Out of Gas (500 Words short story project, January 9, 2019)

Empty. Fuck! Tonight required nothing but good luck if Miriam was hoping to end the evening still alive, and this was the biggest piece of bad luck she could have imagined. She slammed her hands against the steering wheel. Great -- now I’m out of gas and my hands hurt. 

The instant she opened the car door, the rain started pelting her arms and face. She was not dressed appropriately for a nighttime adventure through a thunderstorm. Her T-shirt and jeans were little protection against the rain and wind, and her canvas shoes were already feeling damp. Her long hair whipped into her face and was plastered there by the rain, getting caught in her mouth and eyes.

When she’d started driving a few hours before, it was still light out, and the threatening clouds on the horizon had seemed so distant. She thought for sure she would outrace them, outpace the dwindling fuel reserve -- it was all supposed to come together! None of this was supposed to happen! She slammed the car door shut just as it occurred to her that her purse was still inside. Her purse with her phone. And her keys. Right there on the passenger seat, where she could just barely see it through the window of the now-locked door.

She kicked the front tire a few times to let out a fresh surge of rage, but her canvas shoes were no protection at all. So now my hands and my toes hurt. And I’m probably going to be murdered. Fantastic. 

She took a few deep breaths and leaned against the car, closing her eyes and taking stock. Okay, so. I’m on a deserted forest road in the dark. In the rain. My car is out of gas, and I’m locked out of it. If I don’t make it to Adam’s within the next hour, I might as well dig my own grave. That about summed it up. Miriam’s only choice, as far as she could tell, was to start walking, and fast.

She had only been to Adam’s once, and that had been years ago, but this back road had come back to her as if she’d driven down it yesterday. If she was remembering correctly, she was just a few turns in the road away from Adam’s at this point -- not more than a 15-minute walk. She hoped.

She opened her eyes to the rain and the dark, set herself in the direction she had been driving, and squinted her way down the side of the road. She could just barely make out the trees on either side, which helped keep her on the verge and out of the forest itself. Her shoes were soaked through after just a few steps, and her clothing clung to her uncomfortably. But she wasn’t going to get any more drenched or uncomfortable, so she put it out of her mind.

At the first turn, she stepped into a rushing rivulet of water before she realized she’d wandered away from the road and was entering the forest. She squinted some more and reoriented herself against the treetops that were faintly distinct from the dark sky, and continued on. For the second turn, she saw the wall of trees approaching and managed to turn with the road without mishap. And by then, she could see the yellow-white glow of artificial light shining in the near distance. Adam’s house.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

A Long Walk (500 Words short story project, January 8, 2019)

It was cloudy, again. The small cottage, tucked back among a tumble of boulders on the cold, blustery beach, quivered with each gust of wind. As chill and damp as it was inside, Spike knew it would be much worse outside. She dreaded leaving the relative warmth of her small stove.

Still, there was no help for it. The walk was long and cold enough without waiting for nightfall to drop the temperature and add an extra degree of danger to it. She’d best set off, the sooner the better.

Spike had packed her backpack the evening before with everything she’d need for a two-day trip -- a change of clothes, some dry food bars, two large bladders full of water, assorted small tools, a bit of money, a tightly wrapped bundle of highly sensitive papers. Her bullwhip hung from a tie on the outside of the pack, and her walking poles were propped up and waiting by the small front door. Once she’d donned her water-repelling cloak, she was as ready as she could be. She doused the coals in her small stove, checked the locks on all the windows and doors for a third time, then shouldered her pack, grabbed the poles, and headed out.

The front door was small but heavy, and it made a satisfying thud as she closed it behind her. A moment later, a gust of wind nearly took her off her feet, and she had to brace herself against the closed door lest she be blown to the sandy ground. As soon as it let up enough for her to stand upright, she gripped her walking poles, one in each hand, and set out around the back of the house. A gravel path curved along the side of the cottage and wound its way through the boulder field. It climbed up the underlying sand dunes that sheltered the cottage from the worst of the winds. Once she had crested the dune, she was in a wide, rolling field of scrubby grass and scattered stones. Her path meandered off toward the sunrise, with twists and turns to avoid the larger boulders and deeper ravines between dunes.

Her face was bombarded by the tearing wind and bright early morning sun, both of which made her squint and want to shield her eyes. But she knew both would ease as her journey progressed, so she tucked her chin low and pushed her way into the folds and tangles of the gusting wind.

