepped forward with the damaged translator, neatly packaged for travel. She looked Griffin squarely in the face. "I can carry this."

"No, the nice policeman can carry it; that's his job." Mazey's mouth started to sag, but Griffin continued, "What you can do is call in your alternate and log off duty—unless you'd rather stay here and get paid."

"Thank you!" Mazey's face erupted in a huge smile and she hopped up a little, then handed the package to David and ran for her desk, flinging her lab coat off.

~~~~~

Leeta finished the last of his corned-beef hash and set to pressing his fork onto the cornbread crumbs on his plate. When he didn't think he could get any more, he used them to mop up the little smears of delicious, salty grease, and put this final morsel into his mouth. The fork was very well polished when he put it back on the tray. He pushed the plate away to lessen his urge to lick it clean.

Doctor Mabrey said, "You can have more if you're still hungry."

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

Leeta squirmed a bit, trying to get the arm-sling into a different position, and then rested his right arm on the tabletop to take the weight.

The doctor asked, "Does that bother you?"

"It's the sling—the way it pushes my fur around, it just—sort of itches."

"Hm. Well—" The doctor patted his pockets and came out with a comb. "Let me see if I can fix that a little for you." He got up and walked around behind Leeta and said, "Lean forward a little, so I can lift this up some."

Leeta did one better, lifting the cast with his good arm. The doctor lifted the sling and combed the fur straight, then let the sling settle into place. "How's that? Better?"

"Yeah." He tilted his head up and smiled. "Thank you." The doctor patted him on the back and went back to his seat.

Leeta picked up his coffee cup, tested the temperature, and took a sip. This decaf that Doc had insisted on wasn't at all what he was used to; it was awfully weak, and didn't have the slightly burned flavor he'd come to expect. A larger mouthful was no better.

He was trying to decide whether to finish it when he heard footsteps and muffled voices outside the door behind him, which was a good stone's throw away. He put the cup down and turned to look. "Somebody's here."

"It's polite to stand up when you greet people. Do you need help?"

"No, I can do it." Leeta turned sideways on the chair, then stretched his feet toward the floor and slid off, only wobbling the slightest bit on landing. He turned to look as three people came through the door.

The first was a man with short, dark hair, a little grey at the temples. He wore jeans and a blue shirt, and had a data-pad slung from his shoulder. He looked all around the room once, and Leeta saw that he was looking at everything, not just moving his eyes around. He moved and stood as if he were ready to jump.

He held the door, and the next person came in, a full head shorter and with shoulder-length dark hair, wearing loose pants, a shirt, and a jacket that flared from the waist. This one was more lightly built and moved differently.

Leeta turned to the doctor and asked, "Is that a woman?"

"Yes. You didn't know—?"

"I've never seen one before. Just pictures."

He looked again as the last person came in, another man, dressed all in black, with short black hair. He moved like the rangy tom-cat that hunted in the fields and the barn.

The doctor stood at Leeta's side as the others crossed the room, and Leeta heard the woman whisper, "Cute little guy—" The man in blue grinned a little and shushed her.

They all stopped a little more than an arm's reach away, and the man in blue introduced everyone. He introduced himself last, crouching to eye-level. "Leeta, it's a pleasure to meet you; I'm Thomas Griffin. You can call me Tom." He started to extend his right hand, then switched to his left, and they shook. "Nice firm grip, there. Now—about your translator—we couldn't fix it here, so we're going to get you a new one. I've spoken to someone at the company that makes them, and he's confident they can get all the information out of yours and into the new one. Still, I'd like you to come along with us and try it before we leave there, just to make sure. Okay?"

"Will my mother's words be in it?"

Tom smiled and nodded. "Everything."

"Good—yes, I want to do that!"

Doctor Mabrey said, "Tom, I've still got some tests to run on him, and I want him to rest."

Tom looked up. "Do you need him here?"

"For some of it—sensory evaluations and some of the psychometrics."

"How long?"

The doctor shrugged. "A couple hours at most."

"There'll be time. And he's probably getting more rest than he knows what to do with. I'm sure you noticed his hands are callused." Tom straightened up, then looked at Leeta again. "Tell you what—you go get your bag; you'll probably need it."
_____________________________________________________________

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » June 06, 2016, 10:51:29 PM

Much better chapter for me Lester. I think it was due to the dialogue between other people than Leeta. A good balance and it flowed well. This chapter kept my mind focused and it zeroed in on a specific 'scene' that was very easy to picture.
*

It is nice to read that you are writing for the enjoyment. So many dream of riches when really (at least for me) writing is the fun part, everything else pales in comparison. After reading Dan's editorial I feel he captured exactly what I feel about writing and writers. Even reading some comments where, "I've submitted ten-million stories to thousand's of publishers only to be totally rejected..." That would be the same as me actually taking a shower and using soap, then getting a haircut, dressing in clean clothes (I usually turn the underwear inside out to take advantage of the other clean side) and going out to a bar to be a man whore, only to not find one paying customer, or even another wiling to have me for 'free'.

Man whore, nice ring to it, something for a parasite to feed on.

Looking good Lester, thanks for sharing your remnants of lost sleep, sweat, and thoughts captured in the story you are revealing.
***

Man Whore

Usually it is the woman with red lipstick and high heels getting all the attention and $50 bills. Tonight though a man whore named Robin prowled the streets of Seattle.

Down in the area called, Pikes Place, it reeked of dead fish, tourist farts, and panhandlers. This was where Robin would prowl tonight looking for food money, rent money, and money to pay for his cat family, currently numbering twelve.

"Hey man, give me a dollar. I's needs a dollar."

"Go away."

"No, yous give me a dollar, i's needs a dollar you fuck."

"No, you are the fuck, now get your nasty ass away from me."

