JOURNEY TO THE PORTRAIT’S SECRET #77: July 30, 1946

This series is a little bit biographical and a little bit imaginary about my dad and a road trip he took in the summer of 1946, when he turned fifteen. He and a friend hitchhiked from Loring Park to Duluth, into Canada and back again. He was gone from home for a month. I was astonished and fascinated by the tale. So, I added some speculation about things I've always wondered about and this series is the result. To read earlier SHORT LONG JOURNEY NORTH clips, click on the label to the right, scroll down to and click OLDER ENTRIES seven or eight times. The FIRST entry is on the bottom of the last page.

Tommy Hastings and Freddie Merrill woke up to the thundering rumble of a truck roaring past them. It didn’t have a muffler. It didn’t have a top over the back and was full of men.

Neither one moved as it disappeared over the horizon. Finally Freddie whispered, “They’re going to the Cities.”

“Duh,” said Tommy, standing. “Let’s go.” He started walking, the sun glaring full in his face. He stopped. “The sun’s goin’ down.”

Freddie stepped up beside him and said, “Duh.”

“How can we get back home before them?”

“We can’t,” said Freddie.

Tommy spun to face him then shoved him backwards. Freddie didn’t do anything to protect himself. He just fell backward and rolled a little down into the ditch. He stayed there. Tommy slid down and shouted, “Get up! We have to go!”

Freddie rolled over, squinting into the sun. “Go where?”

“Home!”

“Why?”

“To save my ma!”

Freddie shrugged, then said, “Unless you can fly ‘faster than a speeding bullet’, you ain’t gonna catch up with the Communists.”

Tommy screamed, “They’re Socialists!”

Freddie shrugged again. “We don’t got no truck. We don’t got no car. We don’t got nobody but us and our feet.”

Tommy glared down at him. He clenched his teeth tight. He jaw trembled. He turned bright red. He glared some more. The trembling passed. He took a deep breath. “I got a thumb.” He stared down at Freddie for a long time then said, “And so do you.” He held out his hand. The other boy didn’t move for a long time. Tommy held rock solid.

Finally Freddie grinned and held out his hand. Tommy pulled him to his feet as Freddie said, “Now you’re talkin’.” They climbed out of the ditch and headed south,  thumbs stuck out, facing the way they walked. The sun slid a little farther down in the sky.

It slid farther.

Shadows started to crawl across the road and the monster heat that made the other side of the silent road shimmer fell away. Soaked in sweat, Tommy and Freddie trudged in silence, fair hair plastered to their foreheads. “I think I got heat stroke.” Freddie said suddenly.

“You don’t have heat stroke,” said Tommy.

“How do you know? Last time I looked, you weren’t a doctor.”

“Last time I looked, you weren’t layin’ on the road, you weren’t boiling hot...”

“I am, too!”

“Not the weather, stupid, YOU! Earl said they got heat stroke in the South Pacific all the time.”

“How come he told you that?”

They trudged in silence until Tommy finally said, “‘Cause I told him I had heat stroke to see if I could get outta school”

Freddie barked a laugh just as a cool breeze dribbled from the north, along the road and slid up their backs. Both boys sighed and trudged a few more feet until they stopped.

The breeze carried the deep-throated rumble of the diesel engine of a big rig.  

Image: http://rlv.zcache.com/hitchhikers_1937_postcard-rbf112e822dc04d10acd46d68344da7d2_vgbaq_8byvr_324.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 226

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

H Trope: The dead coming back to life...

Current Event: Any “miraculous” “resurrection” of someone who was “dead”…

Ephraim Mendoza shook his head and said, “That can’t be.”

Mercedes Chokkoon pursed her lips, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. When she opened her eyes, she said, “She’s dead. I was with her when she died.”

Frowning, Ephraim looked at her, eyes wide and said, “You said she’d be fine.”

Mercedes shrugged. She couldn’t take any more of this. “She was my sister. She was just your girlfriend. You think this is easy for me?”

He stared at her for a long time before he said, “No. That’s why I don’t understand how cold you’re acting. You sister is dead. The love of my...” his voice caught and he looked away. Not before she saw the tears slid down his face.

Mercedes glare at him, willing herself to blame him. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Blame you.”

“What do you mean ‘blame you’? How could I have had anything to do with...”

Mercedes shook her head hard, “Nothing you did. Nothing you didn’t do. She wanted to live for you.”

“So? She wanted to live for you, too!”

“Not enough.”

“You’re blaming her for dying?” he said, incredulous. “She didn’t do anything to deserve this! She had no control...”

