Category: Stories

This is a response to a TerribleMinds.com Flash Fiction challenge: a story about rebellion. I thought that it would be fun to base it on a historical event which is considered one of the all-time great cases of failure to rebel.  In another timeline very close to ours, the 11th Hussars nervously took their morning meal under a hazy, blue-grey Ukrainian sky. The greenest of the troops joked that waiting for orders was the worst of it, but those with more experience pointed out that it was only once the orders arrived that their situation would get truly unpleasant. No one laughed, which suited the veterans, who took their tea in silence. A group of the seasoned men sat huddled closer to a small cooking fire than the warm morning required, mostly out of familiarity but also so as to be able to speak with lower voices and, perhaps, greater candor. Corporal St. James, whose first name was Cecil but was universally known as “Knebby” as he was born in Knebworth, slurped his tea messily. Private Reginald Shrew, a godly man who sat more upright than could possibly have been comfortable. With them was their unit leader, Sergeant Samuel Vinegar. Vinegar was the sort of leader the men could really get behind, as getting behind Sergeant Vinegar meant you usually survived the battle. Vinegar resented being regarded as an authority, but not as much as he resented people who looked down on him and his men because they possessed even more authority. “General Cardigan’s been having his sword polished all morning,” said Shrew, who wasn’t as careful with his phrasing as he might have been, hence Knebby’s smirk. “Must think we’ll be on the move this morning, and not back to London.” Vinegar was watching something on a nearby hill. “I’d settle for Paris,” said Knebby wistfully. “I’ve got a girl back there.” “In a cage, like as not,” thought Shrew, who was charitable as the next man, but there were limits. “There’s a horse coming. Looks like he’s coming from HQ. Look alive gentlemen,” said Vinegar. “Yeah, coz we might look somewhat less so by tonight.” added Knebby, not quite under his breath. The rider was Captain Nolan, aide-de-camp to the Brigadier Airey and his presence could me only one thing: The generals had moved the figures representing the 11th Hussars across their game board representing the battlefield, probably knocking a few over in the process to represent expected casualties. Lieutenant Vinegar wondered how many of his men would be among those “knocked over.” Nolan rode directly to Cardigan’s camp and the two of them began an animated discussion. Nolan dismounted hurriedly and read what must have been the orders to the general. Vinegar and his men couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was being said with great passion, or at least great volume. “Why do you suppose they’re yelling at each other?” asked Private Shrew. “I’m no great shakes when it comes to reading lips,” offered Knebby, “but I figure it might be somethin’ to do with that Russian artillery on the other side of the valley.” “Ah, that would explain why they’re gesturing and pointing in that direction!” Shrew brightened up a bit as though he’d placed a piece in a puzzle. “That’s certainly one possible explanation,” said Vinegar, who was considerably better at working puzzles than Reginald Shrew. Before long, the horns called the entire brigade into formation. Soon, several hundred light horsemen were gathered and awaiting their orders. General Cardigan rode out in front of the assembled ranks and drew his saber something he did only when he needed to deliver an exceptionally rousing speech. “Men of the Light Brigade, we have received orders from General Raglan. We are to impede and harry attempted Russian withdrawal of cannon and support personnel.” “It’s ‘cannons’,” whispered Knebby. “The plural of ‘cannon’ is, in fact, ‘cannon’,” Shrew replied under his breath. Knebby lifted his eyes in the direction of the glinting Russian field pieces. “I mean the plural of the plural, if you know what I mean. Bloody lot of ’em.” Cardigan continued, caught up in his speech and unaware of the murmuring in the ranks. “I won’t pretend that it will be a walk in the park. These Russians look up to the task and I expect them to give us their what for. I would wager most units, even the finest in this man’s army, would break before the barrage we’re likely to encounter. You, however, are going to become legends today. You will be remembered as heroes, willing to face near certain death and risk all for God, for country, and for the Queen!” Vinegar said nothing but thought that he might prefer to be remembered as a husband and father, and that becoming a legend is something that is most often done posthumously. He sensed a nervousness in the men around him. He could almost feel Knebby about to say something a little too loud that would get him a month’s hard duty if he were to survive these suicidal orders. “On my signal, prepare to charge! Boldly we charge in to the jaws of death! Into the mouth of hell! Our glory shall not fade!” Lord Cardigan was rather proud of that bit and hoped it would be met with “huzzahs” from his men, or at least indistinct cheers. Instead, he heard nervous mumbling and