One foot ahead of the other, poles planted deep into the soft earth to support her against the wind, she pushed against the elements for an hour or so before taking her first break. She had kept her head down for the first stretch, knowing the landscape was nothing but ever-repeating clumps of tall grass and gently rolling hills, with very little danger of encountering another soul. But the wind and the sun were desiccating, and so she stopped sooner than she’d have liked to retrieve water from her pack and take a long drink. Before stowing the water and closing up the pack, she checked the placement of the bundle of papers, ensuring they were still there -- yes, of course they were still there -- and that they weren’t wet or exposed to the wind or the sun. The papers had been tucked deep inside the pack, protected by her rolled clothing, but Spike knew important papers like these had a way of getting away from you if you let your guard down. 

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Armored (500 Words short story project, January 7, 2019)

The agency took a long time to find a new prospective job for Irma. After a string of false starts and swift dismissals, they began to fear that Irma would never hold down a job (and make them some money). Irma was always attractive to new clients at first -- she was nearly impervious to most weapons, thanks to her unique deformity, which meant that as a bodyguard she never feared putting herself in danger to shield her client. But despite her skill at keeping them safe, clients always grew uncomfortable with her, and she found herself dismissed before she could make it past the agency’s free trial period for all new placements. 

Irma had tried to come up with a new line of work, since it was starting to look like this bodyguard business wasn’t going to work out. She couldn’t go back to ballet -- her old dance mistress had made it clear after Irma’s illness and transformation that someone who looked like Irma would not be welcome in the studio or on the stage. So dance was out, and that was the only thing Irma had ever loved. She was agile, fast, and strong -- but also socially awkward and chronically late, and even the kindest-hearted souls found her rather hard to look at. If she could think of a job she’d be good at that she could do locked away from the world, she’d do it. But so far nothing had come to mind. 

After a few weeks of dreary unemployment, with Irma sitting around scratching at the itching, bony plates that grew along her muscles and stretched her skin taut, the agency sent her a message saying she had an interview with a new client. It would mean travel, and helping out with menial tasks in addition to her usual work as a bodyguard, but Irma wasn’t in any position to say no to work. 

Since her parents had passed, she’d been bounced from one sibling’s house to another’s, overstaying her welcome just long enough that everyone stopped being polite to her, but not quite long enough for them to pack up her things and leave them for her on the front steps after changing the locks. She knew the right time to jump ship, and fortunately had enough siblings that by the time she needed to go back to one and ask for use of their spare room or couch yet again, it had been long enough since her last stay that their negative memories were softened by the guilt and shame that drove them all to help Irma more than they really wanted to. Poor Irma, disfigured and strange, the family’s burden to bear.

Irma was near to the end of her stay with Philemon -- she could tell because her brother’s children no longer swarmed around her to chatter about their day when they came home from their lessons, and his spouse no longer asked what her favorite dishes were so she could order them from the cook, and Philemon himself, who rarely showed his face outside of his study, had started asking pointed questions about how Irma’s job prospects were looking, and whether she was really trying as hard as she might to find gainful employment. She figured she had six days or less before things got truly unpleasant, and she couldn’t let it come to that. 

So she hastily bathed, which tended to further irritate her too-tight skin but couldn’t be avoided, pulled on the custom-fit uniform one of her sisters had sewn for her, and set out to meet with her potential new client.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

500 Words Short Story Project

Hello, friends! I'm dusting off this space as a place to share a new project I'm working on.

You see, I'm participating in a 500-word short story project. Each day Monday through Friday, I'll write 500 words to get a short story started. Friday and Saturday, other participants, and readers like you, can vote on which of the short story starts I should continue to develop, and then I'll write an additional 1,000 words on Sunday.

We'll repeat this process for three weeks, and then I'll ask for votes on my three 1,500-word story starts to select which short story I'll flesh out into a full and finished tale.

For the first week, I've decided to use Rory's Story Cubes for inspiration. Each day I'll choose three dice and roll them, and then try to work the images shown into that day's story start. I'll post photos of the dice each day so you can see what I was working with. I might try something different for weeks two and three, depending on how this goes.

ETA: For week two, I'm using random pulls from a tarot card deck for inspiration, one card per day.

Got it? Great! Let's do this.