Mercedes slapped him. Then found her hands clenched in fists. One moment she was trembling, the next she was hitting him. She hit his face. Hit his nose. His eyes. Then she kneed him in the groin. He shoved her away, slamming her into the wall. She bounced off, spun, and fell face-first into the meal tray, screaming obscenities at him. He was down on the floor with her, hands around her throat, pressing; pressing; pressing the life out of her...

On the bed beside them, Chante sat up and said, “Stop it. Now.” There was no emotion in her voice. There wasn’t even a breath. The sound came without her moving her lips.

Mercedes scrambled back, free suddenly from Ephraim’s hands. He tried to stand as well, but tumbled over her. They found themselves with their backs against the hospital room door, side-by-side, clasping hands.

The heart monitor, still connected to her, was silent. The respirator, still taped to her jaw, was silent. The EEG waves turned the screen green with wild activity as she spoke, “Stop it. I love you both and if you don’t stop fighting…”

Names: ♀ French, Thai; ♂ Israeli, Mexican; ♀ French

Image: http://eq2wire.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/grave-hand.jpg

WRITING ADVICE: What Went RIGHT With “612 See, 612 Do” (Perihelion July 2014) Guy Stewart #24

In September of 2007, I started this blog with a bit of writing advice. A little over a year later, I discovered how little I knew about writing after hearing children’s writer, Lin Oliver speak at a convention hosted by the Minnesota Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Since then, I have shared (with their permission) and applied the writing wisdom of Lin Oliver, Jack McDevitt, Nathan Bransford, Mike Duran, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, SL Veihl, Bruce Bethke, and Julie Czerneda. Together they write in genres broad and deep, and have acted as agents, editors, publishers, columnists, and teachers. Since then, I figured I’ve got enough publications now that I can share some of the things I did “right” and I’m busy sharing that with you.

While I don’t write full-time, nor do I make enough money with my writing to live off of it...neither do all of the professional writers above...someone pays for and publishes ten percent of what I write. When I started this blog, that was NOT true, so I may have reached a point where my own advice is reasonably good. We shall see! Hemingway’s quote above will now remain unchanged as I work to increase my writing output and sales! As always, your comments are welcome!

Once again, I attempted to do something literary based on an idea I’d seen in a paper issue of POPULAR SCIENCE that ended up here as well: http://www.popularmechanics.com/space/g824/5-high-tech-space-junk-solutions/?slide=2

 Dinking around with the “problems” presented in the extremely brief piece, I hit on the idea of replacing electronic components with simplified organic components, that is, a monkey brain. It solved several problems at the same time, and as this story had almost nothing to do with character development – and everything to do with the niftiness of an idea (making it a “pure ANALOG”-type story) I wrote it in a few hours.

Even the title popped out of the narrative unbidden and obvious.

HOWEVER, despite the fact that the idea and title were there, I wrote it with a “typical” ANALOG “happy ending” – quite literally, the little monkey-brained satellite witnessed a sunrise and the dawning of  a new day.

That remained until I started revisions.

The story was short – at right around 1500 words, it almost qualified as a piece of flash fiction. There wasn’t room to develop the character – and having never written a monkey as a main character, there wasn’t much I could imagine it doing. That attitude remained until I reread the story and realized that if the satellite could change its attitude (hahahaha), I could change mine.

While very little changed from the first draft (which was in pen on unlined paper!), giving the satellite the tiniest bit of personality altered the entire outcome of the story.

I’d gone from idea to polished story in five days and sent it off. Like most of my stories, I got rejected right away. Unlike ANY other story I’d ever written, I was rejected personally from Tor.com, ASIMOV’S, and CLARKESWORLD with small notes. I wrote it in February of 2013 in a bit over two hours. The fourth time around, I hit pay dirt at PERIHELION and the story appeared in July of 2014. Most of the intervening time took place as it wound its way through the labyrinthine submission process of Tor.com. It also got lost and I had to resubmit.

So what did I do right with this story:

1) I stuck with my strengths – science and fiction.

2) I wrote fast, finished a draft, and then when I really knew the story, went back and added character depth.

3) I submitted it to top markets.

4) I targeted it.

5) I LOVED it.

I wish I could post it here, but it’s disappeared into the aether. Even so, your comments on the above are welcome, wanted, and needed! What thinkst thou?

Image: http://static4.quoteswave.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/We-are-all-apprentices.jpg

LOVE IN A TIME OF ALIEN INVASION -- Chapter 34

On Earth, there are three Triads intending to integrate not only the three peoples and stop the war that threatens to break loose and slaughter Humans and devastate their world.; but to stop the war that consumes Kiiote economy and Yown’Hoo moral fiber. The Braiders accidentally created a resonance wave that will destroy the Milky Way and the only way to stop it is for the Yown’Hoo-Kiiote-Human Triads to build a physical wall. The merger of Human-Kiiote-Yown’Hoo into a van der Walls Society may produce the Membrane to stop the wave.