shuffling (not an easy thing for mounted troops to manage). “Bugger all this!” “Who was that? Who? Show yourself! Come forward!” Cardigan had dealt with dissent before and knew he’d best deal with it swiftly, in front of his men. Vinegar shot the guilty-looking Knebby  a look, broke ranks and rode to meet his commander. “Now then, sergeant. What…” Before Cardigan could say anything else, Vinegar broke in. “Is it your intention to lead us in a charge in to that artillery barrage?” “Eh, what? Yes, of course. Orders, you know? Ours is not…*gurgle*” The gurgle was the sound that escaped Cardigan’s throat as Vines drew his knife and, in one swift motion, cut Cardigan’s throat. The general slumped over and fell from his mount as Vinegar wheeled his horse around and faced the men. There was still an air of nervousness, but it was now tempered with no small measure…

This is a response to a TerribleMinds.com Flash Fiction challenge: a story about a non-traditional apocalypse. Because, you know, most apocalypses are so mundane these days. Anyway, I’m working on one that’s a good deal more serious and personal, but it’s not ready for prime time. This one’s not either, but it was fun to assemble and format (thanks to Nicole for solving a really ugly roadblock). Either a whimper or a bang work equally well in this one, although describing them might be problematic. The key to beating any disease is not, as many believe, having a cure. Prevention and resistance are the first lines of defense; destroying the ailment after it has been acquired is nothing more than the last resort. We knew this, of course, but it prevention does no good when the attack arrives from an angle previously unimagined. The most fearsome plagues are those which not only destroy their hosts, but also cripples any attempts to fight back. When we first began to suspect that something was wrong, that we were under attack, it was already too late. The very tools we used to solve the riddle were rendered ineffective almost immediately. We created some workarounds, crude at first, increasingly intricate as the disease progressed. Our counter-measures were slow, too slow, to halt the progress of the malady, but we live in hope that these works will be the seed which will set humanity, what survives that is, on the road to recovery. If you‘ll allow me an aside here, you may well wonder why I am even bothering with committing this account to paper. That is a reasonable question and I have no satisfying answer. I could say that I am documenting the nature of our demise in hope that future generations, if there are any, will learn from it. That’s just a sick joke, though, given the nature of this particular plague. Besides, to be honest, while we have grown to understand the mechanics, the physical manifestation of the illness, we have made no progress in understanding its nature. How can such a thing happen? one theory is that, while we experience what we believe are external symptoms, it is the instruments of our perception which are under attack. That would explain the universality of this plague which manifests in such a localized manner that it beggars belief. Another theory posits that the attack is not viral, bacterial, or neurological, but rather algorithmic. This is a tidy concept, but it altogether too simple to properly explain how the experience is equivalent, but not identical, for victims in okinawa and Leipzig. If the attack is one based on a set of logical rules, and the rules have been devised so as to work identical in such radically different environments, then that suggests an intelligence behind the attack. That is a proposition to diabolical, not to mention unlikely, to merit consideration. Regardless of the source of the enigma, it was effective to a degree I would not have imagined possible. While we were able to swiftly identify the pathology of the attack, we were unable to contain the general panic it caused. Even today, it seems unlikely that such an apparently harmless (at least physically so) bug would engender such a violent reaction. Every loss set off riots, even when we reached the point where we could accurately calculate the period between each event. Steady as a clock it was, and yet each of its ticks may as well have been the click of a detonator. With what we now know, the end was always inevitable. We fought, and fought well. We tested incessantly. If we could know nothing of the source or the cure, then at least we could understand its behavior. The printed word suffered in the most obvious way, but we were more than a little shocked when we discovered that the speech was equally impaired. How could that be so? nonetheless, we created visual meta-languages which could be used to get by, if not to move forward. We used sounds, variations in pitch and tone and rhythm, and we made more progress than you might have guessed, but it was all for naught. We determined much too late that machines were affected in the same way we were. Whilst humanity is quite resilient in finding new paths when another is blocked, machines are almost entirely devoid of this facility. When the communication between bleeping box and glowing rectangle started to fail, there was no stopping the rot. Soon all manner