There was a pause, which means there was enough time for the panhandler to reach inside his grubby jacket pocket and flick out a lock-knife.

"I's show youse whos the fuck..." and lunging at Robin the thug thrust a blade about six inches long.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Is that all you got? Six inches?" Robin easily evaded the small knife and feeble attempts of capital murder by the Seattle killer.

"Here, let me show you mine..." And with that, Robin unzipped his trousers and hauled out a very long appendage. It was totally state-of-the art pleasuring penis, a penis designed by a major Japanese conglomerate, Sony.

"Shit man, what are yous gonna do with that? Fuck me to death?" The man actually started to laugh, which in his defense I suppose was warranted. Imagine: A twenty inch polished rod of a material warm yet hard like titanium, plus there was a picture of a little frog near the end. So yes, laughter was indeed a good response to witnessing such.

Ka-Thong!

"Ahh!" This too was a perfect response to make after being impaled by a twenty inch polished rod of a material warm yet hard like titanium. The shaft went through the beggar/killers body very clean and precise, the end sticking out the back with a now bloody picture of a frog near the tip.

Robin quietly retracted the Sony love tool and zipping up his trousers continued looking for a paying partner. As he sauntered off he softly sang, "I'm off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of OZ..."

Post by **Lester Curtis** » June 07, 2016, 01:43:52 AM

Much better chapter for me Lester. I think it was due to the dialogue between other people than Leeta. A good balance and it flowed well. This chapter kept my mind focused and it zeroed in on a specific 'scene' that was very easy to picture.

Which scene? There were three.

"Man whore" ... isn't there someone running for office who fits that description? No matter. I like it.

Glad you're enjoying the story and that it's becoming a better fit for you. In preparing it, though, I realized there was one tiny plot hole that I'm sure nobody else will ever catch. Well, a couple, actually. Also, I wondered if that part with June reciting the basics of the incident was really needed, since it kind of repeats stuff that's already been said. Maybe I'm too hard on myself; you've joined a list of other people who never mentioned that.

I've taken to preparing these chapters in advance; it does take a while. Not long before I run dry, though.

Six away!
____________________________________

Six

The air in the shuttle was comfortably dry and cool, but had an unnatural smell that Leeta hadn't experienced before, and there were no windows in the sides of the cabin. He knew there were windows in the cockpit, but its door was closed. He couldn't use his data-pad; Doc had put his satchel in an overhead cabinet.

He looked at the doctor. "Will I be able to see anything?"

"You'll be allowed to get up in a little while, but—"

Mazey said, "I'll fix that." She reached over and unlatched a panel in the seat in front of Leeta and folded it down, then flipped part of it back up, exposing a display screen and control surface. She grinned at him like she was enjoying a secret joke. "The ship has cameras." Her fingers moved faster than his eyes could follow, and in a few seconds, nine new panes overlapped across the screen. "There. This has the same controls your data-pad does, plus a few."

"Oh. Thank you." He flipped through the views and got sound on one, with a view of Tom in the pilot's seat.

An unfamiliar voice said, "—clear for departure from pad three at your discretion, course expedited to Kashikoi Electronics Corporation. Hand off to DTM at two kilometers, final approach through NRT control; ETE one hour twenty-four. The Interlocutor sends her compliments. Fly safe, Captain."

Tom said, "Course laid in, rolling out to three now. Thank you, Control."

Leeta looked at Mazey. "What are they talking about?"

"Just flight instructions. You know about Kashikoi, right? We're going to their factory in Japan, and there are rules everyone has to follow when they fly. Pilots get their instructions from whatever air traffic controller they're closest to, usually. That's DTM, in this case—it stands for Detroit Memorial Aerospace Port. And NRT is Narita International, near Tokyo. I'll show you."

She flipped open the console in front of her own seat and brought up a map of Earth, shown as a globe. "See, we're here—and waaay over here is where we're going."

"Ooh . . . how far is that?"

"See, it says here: ten thousand three hundred kilometers. It's over a fourth of the way around the whole world, and we'll get there in about an hour and a half."

"Is that fast?"

Mazey laughed. "Well, it's about twice as fast as most people are allowed to go. You're pretty special, you know."

"Yeah . . . everybody's in a hurry to do things for me, but I wish they'd slow down a little."

"Oh. Not used to the pace, huh?"

He shook his head and stared at the screen, ears down. "It wasn't like this on the farm. Whenever I had a question about something, one of the men would stop and explain it. They'd show me how things worked. They'd tell me the right and wrong ways to do things, and why."

"Well, we all feel the same way lately. Everyone's in a hurry because we have to leave soon. Did you have a particular question? Maybe I could help."

"Yeah—yes. When we were getting aboard, I saw Tom go under the ship, and I wanted to ask him what he was doing there."

"Ah. That's a pilot's habit, and he's been flying for most of his life. It's called a 'walk-around,' part of the pre-flight check. He just looks at everything to make sure it's okay."

"What would he look at underneath?"

"Landing gear, maybe? I don't really know." She reached over and tapped the screen in front of Leeta. "Here, watch."

He'd felt the ship moving, and the camera showed the view forward as the shuttle rolled to a stop on a large paved area. Tom's voice came over a speaker, "We're on ship's gravity now."

The view shifted, as though he'd slowly taken a step up on a ladder, and Leeta heard mechanical noises, then felt a thump, and the ground in the camera view fell away.

A grey cloud-bottom came into view and tilted downward, then seemed to dissolve, and there was nothing left to see but grey mist. Leeta blinked and looked around the cabin; everything looked and felt the same as it had on the ground.

"Ooh! Are we going to make a sonic boom?"

Mazey said, "We may have already—let me look—" She worked her screen for a few seconds. "Almost . . . there."

"We did? I didn't hear anything."

"You wouldn't. Anytime a thing goes faster than the speed of sound, it leaves its noise behind it."

Leeta looked around the cabin again. "Is it always like this?"

Mazey grinned. "It's supposed to be. If it isn't, then something's wrong."