The young experimental Triads are made up of the smallest primate tribe of Humans – Oscar and Kashayla; the smallest canine pack of Kiiote – six, pack leaders Qap and Xurf; and the smallest camelid herd of Yown’Hoo – a prime eleven, Dao-hi the Herd mother. On nursery farms and ranches away from the TC cities, Humans have tended young Yown’Hoo and Kiiote in secret for decades, allowing the two warring people to reproduce and grow far from their home worlds.

“We had nearly fallen into stagnation when we encountered the Kiiote.”

“And we into internecine war when we encountered the Yown’Hoo.”

 “Yown’Hoo and Kiiote have been defending themselves for a thousand revolutions of our Sun.”

 “Together, we might do something none of us alone might have done…a destiny that included Yown’Hoo, Kiiote, and Human.” (2/19/2015)

Lieutenant Commander Patrick Bakhsh (ret) – I’d started thinking of him as just “Retired” once he seemed to be on our side – sighed, “Plain and simple heart attack. Your uncle died out in the back forty once morning and we didn’t find him ‘til after sundown. Nothing we could do then,” he shot a glance over his shoulder, “Not even our highly advanced aliens could bring him back.”

We drove in silence and I took over. Pretty soon we were past even the few lights of the city. As the darkness grew, it became more than just an absence of light; somehow oppressive...

Retired said softly, “Sorry, kid. I wish I...”

“I think you’ve said enough,” I snapped.

For the first and only time in our friendship, he sighed and sat back, without saying anything else.

I didn’t want to talk to anyone. My involvement in the Triad had somehow been nothing at all about my choice or even my parent’s choice. The tests I’d taken; the ones they’d threatened me with they told me if I failed them, they’d turn me over to a life with normal people and the rest of war-torn Earth. I sighed. I’d read about “war-torn” Europe, the Reconstruction Era South, the divided Koreas, Fractured Africa, and Proxy America, China, and Russia – where Kiiote and Yown’Hoo maneuvered and skirmished each other. It didn’t have much to do with us.

At least it hadn’t. I said, “What happens to us now?” I shot a glance over my shoulder and said, “I don’t care what happens to them – or you for that matter.” I flipped my hand out into the heavy darkness. “I don’t care about any of it any more. What happens to me?”

Somehow, I was expecting Retired to be stunned by my question. Flustered maybe. Instead, he said immediately, “You’ll be moved to a safe location and sequestered for the rest of your life.”

“You mean I’ll be thrown in prison?”

 “Yes.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” I shouted. I knew the others were in the back of the truck. I knew they were listening. Somehow I knew ‘Shay was sitting behind me; her back to the wall; listening. I didn’t care. “I never wanted to be a part of…of…this!”

I looked over at Retired and he didn’t shout at me to keep my eyes on the road. Instead he said, “You’re absolutely right. You had no choice. Once your biological uncle agreed to help us start the Triad program, he signed your entire family up – forever.”

From the darkness of the back of the truck, a Kiiote voice said, “We, none of us had a choice, my Human friend.” It was Xurf and I suddenly felt embarrassed. Our Human and Kiiote and Yown’Hoo overlords had chosen all of us.

“What for?” I asked.

Even though Retired couldn’t have been reading my thoughts, he must have followed my logic train. He replied, “You were chosen for compatibility. All of you came from the most sympathetic lines your peoples could produce. Even though none of you had a choice, you were...” he paused for a long time, then said, “Chosen.”

“I didn’t want to be chosen!” Behind my head, something slammed against the wall. I knew it was ‘Shay punching it instead of my face. “I don’t care!” I shouted at her. Then to Retired, “Fine. The chosen thing, but the compatibility thing I get. But what’s the big ‘why’? We’re not in the Cities any more. We aren’t protected anymore! There are people out there – aliens! – who are out to kill us because of who we are!”

Dao-hi, the really young Herd Mother to ten Yown’Hoo, said, “There have always been those who have been ‘out to kill us’. The Herd has never been safe, even before Yown’Hoo thought coalesced. Predators have always sought to take us down one-by-one.”

“Us as well!” exclaimed Qap. “Make no mistake, Human, Kiiote are only one apex predator on the home world. Even Humans on Earth fall prey to your sharks, and tigers, and influenza – before they fell prey to Yown’Hoo...”

“…and Kiiote!” said Dao-hi.

“I don’t care!” I shouted. My voice even hurt my ears. There was silence as the truck hummed along in the dark.