of devices which relied upon communication were rendered utterly unable to function. not only did media fail, but so did the banking system, the power grid, telecommunications, and ultimately, all governmental authority. Chaos did not do it justice. I am saddened to report that our better natures abandoned us at this point and all higher creeds and moral codes were replaced by “every man for himself.” A few of us who adjudged ourselves to be the best hope for reversing the disease walled ourselves into bunkers and let the rest of the world fend for itself. It fared poorly. And, if I am to be wholly honest, I would confess that the altruism of our isolation was more of an excuse than anything. we sought safety and if any salvation were to come of it, well, that would be nice as well. funnily enough, we have never discovered the vector for this plague. It is entirely possible the paper on which you are reading it is infected. perhaps it becomes imbedded in the very language itself, crippling the unsuspecting reader by the mere act of reading. Should that be the case, then it strikes me as extremely unlikely that there is anything to be gained by writing further. The disease will have its hooks in you and, presuming that it progresses as the pace we’ve previously observed, you will have only a few random letters arranged on an otherwise white page from which to deduce my intent. pity. So I will leave you now as the prospect that my report will not only fail to serve its purpose, but in fact provide this plague with new victims, depresses me mightily and depression is one thing I have no further need of. Should you, by some miracle,…

Another of Chuck Wendig’s Terribleminds.com flash fiction challenges. This one’s called “KIDS SAY THE DARNDERNIEST THINGS.” I like this a lot better after a major rework and dumping half of it, but it’s still more of a snapshot of an idea than a story.    I kept an aluminum frame chair under the huge live oak tree out on my property. I kept it there for nights like this. The sun had just dipped down out of sight but half the sky was still a brilliant cobalt blue. This time of the year, mid-summer, the fireflies put on a show and tonight was no exception. I had a bottle of wine with me, but hadn’t even opened it yet. I was just enjoying the show.  I just wanted you to know that I hadn’t been drinking. I don’t touch drugs, other than a drink or two from time to time. I need you to know this, to know that I was doing nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t understand why it chose to show itself to me, but the important thing is that it did, that I’m not mad or drunk or dreaming. ——————— It was wearing a swarm of bees in place of it’s head (I have to remind myself not to use gendered pronouns for whatever these things are, not matter what body or name they’re using at the time.) The bees appeared to orbit a dim, golden light at the center of where it’s skull would have been. They were silent, too silent for bees, but there was no comfort in that. There was a sense of movement in the orbit of the bees as though Auberon were turning its head to face me. I shuddered. Somehow, the dry wings and stickly legs found a voice and it spoke to me. “I can still see without a face.” I doubled over, only just keeping myself from retching, and closed my eyes. I’ve seen them do so many things that the bodies they were wearing weren’t suited to do, but never up close, only on a screen and at a distance. It paused, probably regarding my reaction, and spoke again. “I’ve upset you. It is difficult to anticipate how you will react. I thought it beautiful.” I opened my eyes, looking for a rock or log to sit on, settling instead on a grassy spot near an enormous live oak. In retrospect, it was right. The fireflies were unusually active and seemed to be more so the closer they were to the slender figure in a long purple cape over a loose white shirt and purple trousers, a twentieth century idea of sixteenth century finery. In place of its head, the orb of bees with the dim golden glow coming from inside the globe. A photograph or painting of the scene would have been stunning. It was in movement that the beauty became something more disturbing. They never quite got the hang of how bodies worked, so the limbs moved like a spider’s, independently and far too deliberate. The location of the joints seemed uncertain and changed from moment to moment. Even when their faces were human, they didn’t know how to mimic human expressions, or perhaps they didn’t care. When the were more creative with their visages…I forced myself to face it. So long as it wasn’t talking, I could take it. “What are you called?” it rasped and whispered through tiny legs and wings. “Wendell,” I answered, concentrating on not concentrating on the movements on the surface of its not-face. “Wendell. Yes. Good.” They are not known for their humor but I couldn’t help but think it was pausing waiting for me to react. I flubbed my lines and so it continued. “Wendell, I call myself Auberon here.”  