~~~~~

As a privileged guest in the copilot's chair, David observed the cardinal rule in cockpits and bridges on every ship: don't distract the pilot while he or she is at work. So, he kept his hands on the armrests and watched out the windows, and used his peripheral vision just enough to know when Tom had engaged the autopilot. Only then did he look directly, and by that time, Tom was pulling his data-pad out of the miscellaneous bin beside his seat and saying, "Might as well get some work done."

"Agreed." He took out his tablet and keyed the contact code for Greg Stanton.

"Hello—?"

"Good morning, sir. I'm Inspector David Chu, from Interpol, investigating the illegal importation of Leeta's mother. I'm obligated to tell you this conversation is being recorded. Do you have time to answer a few questions?"

"Of course. But—how is Leeta? Have you met him?"

"He seems to be doing well. We were briefly introduced, and although I haven't had the chance to talk with him, I got a good impression."

"Good . . . that's good. I see you're headed somewhere . . . "

"We're off to Kashikoi to replace the translator. We've only been in the air a few minutes."

"Ah. That's you I heard going supersonic, then. Sorry to get off topic. What can I help you with?"

"Well—I've reviewed the statements given by you and your men. Do you have anything to add that might help us find out who was involved in this?"

"Factual evidence? No, but the men and I all discussed it a lot, and we came up with a few inferences and some speculation."

"Please, go on."

"The final destination intended for her had to be someplace close to here, and it had to be a place where you couldn't land a ship. That would explain why they needed the truck."

"Could you elaborate—?"

"Say they had a building they were taking her to, but it's surrounded by trees. They land the ship in an open space, like an abandoned farm field, load her cage into the truck, and go from there."

"Ah. What other conditions would prevent a ship from landing?"

"Around here, not much. The terrain's pretty flat. Trees. Water, maybe, or if the only nearby clearing were a swampy area."

"Thank you. Now, what about the ship itself? How did they get it here undetected?"

"That's the scary part. They had to be using stealth technology of some sort, if only to get past the Collective. And, before you ask, I will say that I know it exists, but I can't talk about who has it."

"I can take some guesses. Do you have any thoughts on what they planned to do with her, or why they brought her here, to Earth?"

Greg shrugged. "Banned research? Illegal pet trade? That's about all I can think of, but they could run those operations carefree from nearly anywhere in the Fringe. The only thing that makes sense is that there was some kind of resource here that they needed for their operation."

"Something that made it convenient . . . "

"Right. Other than that, they were likely just taking advantage of the general chaos that followed the Pandemic; it was what, only two years after the quarantine was lifted. People were still finding bodies."

"Yes. Now—please don't take this as any kind of accusation, but why didn't you report this incident?"

"How? Hell, we're still getting our mail delivery by horse cart. Beyond that, though, I was just plain scared. Whoever's behind this, they abandoned their captive rather than risk being caught with her, but what if they came back looking for her? What if they wanted to make sure there were no witnesses? They've spent a lot and they're well organized, and they might have bought off authorities, at I-don't-know what level. I didn't know who I could trust, and I didn't want to bring that kind of danger here."

"I understand. Is there anything else you can think of that might help?"

"Yes, come to think of it. This might turn out to be more work than it's worth, but look up as many astronomers as you can find, amateur as well as professional, in, say, a fifty-kilometer radius from here. They'd have been looking; I recall it was an exceptionally clear night. Ask about occultations."

"Occultations—?"

"Yes. That ship would have been flying without lights, but it still would have blocked the view of the sky as it went over. Two or three good observations—"

"Trajectory—"

Greg nodded. "A vector. At least part of one. Check satellite photos, too."

"Excellent. Now, just a matter of curiosity, but I watched the file of Leeta's birth, and I was wondering where you got the medical training?"

"Huh! More veterinary, actually. I grew up here, taking care of livestock. That, and the field medicine training I got in the Forces. Mandatory for all personnel."

"I see. Well, thank you, sir; you've been a great help."

"I just hope you catch whoever's behind this. Oh, and by the way, please convey my thanks to Mr. Griffin for the new phone."

"He's right here; you can tell him in person."

David turned the tablet to face Tom, who only looked up from his 'pad long enough to smile and say, "You're welcome, Captain. Carry on."

Greg said, "Thank you for taking care of Leeta, too, sir."

"He's aboard with us. Do you want to talk to him?"

"Uh . . . " Greg lowered his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "I—think it'd be better not to, just now. He's got a lot to learn, and I'd rather not distract him."

Tom nodded. "May I give him your contact number? Let him decide?"

Greg took a breath, then nodded. "Okay. And thanks again."