Finally Retired said, “I can’t give any other answer, kid. That’s the only one there is. The Triads are the only hope we have of forging a viable civilization of Kiiote, Yown’Hoo, and Human that will not be dependent on war and dominance.”

From the depth of the truck’s cargo area, a tiny voice – probably one of the immature Herd, Ked-sah-ti, I think – said, “Without civilization, every last one of us…and the populations of all three…will die out until there is nothing left but semi-sentient ameba on Y’eh, Kii, and Earth.”

I don’t think anyone else felt like saying anything after that. Not even me.  

Image: http://www.baerwaldresearch.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/Screen-Shot-2013-08-01-at-9.10.41-PM.png

Offline Until Wednesday!

I will be offline starting any time today and will remain offline until Wednesday.

Sorry!

MARTIAN HOLIDAY 73: Paolo Enroute

On a well-settled Mars, the five major city Council regimes struggle to meld into a stable, working government. Embracing an official Unified Faith In Humanity, the Councils are teetering on the verge of pogrom directed against Christians, Molesters, Jews, Rapists, Buddhists, Murderers, Muslims, Thieves, Hindu, Embezzlers and Artificial Humans – anyone who threatens the official Faith and the consolidating power of the Councils. It makes good sense, right – get rid of religion and Human divisiveness on a societal level will disappear? An instrument of such a pogrom might just be a Roman holiday...To see the rest of the chapters, go to SCIENCE FICTION: Martian Holiday on the right and scroll to the bottom for the first story.

Staring at the sonographic image of the strange satellite in the airlock, he was forced into two logical lines of thought.

One logical set of assumptions led to the conclusion that a faction from Earth, the Moon, Venus, or Mars had lost a spy satellite on the surface of Mars. A second assumption, based on the unsettling image of a delphinoid  creature that looked for all the world as if it were intelligent; was the fantastic set irrational assumptions that led to the stunning conclusion that that Humanity was not alone in the universe.

The second set of questions also begged an answer to the question of “when did they watch?”

The ‘bug had been rolling for ten minutes before Paolo realized that there was another question that depended from that answer: were they still watching? He shivered and turned up the ‘bug’s heater. There’d always been mutterings, murmurings, legends, and eventually the tall tale of The Sands That Breathed and Whispered.

Mostly it had been told in order to help Martian children learn to keep their surface suits clean and the air packs charged. He shuddered again, the full strength of a story from The Cousin’s Grimmest Spirit Tales that ended with a poorly maintained suit giving out on the surface and the Sands That Breathe and Whisper seeping in through cracks and vents and eventually the faceplate thrown open in a desperate attempt to breathe Martian air as Ruby Marcillon had breathed air from a Lunar cave once long ago.

What if, though, the tales had their roots in fact? What if the legend was so much a part of the fabric of Mars that memories of the intelligent swimmers – the Watchers – that somehow the sense of them had been passed on to the original Human colonists? “Nothing psychic or spiritual about it,” Paolo muttered. If Mars had been the base of some intelligences other than Human – and evidence from the original SOLAREX mission gave strong evidence that there had been others Watching Humans – then maybe there were artifacts on Mars that had been able to subtly influence the colonization.

The ‘bug bumped along, heading north toward the equator. He stared through the forward port for a while, then reached for the computer. He’d programmed the ‘bug with the Artificial Human quartet from Malacandra to take them to Bradbury, where he’d meet them and see if he could lead them to Christ. Their intelligence data was mostly off the chart and they functioned like a well-oiled machine. If he could argue them into the Kingdom, he’d have powerful allies and open a whole new field for the good news.

But what if they’d been made for more? What if he was only a messenger to them and God was calling them for a greater mission? What if theirs was the main mission – to bring the gospel not just to Mars, but to intelligences beyond Mars?

He scowled for a long time, then reset the ‘bug’s destination to Cydonia and what the 20^th Century had dubbed “The Face On Mars”. Nodding, he reprogrammed his own ‘bug for intercept, then settled back. He’d meet them in Cydonia. Until then, they had a long journey, probably fraught, probably dangerous. He might even die. They might. They all might. With a sigh, he settled back and closed his eyes; not to sleep, but to pray for wisdom and guidance.

Then he fell asleep...

Image: https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_kB5wP5o5VuzbhQVDthrqJohh8uL52IGDt84n3dGhkCI-t4RMfYH8kx-KjMU4CpHSKfJBCYAuX3Vx2BD_SMD5j06A-Tm_tz_6b29Ohv5Dkl5xtNoaecKLHOMkCWDbP_RrQZrjnatLx0A/s1600/Astronauta+Marcos+C%C3%A9sar+Pontes.bmp