I nodded because I didn’t know what the hell else to do, and asked, “Auberon…that’s one of ours, isn’t it? Why Auberon?” “It is. We immerse ourselves in cultures. We wear bodies, faces, and names when we can visit. Sometimes, they are local, more often not. Cut and paste.” I stared. “Cut and paste?” “Think of writing Mary Poppins in to Star Wars. It is not important. I am cheating by doing this. Auberon is not just who I am wearing; Auberon is a metaphor.” I closed my eyes. Watching bee bodies form words was not easy. “Auberon is a fairy. Auberon doesn’t have bees.” It’s arms moved in a gesture I didn’t recognize but nothing about it suggested that Auberon liked my answer. “No, Auberon does not have bees. But I do.” “Like a mask?” “Haven’t you heard? I wear no mask,” and again, an expectant pause. I took a deep breath, tried to guess at what response it wanted, and again failed.  “I’m not really very good at this.” “I am not making it easy on you, and for this I am sorry. I am not permitted to be more clear, and I am taking a risk by meeting you in this form and saying what I have said.” “I don’t understand. I mean, I don’t get what you’re worried about. You’re not really Auberon. You’re not really a person.” “No, Wendell,” and a low drone was forming behind its voice, “and how is it that you are certain that I am not Auberon?” “Auberon isn’t real. Auberson is a role you’re playing. You’re wearing him like a coat over whatever it is you are.” ———————– It was at this point that I am certain that the bees of its face swirled into, if not a smile, then a look of satisfaction or something. I blinked and Auberon unhappened. It wasn’t there, and it had never been there. I swear as God is my witness I don’t know what the hell that was about. I know I’m not crazy, I know what I saw, but I can’t make any sense of it. I’m not sleeping well these days. I know, I just know that it thought it had told me something important and if I could just work it out, it’d be the most important thing I’ve ever done. I’m not going to be right again until this is over.  Help me, please.

This is another one of Wendig’s Flash Fiction thingies. The instructions are longer than the story: This challenge is, as many of them are, both simple and complex, both easy and difficult. I want you to write a story in five sentences. No more than 100 words. You can view it, if you’d like, as: Sentence 1: Beginning / Inciting Incident Sentence 2: Middle Sentence 3: Middle peak, act turn or pivot Sentence 4: Climactic turn or twist Sentence 5: Resolution That is not a strict map, but rather, a reminder that a story is a story, not a snapshot: it has a beginning, a middle and an end. I’m pretty happy with how it worked it, even though I accidentally posted the unedited, 138-word version on his site. The first sentence makes me happy, but it sent me down a path that owes a debt to Arthur C. Clarke.  —————————— When the apocalypse arrived, it did so in an unobtrusive, almost apologetic fashion. For years, we carried on as though nothing had happened even though the future was slowly draining away. It felt like we should be doing something but how do you confront something like the world coming to an end? In the end, we didn’t; we embraced it instead of going to war with it. The end of the universe was just the end of who we were and all we needed to do was to let it go to become what we were always meant to be.

Here’s what I came up with for the Terribleminds.com Flash Fiction Challenge: The Subgenre Tango. It’s kind of “military sci-fi,” but it’s very much not at the same time, and the mythology aspect of it is very modern and very obvious. It’s not my best work, but it does have the virtue of being genuinely “flash” in that I wrote it in one sitting and it’s actually under the assigned word count for a change.  I was in a bad mood when I wrote this one. ————————————————— Sergey M’tume’s tour of duty in Zone M was less than a week from complete when the distress call came in. If things had just stayed quiet for another seven standard days, he’d have entered the entangler/detangler device, watched the think suck a hellish amount of power from God knows what source, maybe geothermal but probably a pair of nuclear fission reactors, and wake up the next morning next to a similar EDD close enough to one of Earth’s Lagrange points to start thinking about being home with his family. Sergey M’tume really, really wanted to be home with his family.  Tours were long because, although long distances could be traversed at speeds that still felt magical to Corporal M’tume, the energy costs were so high that they were largely restricted to military usage and even then, they were used judiciously. A common joke among troops was that every time they were deployed, you could see the sun grow dimmer.  M’tume was, of course, the only troop in the area. Early warriors used weapons which would require to several blows to incapacitate a single opponent. By the twentieth century, it was possible for an individual to carry a device which would reduce a city to rubble. The continuation of this trend meant that Corporal M’tume had at his disposal the capability to wipe out all life on a planet if he needed to. Several times, in fact, although you had to have a seriously twisted imagination to think of reasons why you’d ever need that kind of ordinance. The signal came from Dalt 3. “Of course it did,” thought M’tume. Getting a call this late into your rotation was bad enough, but the folks on Dalt would only ask for help when things got really bad. Don Dalt was a legendary individualist, rugged and charismatic. When the overcrowding on Earth finally reached the point where borders became unenforceable and people had to live face to face with their neighbors. Dalt bristled at having to restrict himself in any way, feeling it was a moral failing to submit in any ways to the will of a “society.” Dalt and like minded unique individualists, fed up with accommodating proximity to other people, packed up and left.  