"My honor."

~~~~~

The views from the ship's outside cameras were pretty, but they didn't change much as far as Leeta could notice. The sky stayed black, and the Earth stayed green and white, with no features he could recognize, the horizon curving ahead and behind. He slowly cycled through them once more, then looked at Mazey. "What else can I see on here?"

"Just about anything. What would you like?"

Doc leaned over and said, "He's probably pretty lost about everything that's going on. Why don't you find him some current events, or one of the better news commentators?"

"Oh, good idea." She switched the view to a program called All Sides.

Two men were sitting behind a very shiny table of some sort; the one on the left was talking. " . . . the TFT's contention that off-worlders were responsible for the Pandemic—"

The other man responded. "That is utter nonsense, and it's been proven again and again, by our own people. The truth is, the Pandemic was caused by an unmodified Earth-native bacterium, and we brought it on ourselves with overcrowding and generations of antibiotic overuse. I could name a dozen epidemiologists who would agree that the only surprising thing about that outbreak is that it hadn't happened a lot sooner. Many of those same people have been warning us for decades.

"Add to that the fact that some of the off-worlders suffered and died as well, not to mention the disruption of vital trade. Not a thing about any of the TFT's allegations makes a bit of sense."

"I see. Now, on the other hand, there've been persistent rumors that the TFT themselves were responsible for the Pandemic. How do you view that?"

The man on the right shook his head. "This just shows that any catastrophe of this magnitude will spawn conspiracy theories from every direction, but no, I don't believe that either. The TFT simply didn't need to do such a thing; they'd been gaining influence steadily since their inception, largely aided by various religious groups who were losing their influence. What the TFT did do was to play the event to their advantage, and in that, they've been quite aggressive. Of course, the collapse of infrastructure and the loss of so much mass communication and record-keeping would have made election fraud easier. That hasn't been proven yet, but it's hard not to be suspicious."

Leeta muted the audio and looked up at Doc. "What's the TFT?"

" 'Terra For Terrans.' It's a political party—that is, a large group of people who share similar ideas about how the government should operate. Do you know much about government?"

"No . . . I read some about it, in the lessons on my data-pad. I know Earth had a bunch of different governments before, but made them all into one after the space people came."

"Well, not exactly. There are still a lot of nations that each have their own, but the TFT is now the controlling party in the Terran government, and it was their idea to make all the space people leave Earth."

"Why?"

"They just don't want them here anymore. The Interworlds Market Collective has to leave too, and that's why the Griffin Company is leaving—Griffin is a member of the Collective, and we do a lot of our business with them." He pointed at the screen. "Not everyone is happy about it."

The man behind the desk was alone now, speaking at the camera; a screen behind him showed the word Farewells. Leeta restored the audio. " . . . scenes like these were repeated at spaceport boarding gates all across the Earth."

The scene switched, and Leeta flinched slightly as chain-link fencing was very nearly the first thing he recognized, but there were people on either side of it. Humans on the right: men, women, and children, in great numbers—and on the left . . . it took him a moment to identify. Kainu. One of the centauroid species, the stocky four-legged walking bodies angling up to the arms and head; short, golden fur, upright ears and short muzzles. Adults. Little ones.

Hands reached and stretched from both sides, meeting at the fence, gripping or stroking each other through the wire, and faces pressed against it. The camera focused on a human child reaching an arm through the fencing, stroking the face of a little kainu who held the hand and licked it. Then someone pulled the child back, reaching and crying. Many were crying, on both sides.

The man behind the desk reappeared: " . . . and, there were protests, both poignant and angry . . . "

A statement appeared on the screen:

ALL OF THE CHILDREN SHOWN IN THE FOLLOWING IMAGES WERE BORN ON EARTH AND ARE LEGAL CITIZENS UNDER TERRAN LAW.

A picture of a young katesh filled the screen for a few seconds, then shrank away to the corner. It was followed by images of kainu, tchak, har-chen, thelaric, shaktuuran, and more katesh, in no particular order. Leeta noticed that the backgrounds of the pictures were either red or black. Each image appeared and moved into place next to the last one with increasing quickness until the screen was filled with rows and columns of them, and now the faces themselves were almost too small to make out, but the colors of their backgrounds spelled a message:

STOP

TFT

This stayed onscreen for a few seconds and was replaced by another outdoor scene; a huge crowd of people, many holding signs, shouting, waving raised fists. In the foreground was a man who looked very much like Walter, with his broad features and black skin that shone like crow feathers, but Leeta had never seen Walter looking this angry. Veins were showing in the man's forehead and neck, and he was shouting. "The TFT doesn't care how much damage they're doing. They're nothing but a bunch of bigots who can't stand having anybody around that doesn't look like them. I'm telling you this—as long as the off-worlders were here, we could be human beings. But once they're gone, we go back to bein' niggers!"

Leeta heard Mazey catch her breath, and when he looked at her, her eyes were wide and she had a hand over her mouth.

Leeta looked from her to the doctor. "What's he talking about?"

Doc touched him gently on the arm. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Leeta. He's talking about a very ugly part of our history, and as much as we like to think we're enlightened, not everyone has gotten over it yet."

"But, what does he mean? What's a nigger?"

"That's an insult, a very nasty one. He's talking about prejudice. It's when a person makes an opinion of a stranger just because of how they look, or what they believe in, or where they come from. The people who do this will hate that man—" Doc pointed at the screen, "—based on nothing but the color of his skin. And, something you need to be aware of is that those same people will hate you, because, just like he said, you don't look like them."

"But, why?"

"I blame most of it on bad upbringing, but a few of them have a genuine mental disorder."

"They're loco?"

"That's right."

"If the TFT people are crazy, how did they get in the government?"

Mazey and Doc both doubled over and laughed so hard they couldn't answer.

Leeta was mystified. "What's so funny?"

Doc said, "It's just that—for about as long as there's been government, there've been crazy people in it. You'll understand it better as you get older."

The screen switched to show Tom, grinning in the pilot's seat. "All right, what'd I miss?"

Still trying to get her laughter under control, Mazey said, "Leeta just—just—"

Doc finished for her. "He just told his first 'stupid human' joke."

"Ah. I'll have to look at that. But, Leeta, you might want to look outside; we're about to cross the terminator."

"The what—?"

"Just look."

Leeta moved to switch to the forward camera view, but stopped. "Can I look at it later? I want to see more about these people—"

"Sure. I'll save it for you."

"Thank you, sir."

Tom's image disappeared, replaced by video of a riot.

~~~~~

Leeta's exploration of the 'net was interrupted by Doc tapping him on the shoulder.

"What—?"

Doc pointed at the flashing sign on the forward bulkhead. "We're about to land."

Leeta hadn't even noticed the chime. "Oh—" Doc helped him fasten his seatbelt. He flicked through the ship's camera-views and saw nothing but some city lights against the blackness. He went back to the article he'd begun reading, about the social history of mankind's first meeting with space people. There'd been riots then, too. How long ago had that been? Checking the date of the event, he paused to do the arithmetic on a separate page: twenty-six years.

It seemed like an awfully long time. What would life be like for him when he was that old? Would he have found his home? What kind of place would it be?

He heard and felt the landing gear extend, but he didn't feel the touchdown. Tom simply opened the cockpit door and said, "We're here."

Tom led them all out onto floodlit blacktop as an electric passenger cart approached. He turned and gestured to Mazey and David. "You two go ahead; I've got another errand to run. Don't worry; it's all arranged, and we should be back in a couple hours."

The two boarded the vehicle and rode off toward the building. Leeta looked up at Tom. "Where are we going?"

Tom puffed a vapor-cloud and rubbed his hands together. "We're going to get you a new data-pad. Let's go, it's cold out here."

"Why do I need a new data-pad?"

"Yours isn't wireless, so it won't be as useful to you. Come on up front, both of you. Doc, you get the jump-seat."

The doctor said, "Let me get my scanner; I want to check Leeta's injuries."

"Okay. I'll get him situated."