Week One:

Monday, 1/7/2019: Armored
Tuesday, 1/8/2019: A Long Walk
Wednesday, 1/9/2019: Out of Gas
Thursday, 1/10/2019: The Machinery
Friday, 1/11/2019: Down

Week One Winner: Armored (expanded version)

Week Two:

Monday, 1/14/2019: Recruits 
Tuesday, 1/15/2019: Blue
Wednesday, 1/16/2019: Search Party
Thursday, 1/17/19: Balance
Friday, 1/18/19: Control

Week Two Winner: Blue (expanded version)

Week Three: 

Monday, 1/21/2019: Invasive 
Tuesday, 1/22/2019: A New Place
Wednesday, 1/23/2019: Liar
Thursday, 1/24/2019: Omen
Friday, 1/25/2019: The Collection

Mending Metaphysical Rifts

Today we’ll be brushing up on our metaphysical mending skills. All too often, we suffer unexpected and unpleasant tears in our metaphysical fabric or loosenings of our most basic threads. While mending these distressing faults can be daunting, you’ll soon find that it’s just as simple as darning a worn sock—and every bit as worth your time!

Before we begin, take out your scissors, straight pins, elastic (enough to stretch the length of the rift to be mended; when in doubt, about 1.2 yards*), theoretical thread, a hand-sewing needle, and grosgrain ribbon (in a color of your choosing; optional). Keep your materials close at hand to ensure this quick and easy repair goes smoothly.

Take a moment now to identify the precise location of your rift. Use the following chart to determine what sort of rift you’re suffering from and where it is located.

Symptom(s): Generalized frustration, feelings of impotence

Rift type: Impedance

Location: The lower left quadrant (gazing outward) of your sixth ventricle, just above the second chakra.

Symptom(s): Malaise, ennui

Rift type: Disaffectation

Location: The left (malaise) or right (ennui) shoulder, usually deep inside the enervative cuff.

Symptom(s): Jealous rage

Rift type: Covetousness

Location: While this type of rift feels global, it is actually quite small and contained entirely within the fifth metacarpal of the dominant hand.

Symptom(s): Yearning, hopelessness

Rift type: Irredemptive

Location: This diffuse rift permeates the thoracic cavity and can be squirrely to pin down.

Once you’ve identified your rift type and location, grip it firmly in one hand. Spend a goodly length of time considering it, wallowing in its complete control of your emotional state. If, after this step, you still have the will to continue, use your free hand to carefully lay the elastic against the length of the rift. Pin the elastic in place using as many straight pins as necessary or enough to achieve attunement, whichever is more.

(This maneuver is tricky when mending rifts of covetousness; if necessary, use your teeth to hold the elastic in place, being careful not to ingest feelings of fury or straight pins.)

Using the needle and theoretical thread, contemplate sewing the elastic in place.

If you so chose, you may now apply the grosgrain ribbon. This step can sometimes result in a newly created morbid or grotesque rift, so proceed with caution.

And you’ve done it! Now you can mend any rift that tears your being asunder, and with a little practice, you’ll be able to adorn those tears with ribbon, a lace edging, pom-poms, or even a sequined border—because even the most persistent metaphysical afflictions benefit from some sprucing up.

Be sure to join us again next week, when we’ll explore using silk flowers in feng shui of the soul.

* Rifts of doubt almost always measure 1.2 yards.

All Mimsy

Head over to Flash Fiction Online to read my teeny tiny short story All Mimsy.

Useful Text Shortcuts for All Occasions

Apple's iOS5, newly installed on iPhones across the land, has a built-in text expander. Helpful techie websites (e.g. , http://lifehacker.com/5849229/how-to-configure-ios-5s-awesome-built+in-text-expansion) offer useful suggestions for phrases and shortcuts you can program into your phone: "brb" for "Be right back," or "thx" for "Thanks," for example. I feel as though these techies aren't really exploiting the text expander's full potential. To get the most out of my iPhone and to save myself time, I've programed a few shortcuts that will save me countless hours of thumb-typing.

"stm": Stop texting me; I am busy and/or you are boring.

"ctn": Can't text now--I'm driving in the rain on the highway, and every time you text me, you knock me out of the Netflix app and interrupt my screening of "Wives & Daughters."