The Daltian exodus was unique in human history. Instead of rag tag refugees carrying whatever possessions they had on their backs, these were some of the wealthiest individuals on the planet. They had connections, both civil and military, which allowed them to bring a substantial portion of their goods with them.  Recent surveys had found an Earthlike world in a system which didn’t even have a proper name yet. The Earth government spent a small fortune setting up an EDD station nearby. Dalt and his crew claimed the planet, which would become known as Dalt 3, and sailed their enormous yachts to the Lagrange EDD station. No one is certain how they received clearance to move so many massive vessels. The energy cost would have bankrupted even men as wealthy as Dalt. Rumor had it that they’d managed a subsidy from the Earth government, but this was never proven. They’d been the best, the brightest, and certainly the most confident individuals on the planet. They were leaving behind a world that did not appreciate their contributions. When they left, both the standard of living and productivity of the planet spiked in a way which was hard to explain, but Dalt and his people suspected that the government was cooking the books. What else could it be? Corporal M’tume’s ship suddenly started picking up….he wasn’t sure exactly what. There was signal, but there was so much noise that he was reasonably sure his vessel didn’t have the ability to pick out any specific communications. He frowned. He had no great love for the people of Dalt 3, who complained about the presence of even a single troop in their sector, but the electromagnetic cacophony M’tume was receiving boded very, very ill for the Daltians. Dalt 3 was a marvelous beautiful world. The surface was approximately ninety percent water, but the land poking out of the seas was uniformly magnificent. The terrain was rugged, mountainous, lush, green, and warm year round. The large amounts of ocean allowed the Daltians to keep a good distance from each other. No doubt this was a good thing as the Daltians were fanatical about their individualism and protected it fiercely. Weapons which had been outlawed on the surface of the Earth, similar to some of the ones carried by Sergey M’tume and his ship, were commonplace on Dalt 3. Most Daltians would look at your suspiciously if you didn’t have one with you. Of course, most Daltians would look at you suspiciously anyway. As Corporal M’tume began the long process of matching orbits with Dalt 3, he finally was able to get some definition on his telescope. The early images had been fuzzy and out of focus. Sergey pulled a stock image of the planet up and compared the new visuals he was getting. There was no more green on Dalt 3. There were no ships in orbit. There were no cities. There were no buildings. Corporal M’tume suddenly became conscious of the complete lack of anything resembling communications on any band. Later, in his report, he would say that he was overcome with grief at the realization that Dalt 3 was now completely free of human life or, as surveyors would later learn, all life of any sort. In truth, his next thought was “How the hell am I going to write a report on this?” Over the next three days, Corporal M’tume deployed all of his communications buoys in low orbit and took as much detailed footage of the surface as he could. Dalt 3 was now a world…

  This one’s a response to Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Ten More Titles over on Terribleminds.Com. If this challenge seems similar to last week’s, that’s due to the fact that Mr. Wendig got a little lazy. Fortunately, the titles we were given this time around were spectacular.  This story’s a little…different. Enjoy? 1 September, 2019   Greetings students of the Newman-Phillips school, We are pleased to inform you that, as a result of your completion of your coursework at the school, you have been selected to participate in a project which will surely seem so incredible to you as to appear impossible. You are going to be a time-travelers. While this will be a great adventure, perhaps the greatest experienced by any human, we must be blunt: Your journey has a purpose, and it is not one to be taken lightly. The future is broken. In a time between yours and ours, humanity lost their way. They ceased to be the masters of their own fate. They very nearly ceased. They may yet. We have selected you so that you might arouse your species, our species, and steer them clear of the disaster ahead. Here is what will happen: This evening, you will meet in the gymnasium cavern. It is being equipped with beds, terminals, and enough food and supplies to