Leeta momentarily froze when he stepped over the threshold into the cockpit. He'd seen pictures of the bridges and cockpits of various ships, but had just taken it as a given that he'd never actually be in one. He noticed the sound at once; he could clearly hear all the ship's machinery, though it wasn't too loud. His eyes were overwhelmed, though. It all seemed smaller than he'd imagined, but—so many lights—

Tom was saying something. Leeta shook himself and looked up, blinking. "What—? I'm sorry—"

Tom had a little smile on his face, not like he'd heard a joke, but the kind of smile a person gets when something good happens, and then he bent down and said, "Are you ready for this?"

It threw him back to the farm, and the way the men had been with him whenever they thought he was ready to learn some new thing, some important, responsible new task. He remembered to breathe, and he remembered the right question to ask.

"What should I do?"

Tom nodded toward the right-hand chair. "Just take a seat there; I'll adjust it for you and get you buckled in. You need a hand up?"

"Uh—let me try—" The seat wasn't too high, but he wanted to be careful. He backed against it, stretched his legs, and hopped just the smallest amount needed. He landed a little crooked, but straightened himself without touching anything.

Tom reached down and slid the whole seat forward. "Okay, put your hand on the control yoke, but don't push or pull on it." He moved the seat forward a bit more. "See, that's how much you want your elbows to bend. I just wanted to show you that, but it puts you where you can see out the best, too. Now let go and bring your elbows back against the seat, arms out to the sides."

Tom reached across and pulled the four-point harness straps together. The buckle clacked loudly when he fastened it. It was bigger than Leeta's fist and had a large red handle. Tom said, "When we stop, you let me undo this. Until then, you can ask questions, but don't touch anything unless I tell you to. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Doc, he's all yours."

The doctor reached over the back of the chair with a handheld device and moved it slowly over Leeta's cast. Nothing on its display screen made sense to him, but it must have been okay because Doc then brushed the top of his head with it. "All right so far. How's the pain?"

"It hurts a little, but not much."

"Just let me know if you need anything for it."

"Thanks, Doc; I will."

Doc disappeared behind Leeta's chair and clacked a harness buckle. "I'm ready."

Tom spoke to traffic control for a moment, then said, "We're on ship's gravity." The sound of the ship's machinery rose in pitch, and outside, ahead of them, the tall light-posts moved down out of view.

Leeta watched what Tom was doing, both with his hands and with his eyes. He reached without looking and moved a switch; the landing gear retracted, and a group of four yellow lights on the console turned green.

Nothing felt different, and nothing was visible out of the front windows yet. Tom was moving the yoke while watching the biggest of four screens in front of him. Geometric shapes and patterns of lines moved across it in different colors, marked here and there with numbers.

Tom was doing something else, too: he was shifting his focus from the main screen to other places in the cockpit and back again. He did this in a repeating order, and it had a rhythm to it. "Captain—?"

Tom grinned and glanced over at him. "You're going to do well in space. Did Greg teach you that?"

"Yeah—yes, sir. He said that whoever was piloting the ship is the acting captain."

Tom nodded. "Not always, but what was your question?"

"What are you looking at when you look around?"

He waved at the panel in front of them. "See all these green lights? I don't have to look at them until one changes color. But there are groups of controls overhead and up at the sides that I can't see directly, so I just look far enough to the side to catch a glance at them."

"Oh."

"Now I have a question for you."

"Yes?"

"How did you learn to notice what I was doing?"

"It's from watching animals and birds. I'd see them looking at something and I'd try to figure out what it was. They mostly look at things that move."

"People are like that too, so pilots have to be trained to make a visual sweep of all the instruments now and then. Watch out the window."

Everything was black, and there weren't many stars, so it took Leeta a moment to find the curve of Earth's horizon, but then one bright object appeared just at its edge and seemed to rise. "What's that?"

"That's where we're going. It's the G'Kuhru."

~~~~~

Tom didn't fly to the docking bay directly, but first made a slow turn past the G'Kuhru's sunlit face, about three kilometers out from it, keeping the shuttle angled for the best view out the right-side window. The view was all the more impressive for the backdrop: they were directly above the middle of the Atlantic Ocean; all of the Americas were sunlit, and about half of Europe and Africa. Clouds hid parts of the sea and landscape here and there, and the southern hemisphere was plainly getting more light.

Leeta twisted in his seat, his fur all on end. "It's so big . . . how big is it?"

"About a kilometer. That's about forty times the length of this shuttle."

"I see windows . . . they're all round . . . ooh—is that our shadow—?"

"Yep."

"How many people are in there?"

"I think about fifteen hundred. That isn't many for a ship that size, but they mostly live onboard for years at a time, so it's laid out more for comfort than efficiency. Each species has its own area made to resemble their homeworld. There's lots of open space; they have parks and gardens . . . I think there's even a little forest or two in there."

"How many different kinds of people live there?"

"Mmm, gudk, katesh—har-chen . . . kainu, thelaric, shaktuuran, and some tchak. Keep in mind, now, there aren't any humans aboard anymore, so unless you want to stay in the shuttle, you'll be meeting space people. That can be a little shocking at first."

"Well . . . Greg said I was ready . . . I hope he was right."

~~~~~

The docking seemed to take longer than the flight itself. Tom stopped the shuttle in front of the docking bay and it was slowly pulled in—backward. Then they waited for the door to close, waited while the bay was pressurized, and waited while someone came out with an instrument and sampled the shuttle's inside air through a special port.

For a few moments, at least, the very scale of the place pushed out any nervousness about meeting strangers. The docking bay door was nearly big enough to fit the horse-barn through, and it was operated by hydraulic cylinders as big as tree trunks. The little pictures he'd seen of these things on his data-pad hadn't prepared him for in-person reality.

Harness buckles were clattering. Tom got up and said, "Lean your head back," and released the buckle; the right-side straps whipped away and snapped against the cabin's liner. "Now, just pull your left elbow back and bring your hand up—there."