"ich": I can haz [to be combined with one of the following]

- "chz": cheezburger

- "fum": five uninterrupted minutes

- "atctjhastitsohap": all the children to join hands and sing together in the spirit of harmony and peace

"prs": Proofread your text and resubmit it; I will then consider reading it.

"pdb": Poor, dead bastard.

"wwf" (for use within the Words With Friends app): I accept your surrender.

"manifesto": I hereby declare that I will stand up for the rights of the downtrodden, the neglected, the hungry; and that I will cherish every brightly burning spark of inspiration, innovation, inclusion, and love that drives us to be better humans and makes the universe spin with wonder and harmony and joy; and that I will require a margarita.

Foundation Beyond Belief Launches!

I've mentioned before that I'm extremely excited about Foundation Beyond Belief, and not just because our company built the website and both Airan and I are continuing on as volunteers with the group after launch. Even if we had no involvement with the Foundation other than as members, I'd still be over-the-moon excited about it. When Dale McGowan dreamt up this group, he struck a chord with freethinkers, humanists, atheists, what-have-you. Many of us want to be part of a community and want to support efforts to make our world a better place, but without the structure of a church or other faith group, we often have a hard time finding outlets for our charitable impulses. Foundation Beyond Belief addresses that need and brings us together for the greater good.



I'll let Dale explain how the Foundation works:







Today is the big day! If you're so inclined, go to the site, sign up for a membership, set your monthly donation level, and decide how your contribution will be divvied up among the featured charities. Let's get this decade off to a roaring start. Happy New Year, and happy giving!

What are you doing to make the world a better place?

Lately, I've been thinking about what I'm doing to make the world a better place--what I could be doing, what I should be doing. Humanity faces not one but many crises on a global scale--the environment, human rights, access to health care--and far too many of us who are in a position to help have our heads buried in the sand.

We nonreligious folk, in particular, need to be doing more. The American Religious Identification Survey (ARIS) tells us that there are more religiously unaffiliateds in the U.S. than ever before, yet studies show that secular Americans donate less time and money to charity than our religious neighbors. It's very easy for the religious to point at those studies as proof that we're morally inferior. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to prove them wrong.

Dale McGowan, the founder and executive director of Foundation Beyond Belief, likes to talk about memes. I think his new Foundation responds to a meme that's been in the minds of atheists/agnostics/humanists/freethinkers--we all want to do more. The Foundation is our invitation to gather together, to pool our resources and our ideas in service of humanity.

Do you get a warm, fuzzy feeling when you put out your recycling? Great. Now take it a step further. The Foundation's Facebook Cause page drew 1,700 members. If each of them signs up to give just $10 a month, $1 in each of the Foundation's 10 categories, by the end of a year we'll have raised $204,000 for charity. That's $20,400 to promote human rights around the world, $20,400 to protect the environment, $20,400 to combat poverty. That's huge. I know times are tough, but can't we all swing $10 a month? And those among us who can give more will boost those numbers even higher.

Now, this isn't a competition. It's not about which group of people gives more or does the most good. But if that's what it takes to move us to action, great. The world benefits. We're all giving more. We're all doing good.

So I'm asking you to join me. Create your account at the Foundation website. And do more than sign up for the monthly automatic deduction. Get involved. Read the blog, and leave your comments. Join in the discussion forums. We have a lot of work to do. Let's get to it.

Speaking of that blog, I'm extremely honored that Dale caved to my begging and appointed me blog editor for the Foundation. We're still gathering our stable of bloggers, so if you have a favorite blogger who's talking about human rights, education, poverty, peace, child welfare, animal protection, or health (and who also happens to be a humanist), send 'em my way. Thanks!

Skinny

I believe my daughters to be quite slender. They're tiny little things, still light and easy to pick up and haul around. But maybe that's just me seeing what I want to see. You be the judge:

Assuming we all agree that these children are skinny little girls, can someone please explain to me why it is that I cannot find pants that fit them? Size 3T is just the right length, but way too tight around the middle. Size 5T is perfect at the waist, but the girls' feet drown in all that extra length. Are my children not normally proportioned? Sure, they're smallish for four-year-olds, but they're not abnormally short of leg or round of midriff.

Do children's clothing manufacturers honestly think these girls need to lose weight? Are they already assaulting us with the idea that we must all be waif thin? Silly me, I thought we had a few more years before we had to start fighting off those negative body images.