survive your journey. You will go to sleep tonight and when you awaken, ten years will have passed. You will be administered drugs to ensure you sleep. We have not tested the effects of time travel on a waking mind, but the results of our simulations are disturbing. You will not want to be awake. The device which will allow you traverse will require time, perhaps a week, to recharge. When it has recharged, you will go to sleep again and make another jump of ten years. You will repeat this process several times until you arrive at the critical time, prior to the beginning of troubles. We have tried to anticipate your concerns. Here are the answers to some of the questions we presume you will have: 1. The machine is a small gravity wave generator. It is not ideal, but we were limited by how much information we could send to your time and what resources were available. 2. We can send matter, and even living beings forward in time, but only information can travel to the past. Otherwise, we would have been equipped to solve the problem ourselves. 3. You can use your waking hours to learn about the current time period, but you will not be able to leave the cavern. We cannot afford the possibility that any of you might be abducted or otherwise unable to continue your journey. You are all of enormous importance. We will attempt to provide additional information as is possible. However… 4. Time travel is an imperfect activity under the best of circumstances. These are not the best of circumstances. Your jumps may not all be exactly ten years in length and you may under- or over-shoot the expected time of arrival. You are the brightest minds of your generation. We trust you to improvise. 5. When you arrive, you will not only be able to leave the gym cavern, but you will also be able to leave the complex. It will be terrifying, but we know that if anyone can adapt, it is you. Again, we trust you. 6. We have located a small network of people living near the time period when we expect you to complete your journey. You will be provided information about them during your waking periods. They will help you acclimate to the new world. They will assist you in any way possible. They will be your most valuable resource. Use them well. This opportunity will not be extended to any others. The cost in time, effort, and most especially resources to coordinate this effort in our distant past is immense. We teeter on a very fine edge between success and failure. Success would restore humanity to it’s rightful role. Failure would mean oblivion. We understand that this must sound insane. It is insane. It is the last throw of the dice and, in such circumstances, one does not always have the luxury of consulting the odds. We deeply regret having pulled you in to this without your consent. We know this is a long shot, but understand that you exist in the blind spot of what humanity is up against. They’ll never see you coming. You can do this. We love you. We believe in you. Good luck, The Future   Shit,” Carl said to himself, waking up at his desk for the third time this week. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and felt articulate enough to elaborate on his initial reaction. “Shit shit shit shit shit shit.” 2039 was just starting to come online, right on schedule, and, while Carl had made all of the tweaks he’d planned on making, it didn’t feel finished. He was a stickler for details, but he had to keep reminding himself that he was comparing his work to his own experience, something the students couldn’t do. In the early 2000’s, with the rise of the internet, it became possible to access an unprecedented fraction of human activity. Shortly thereafter, it became possible to make a backup of what was essentially the entire network. In theory, one could then restore the whole thing and experience the internet as of a certain date in the past.  In a sense, the hard part was over. Running the students through the most of the first two decades of the century offered the most opportunities to fuck up the continuity, to give the kids a chance to bump up against the walls of their garden. If they’d made it this far, the rest should be easy. They’d only be spending a week in 2039 while “the tunnel machine recharged” and they’d spend most of that seriously disoriented. People had been anticipating the singularity long before it actually happened, but they’d gotten it almost comically wrong. Most people assumed it would be started by an artificial intelligence which made the leap to self-awareness, growing in all ways imaginable at incredible speed, outstripping the human ability to react. What actually happened was so much more mundane, so much more ridiculous, people…