Tom steadied him getting out of his seat. Doc handed him his satchel, and he got his hairbrush out of it. As he began touching up his fur, Tom said, "One last thing before we go out there. Do you know what the gudk look like?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's not likely we'll meet them; there are only two aboard, and they're very busy now, but if we meet the female, that's Goden. She's the Collective Interlocutor; she's the most important person aboard, and she gets a special greeting. You hold your arms out away from your sides a little, palms forward, and bow from the waist." He gestured at Leeta's arm-sling. "Just do it one-handed; they'll understand. And her mate—her husband—he's the ship's captain; his name is Soguk. You can tell the males because they've got a chin-wattle. I think most of this will be informal; if you aren't sure, just follow my example, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and one other thing—they're going to want to make a video recording of this meeting, and they'll give you a copy of it before we leave, but it won't leave this ship in any form without your permission. Is that okay with you?"

Leeta shrugged. "I guess."

"Let's go, then."

~~~~~

They were all waiting near the bottom of the ramp, watching, lined up side by side: har-chen, thelaric, kainu, shaktuuran, tchak, katesh—one of each—and a single gudk, without the wattle. Except for the shaktuuran, none wore clothes, but they all had little cards hanging around their necks, and a few wore little waist-packs. Off past each end of the line were devices on man-high wheeled platforms, each with two big side-by-side lenses. Must be the cameras.

Tom stepped off the ramp to his right and gestured for Leeta to stand next to him; Doc went to the other side, and the two lines faced each other. Tom whispered, "Now."

It wasn't exactly clear who moved first, but everyone bowed, and when they straightened up again, the gudk took a step forward.

She was only about a head taller than he was, and her body was so softly shaped that he couldn't be sure where her bones and muscles were. No nails on her fingers or toes; a little belly-button that seemed to stay the same tan color. Her face showed no expression at all, but her skin was marked with slow-moving cloud-like patterns of pale blue and white as she spread her arms.

"Welcome to our home. I apologize that we're unable to honor your visit with due ceremony, but we're so busy with the move. I was only able to find one representative of each of the peoples aboard who could be in attendance. Please forgive the informality."

Her English was clear, but spoken as though her tongue was stiff. She shook hands with Tom and Doc, then took Leeta's hand in both of hers, and a rich pink color flowed up to her elbows. "I truly am honored to meet you in person. I just wish we had met under better circumstances. But let's go inside, where it's more pleasant."

"Thank you." It was the only thing he could think of to say.

She let go of his hand and led the way to a large glass-walled airlock; one of the camera platforms went ahead first, its lenses always pointed at the group.

It was nicer inside; it was quieter, without the echo that the huge docking bay had. The floors were warm and just a little soft, like outdoor soil.

But being in a smaller space gave him new cause for nervousness. He couldn't figure out where the strange scent was coming from, but it was making his tail curl under. Funny thing was, it was almost a human smell, but the little bit of it that wasn't human was neither plant nor animal, or anything else he knew.

They went into a big room with cushioned chairs and a table, and the other camera followed them in.

Goden said, "Let us make introductions." She looked around the room. "Everyone here has met Mr. Griffin already, and some of you have met Dr. Mabrey, but personal greetings would be fitting to this occasion. This may be our farewell for a while."

Tom put a hand lightly on Leeta's back. "Do you want to go first?"

Everybody was looking at him. Even the camera was pointed right at him, and that smell was making him want to dive under the table. "I—I—"

Doc leaned over and quietly said, "Tom, I said I wanted him to get rest, not stressed. Look at him—"

"Okay, sorry; we'll slow down a little. Goden, can we make this totally casual? Sit at the table, or even on the floor, tell stories or something?"

Goden's skin turned grey-green. She blinked and said, "We can do whatever is most comfortable . . . there isn't proper seating here for all of us . . . " Some of the others began speaking to each other in low tones in a strange language.

Something was going wrong. All these people had important things to do, they were rushed, and now they were disagreeing over him. It hadn't ever been like this on the farm; when something needed done right away, you helped or got out of the way, no matter who you were.

It wasn't as if he had to climb another fence. He shook his fur down and straightened his tail. "Wait."

Everyone stopped talking and looked at him.

"I can do it. I'll do this." He looked at each face around the room. "I'm one of you." He stepped up to the closest one, the katesh, looked up into his eyes and stuck out his hand. "Hello. I'm Leeta."

~~~~~

The introductions had been quick and mostly pleasant, then Goden wanted to "get business out of the way." She gave him the new data-pad, but she also gave him a plastic card to hang around his neck, like the others had. He couldn't read it, but she told him it identified him as a Collective Protectorate. She told him that she'd asked Collective members to try to find him a new home, but that it could take some time.

Then they all sat on the floor and each of them talked a little about their backgrounds. Neither the tchak nor the thelaric could speak any English, so they used translators.

He was showing them how he could imitate animal and bird sounds when Tom's data-pad buzzed. Tom looked at it and stood up, smiling around the room at everyone. "I'm sorry to break this up. It's been very enjoyable, but Kashikoi has a connection on the translator, and if we leave now we'll be there about the time they've finished with it. I do want to thank you all for being here; you've made it a special occasion for us."

They all looked upset for a moment, but then they stood, and Goden came and took Leeta's hand again, wavy bands of pink and blue and yellow flowing down her body. "The time has gone too quickly, but it was a pleasure to have you here with us. Thank you."

"Thank you, Goden. I was—a little scared at first, but, now I wish I could stay longer. Thank all of you. And thank you for these things, too."

"You're welcome." Goden took a step back. "Griffin—Doctor—" and then she bowed to them, all the others following.

~~~~~

Tom was back to flicking his eyes around at the instruments as the shuttle dropped toward atmosphere. "You know, I think Goden likes you."

Doc said, "She likes you quite a bit."

Leeta asked, "How can you tell?"

"From that pink color, when she touched you. The blues and yellows and whites just show that she was enjoying the social gathering in general. The pink means she took a personal liking to you."

"Oh." It was another piece of information he didn't know what to do with, since everyone was leaving and he didn't know if he'd ever see her again. "Where's she going?"

Tom said, "The G'Kuhru's being reassigned to Mars, and she'll stay with her ship."

"Where are you going?"

"It's a place called Jettison. My son, Jeffrey, lives there; he's got two wives and four kids."

"What's it like? Is it a planet?"

"Jettison is the name of—I guess you could call it a city. It is on a planet; the planet doesn't have a name, but it's livable and has native plants and animals. It's awfully far away, though. Takes over a month to get there."

Leeta counted on his fingers, but lost track looking out the windows as their shield began to glow, deflecting atmosphere. He started over. "More than three thousand light-years?"

"Close to thirty-four hundred, yeah."

"Where is it?"

Tom glanced over at him with his eyebrows up. "In the galaxy? It's outward from us on the galactic arm, just beyond a dark nebula called the Crow's Wing. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Yeah—yes, sir."

"You've got some pretty big questions for someone your age."

"Greg said I should know my way around the neighborhood a little, in case I ever got out there." Leeta stared through the hot glow ahead. "I just never thought I would."

"Did you want to?"

"Not so much . . . I just want to know where my mother came from."

"Well, you'll have to find your homeworld for that—and if you ever want a family. Do you think you'll want a family of your own someday?"

"I don't know yet . . . do you think I'd be good at that?"

"Well—are you happy with the way Greg and the others raised you?"

"Yeah, they were all good to me. They'd get mad at me sometimes, but it was usually because I was doing something that scared them. And they were always trying to teach me things."

"There you go. That's how to be a good parent."

"Oh." So simple he'd never thought of it, and it all made sense. He knew he'd need a female to make a baby with, but that part didn't make sense to him, not yet.

He'd seen it, with the goats and horses and the cats and some wild animals, but every time, it just seemed unimaginable that one animal would put a part of its body into another animal. And the males would sniff and lick the females where they peed. Why?

The men couldn't get him to understand it all, but they'd told him it was something adults did, and when he was an adult, he'd understand it then. Just now, he didn't want to think about it anymore.

"I was raised by a dog, too. Did you know that?"

Tom glanced over with the eyebrows up again. "A dog?"

"Uh-huh. Mitzi; she was a . . . yellow retriever."

Behind him, Doc said, "I want to hear this."

Tom said, "Go on . . . "

Leeta said, "They said that when I was born, I wouldn't quit crying, but then Mitzi came over and licked me and I stopped, so they put me on some blankets on the floor, and she curled up around me. They had to get milk from the goats to feed me, but Mitzi took care of me a lot. I slept in the doghouse with her for a while."

Doc asked, "Do you remember any of this?"

"No, just that I always slept with her. Then she died, last year. We buried her next to my mother. We thought they'd have liked that, to be together. I still miss her."

Tom just shook his head a little and blew out a breath, and Doc reached around the seat and patted Leeta's shoulder.

"Carlos used to say Mitzi liked me because I was a chupacabra. He said a coyote puked on a rock and the sun hatched me. The others called me things like 'ears' or 'bushy-tail' sometimes, when we were having fun. Sometimes they'd wrestle with me, but they let me win a lot, and if I got loose I'd outrun them. None of them could catch me running; even Mitzi couldn't keep up. I think the horses could have outrun me, but they didn't seem to want to."

Doc said, "It sounds like you enjoyed yourself. You did work there too, though, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah. 'Light stuff,' they called it; they didn't want me to hurt myself, but I fed the chickens and gathered eggs and pumped water . . . milked the goats. I helped plant and weed the garden and gather vegetables, and I cleaned things. They made me a little short broom to sweep with, and I cleaned other things, like—"

—and then he was looking around himself, mouth open, at everything in the cockpit, smelling the unnaturally clean air and hearing the ship's machinery, feeling the artificial gravity and the seat-cushions it was holding him so steadily against—

Doc said, "Leeta? Are you okay—?"

He closed his mouth and swallowed. "I—I was cleaning harness leather in the barn, and I heard something—it was a car, and there was a man and he said I had to leave, and . . . that was just—yesterday."

He looked around again. "Why does that feel like it was so long ago?"

~~~~~

Sleet was falling when they landed at Kashikoi, and they were met at the bottom of the ship's ramp by three identically-dressed men carrying large umbrellas for the very short walk to a shuttle bus. Leeta wanted to feel the weather, but they were aboard the vehicle before he could think how to ask politely. At least his feet got a little wet.

They didn't stay that way; there was a flow of warm air under the seats, and their ride took them deep into the building before it stopped. The umbrella-bearers led them out and through a broad frosted-glass door.

The room inside was quiet, deeply carpeted and very large, and the light was indirect and not very bright. Off to the right there was a table with at least a dozen chairs around it, and straight ahead was a polished wood desk with a top as big as a house door, but Leeta was most taken by the back wall of the room. It was all a single window, overlooking a huge indoor space with rows of machines and long work-benches. Here and there he could see a few people doing things, and every person was covered completely in white, even their hands and faces.

He almost didn't see the four people standing by the desk until they came forward. There was Mazey and Mr. Chu—David—and two other men. One was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and holding a large yellow envelope; the other man had a dark suit and tie and a white shirt and held himself stiff and straight. Tom introduced them; the man in the shirt was Sam Epstein; the one in the suit was Mr. Tsukuda, the president of Kashikoi Electronics.

Mr. Tsukuda came forward. "Mr. Griffin . . . Dr. Mabrey." He shook hands with them and then turned to look at Leeta. He kept his mouth straight and serious-looking, but let his eyes crinkle up a little at the corners, as he bent down a little and extended his hand. "Welcome, Leeta. We're honored to have you here."

"Thank you, sir."

They shook hands, and Mr. Tsukuda said, "The new translator we have for you has some features that weren't present on your old one, and I'd like to show you how to use them." He gestured toward the table. "Please, let's all sit for a moment."

Mr. Tsukuda sat between Leeta and Sam. Sam handed the envelope to Mr. Tsukuda, who reached into it and brought out a silver-grey device and a sheet of paper with some printing on it. Mostly, he showed Leeta how the new screen could display spoken words and even give a verbal translation of writing scanned from a page or written on the screen with a stylus or fingernail. The rest of it was mostly the same, except for all the languages it had in it.