This is a response to the writing prompt Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose Your Title And Write on Chuck Wendig’s Terribleminds blog.  —————————————– Edison always got out of bed when Derek’s alarm went off even though his husband inevitably hit the snooze at least twice. Having spent the first thirty years of his life only seeing a sunrise when the party went a little late, Edison was now a born-again morning person. It was a source of pride to him to get up before Derek, even though it was Derek who had a ninety minute commute ahead of him. Getting up early let Edison get the coffee started. Even though they owned a machine which would grind and make the coffee at a set time, Edison insisted that the machine’s version of coffee didn’t do justice to the beans they had flown in from the Caribbean, so he ground them himself in a spice mill and put the water to pour over the grounds on the stove. It pleased Edison whenever Derek told him how good the coffee was that Derek always made an effort to mention it. When Derek left for work, Edison gave him a quick, but not at all rote, kiss. Now alone, he changed into his cycling clothes. Early morning, just as the sun came up, was his favorite time to get on the bike and get his workout in. His morning rides gave his tall, slender frame a tautness that nearly countered the less-careful years of his youth. As such, he looked good for his age, but he didn’t look young for it. He timed his rides so that he would get home shortly before Derek arrived at his office. Edison asked Derek to call when he got to work, just to make sure the trip was a safe one. Even though a text would have served the same purpose, they always spoke, even if just briefly. It was going to be a long day for Derek. He was a vice president at a company which expanded and contracted with regularity. Today, Derek would meet with a client whose continued business was required to avoid a contraction and the layoffs that went with it. The outcome of the meeting was far from certain. It was a wonder that Derek could sleep at all. Some night he didn’t. Edison showered, regarded the thinning peninsula of jet black hair in the center of his scalp with the eyes of an executioner who was trying to decide “when,” not “if.” He decided “not yet.” Still in his bathrobe, he went upstairs and locked himself in to his studio. Edison and Derek lived in one of those modern homes built on a lot too small to contain it. There were no curves in the design, just blocks stacked up blocks. The third story, a loft which was probably meant to be a bedroom, was where Edison made his films. Edison came to film making relatively late in life. He’d always wanted to do it, but to do it right, the way he wanted to do it, it took time and money. He was working for a marketing firm when he and Derek met. It wasn’t precisely love at first sight, as the two of them were strong personalities who had little tolerance for drama. Their courtship had some of the characteristics of a negotiation, but however they got there, they arrived in a place of almost cloyingly romantic devotion. Derek wanted to give Edison what he’d always wanted the most, so Edison resigned from the firm and started working on his studio. The next step in Edison’s routine, and a routine it was, was to put on some instrumental music to put him in the right mood. He checked his mail, skimming past the usual spam and not-quite-spam-but-not-worth-reading messages. The only message was from Sharon, one of his oldest and best friends, and one of the few people Edison regarded as a peer. Sharon was checking in to make sure they were still on for lunch today. Sharon possessed apparently limitless resources, surprising amounts of free time for someone who held a full time job, and a taste for bleeding-edge technology. The fact that she’d sent an email was a concession to Edison’s preferences which Sharon regarded as kind of quaint. Now that the lunch plans were firmed up, Edison had only a few hours to kill, not nearly enough to do any serious work. It was, however, just enough time to check out the Moroccan film he found last week, mis-categorized, in an obscure corner of Amazon. A big part of making films was seeing as many, from as many sources, as possible. Most weeks, he saw as many as eight, sometimes ten movies. It was time-consuming, but Edison felt it was a critical part of the job. This one struck Edison as a competent re-telling of the Walter Mitty story, but with better music. The lunch was at a place within walking distance of Edison’s house. The movie ran a little long, so Sharon had already been there for fifteen minutes before Edison arrived. He’d ordered drinks for both of them. The restaurant was famous for two things: Having the best sausage supplier in town, and having access to rum of the sort that a little neighborhood restaurant shouldn’t be expected to have. Neither Sharon nor Edison ever missed out on sampling at both. Sharon waved to Edison, who had already seen her since she was the only other customer in the restaurant at 11:15. Not that it was difficult to pick Sharon out in a crowd. Sharon looked more like Sharon than anyone else on the planet. She wore her hair, and had always worn her hare, in a page boy cut which had probably been in style when she was twelve. She was very slightly cross-eyed, and she wore thick glasses a little too big for her face. Somehow, no matter what she wore, she looked like she was dressed “business casual,” even when she wasn’t. Sharon painted whenever she wasn’t working or having drinks with Edison’s circle of friend. She was good, too. Not terribly original, but her work was too good to be explained by having all the best supplies available to her. If she’d had lessons, and she…