Then he said, "Our data-checks confirm that all of the information was successfully moved into the new unit, but I want you to try it and make sure."

The files he'd already heard were in the same places on the menu, but he noticed a difference in the display. Where the old one had displayed:

UNKNOWN >> ENGLISH

this one showed:

EESAH >> ENGLISH

He looked up at Mr. Tsukuda. "What's this?"

"That's the name of your species, and the name of the language used, as far as the translator can be sure. This new translator uses more advanced algorithms and heuristics than the old one you had. Try it."

He could look up heuristics and algorithms later. Leeta spoke the word into the machine, and it replied, "People." The display flashed with a note: People or Person.

He played back some of his mother's words that were recorded before Greg found her, and her voice was the same, only a little more clear. He looked up at Mr. Tsukuda again and nodded. "This sounds right. Thank you so much."

"We're very grateful to you. It's been a while since we had a new language to study, and yours is very pleasant to hear."

Leeta nodded, but there was something else that he thought to check. He went to the file made on the farm as he was being delivered, and found the place where she said, "Name . . . Removed." Leeta.

There was no flashing light this time; instead, the screen gave a note: Special usage: cut off, as a branch that has been pruned from a tree.

~~~~~

On the ride back, everyone but Tom stayed in the passenger cabin and talked of their experiences.

Mazey said, "You were on the G'Kuhru? Who did you meet?"

"One of everybody, but there were no u'k'uul or kaitwaugh there. It was . . . strange. The only one wearing clothes was the shaktuuran, and he had a lot of them. High boots and wide pants, and a long shirt with a sash tied around it, and a long vest with stitched decorations. He smelled scary, though."

Doc said, "Was that what got you looking panicky?"

Leeta looked at Doc. "Yeah. You didn't know?"

"I suppose I should have guessed. You could have asked for more ventilation."

"I didn't know that . . . I didn't want to say anything."

David asked, "So, you met the Interlocutor? What was that like for you?"

"Uhh—colorful? I'm not sure what else to think. She was nice to me, though . . . Doc thinks she likes me."

"She does," said the doctor.

David looked at Doc and said, "I wonder why they couldn't have just taken him aboard."

"There's got to be a reason. Probably restricted to ambassadorial staff and their immediate families."

Tom called back over the intercom, "Doc, Mazey, how about breaking out lunch? There are sandwiches and drinks in the stasis locker in back. Bring me one, too; any kind."

Mazey grinned. "I guess that means we're on autopilot."

They talked a little more over lunch. Mazey asked if there was one of the other species that he especially liked.

"Well, they're all so different. I liked meeting the har-chen, just to find someone else the same size as me, but—it's weird, thinking that when I grow up, I'll be bigger than some other adult people. And I thought the thelaric was pretty; she had real long, shiny black fur. And the tchak . . . you know, birds can't smile or anything, but they do other things to let you know how they feel. He had his crest up, and he stood up straight and kept the rest of his feathers flat, so I knew he was happy. Tall—he was taller than anybody else. I think his tail feathers were as long as my leg. I'd like to have one."

Doc said, "I don't think you're allowed to have them. Besides, it's generally considered bad taste to collect body parts of other people, even ones they've naturally shed."

"Oh."

They finished their lunch, and then Leeta wanted to explore his new data-pad. Mazey asked if he wanted the lighting dimmed.

"No, thank you. I got confused already with it being nighttime at Kashikoi."

He looked around at the brightly lit cabin. "It's weird . . . this has felt like the second day of my whole life, instead of my second to the last day on Earth."
____________________________________________

Lipinski · Post by **Lipinski** » June 07, 2016, 11:02:07 PM

Alrighty then. First, in answer to your question Lester, the best I've read of this story so far was the previous three scenes. For me it was your best as the first scene flowed into the second into the third, thus it all fit as one.

Now, I believe in honesty and it usually gets me into trouble but at least I sleep well at night, so here I go. I'm starting to hate Leeta. I really hate Leeta and why? Not because of your writing. Not because of anything other than the little bastard is getting on my nerves. So, in your writing about Leeta you succeeded in getting me to hate this life form, and by that you'll see what I mean after the parasite writes about it.

"So, who do you like in this story?" Lester's mind is wondering while dwelling on some fantastic cheese he had in a meal today.

I like Doc. Doc is someone that I would drink a beer with whereas Leeta? BBQ comes to mind, with Leeta as the meat...

I find no problems in the latest chapters and scenes. The story flows well, the characters are building up identity and you successfully portrayed Leeta to cause me to hate, now a question. What is your thoughts about Leeta? Do you like this character and if so why? And if not, why?

Thanks for sharing your work Lester, I'm enjoying it.
***

Now,
the parasite and Leeta...

"Where am I?" Leeta asked while scratching his nose with a stick covered in cow poop.

"You''re in a story with me you ignorant idiot...What? Never seen a parasite before?"

"What's a parasite? Is it like my mothers brother?"

"Was your mothers brother a mass murderer?"

"Could you translate that for me?"

"No."

"Why?" A slight pause now as the parasite was rummaging through a drawer holding an array of high powered weaponry.

"What are you doing par-a-site? Are you hungry?" Leeta was a curious sort and you know what happened to the cat that got curious...

"What is that you're pointing at me?" Leeta looked confused as it had never seen a howitzer before.

"You're right, not big enough. Just wait a second." The parasite went outside and fired up the M1 Abrams tank, one of many that Robin had parked in the backyard, for, uh, hunting...

"What's that?" Leeta was definitely pushing the curiosity. "Can I touch it?"

BOOM! followed by the staccato of machine gun fire.

Leeta lay in a bloody pile of goo, consisting entirely of his various body parts. Its head rolled on the floor and stopped with the mouth pointing upwards. What came from that bloody mouth was, (gasp, gurgle) "Why do I hurt? It hurts. Where's my mother?"
***

(sorry Lester, the parasite is a rotten son-of-bastard and hard to control. Needless to say, the parasite is a cruel, sick, sadistic, ice cream loving, idiot... )

Aphelion

Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]

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