This story features a band of adventurers called The Brotherhood of the Brave. Thee characters are based on characters from a Dungeons and Dragons (D&D) campaign I was involved in back in high school.
Back in 2001, I was part of a group that decided to make role playing products for the new open gaming license (d20 system) put out for D&D. I designed an adventure module called The Game. This story was an attempt to put the module in a story format, showing one way a party of adventurers could run it. The intent was to include it in the module as bonus content. The module never got published - and the story never got finished. As outlined, the story has a good 12 Chapters. I had written eight. I figure now is as good a time as ever to finish it.
These first chapters aren't my best writing ever, and I've improved a lot since I wrote them. Still, I hope you might enjoy it. So, here's Chapter 1 of "The Game."
"Help! By the spirits, he's trying to kill me!"
From the woods ahead of the party came a man of medium stature. His shoulder length brown hair was wet and stringy with sweat and his face wore the haunted, frightened look of a deer pursued by wolves. His once fine clothes were stained and torn, a cloak hanging in tatters about stooped shoulders. His eyes darted about as he stumbled and almost fell, then latched onto the four friends who stood dumbstruck at the man's sudden appearance.
"Please...save me!"
As if to add weight to the reality of the man's peril, a crossbow bolt slammed into his left thigh, spinning him full circle and dropping him to the earth with a cry of pain.
The four flew into immediate action. The woman rushed to the man's aid, gentle hands ripping open the cloth of his trousers to examine the seriousness of the wound. The three men took up a defensive posture around the two, drawing weapons with practiced ease. Their skills were soon tested as the man's pursuer burst from the shadows of the forest.
The short, burly one stepped forward to intercept the attacker. The assassin responded by tossing a handful of white powder into the powerful fighter's face. Blinded, and suddenly without breath, the defender fell to his knees, dropping his mace. The assassin's killing stroke was parried by the quick interposition of a bastard sword that caught the rapier's blade just above the hilt and threw it out wide. Foiled in his attempt, the assailant launched a series of lightning fast attacks, confident that his speed and lighter weapon would make short work of his opponent. Amazingly, the lithe defender met and countered each new strike with an ease that unnerved the assassin. He leapt backwards and reached behind him. A dagger flashed from his hand, flying with unerring accuracy at the defender, only to be deflected by a minute flick of the man's blade.
Seeing that he was outmatched, the assassin fled back to the safety of the forest. The third man in the group quickly drove his twin short swords into the earth and nocked an arrow in the bow that seemly appeared in his hands from out of the air. The arrow was loosed as the assassin made the final jump into the safety of the trees. The shaft caught the man in the left calf and he hit the ground with his face. He raised up on his elbows for a brief moment and then dropped, his limbs convulsing violently before his body was still.
Valinor Trollslayer shouldered his bow, drew his blades from the ground and moved to where the downed assassin lay. He was sure of what he would find, but moved with a deliberate caution, ready for the unexpected. He knelt next to the still form and checked for the nonexistent pulse. A bubbly froth gave evidence to what had occurred and the mild scent of almonds confirmed it: poison, probably cyanide.
Meanwhile, Teserk Deseau sheathed his bastard sword at his back and bent to help his comrade. The big half-dwarf, Colin of Trenchmar, was rubbing furiously at red and tearing eyes, but otherwise seemed unharmed.
"Salt peter," Teserk said helpfully. "It'll pass. No serious harm done."
"Iff'n ye donnae want t' feel me boot in yer backside, ye'll be keepin' yer comments t' yerself!" Colin retorted with a snort. "Goin' help the lass."
Teserk hid a smile and turned to face his friend Theadina Tyderon as she tended the assassin's victim.
"Put this in his mouth and hold his head still," she said, handing Teserk a length of clean linen cloth. He twisted the cloth and the man accepted it between his teeth, his eyes showing he knew what was coming. The injured man groaned as Theadina pulled the crossbow bolt from his thigh with a sharp jerk. Blood welled up from the leg and the man went white. The Knight of Calinde thrust two fingers into the wound and closed her eyes, visualizing the damaged tissue. Teserk watched as the blood flow from the wound slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether. As Theadina slowly removed her fingers, the flesh knit itself together as if under the hands of a skillful surgeon. When she finally removed her fingers there was nothing left of the injury save a red puckering scar.
"I'm afraid that's the best I can do for you," she said in a tired voice. "The rest will have to heal on it's own. Let me get my satchel and I'll pack it for you."
Teserk removed the gag from the man's mouth as the color returned to his face. He reached for the still tender spot and shook his head in amazement.
"I can't hardly believe it. You have my thanks."
Valinor and Colin joined them as Theadina began to apply a sticky salve to the damaged area.
"Your attacker is dead," the ranger told the wounded man, "though not by our hands. He poisoned himself rather than be captured."
He tossed a ring to Teserk. Teserk could see how the signet area was hinged, giving access to a small cavity inside the ring.
"I am in your debt, good people. I fear I can never repay you for this kindness."
"Telling us who you are and why you were attacked is a good start," Teserk said. His remarked earned him a reproving glance from Theadina, but the man didn't seem to notice.
"Please, pardon my rudeness. My name is Mortimous de Vous, but friends call me Mort. I am, or was, a rather well known mink farmer from down near Caddington. I don't suppose you've heard of me?"
The party's quickly shared glances told him they hadn't.
"Well, no matter," Mort said, "Those days are over. And they won't be coming back." His face suddenly fell and despair filled his eyes.
Theadina finished bandaging the leg and she helped Mort to his feet. He tested the leg and smiled slightly.
"You're good, Lady Knight. Hardly any pain. Thank you."
"You are most welcome."
Theadina could tell that Teserk was becoming impatient. "What changed things?" she prompted the farmer.
"Not what. Who. Nefarious brought me to this end."
"Who be Nefarious?" Colin asked. He could tell there was a tale to be told and he was anxious for the telling of it.
"You aren't from around these parts, are you? If you were, you'd have heard of Nefarious. A black-hearted Wizard he is, demented and evil, wont to cause ill and wreak havoc with?innocent lives."
Mort's voice grew quiet, filled with unmistakable pain as he told the party his story. Mort's life had been a fairly full one. He lived with his only daughter, Lucinde, and managed a successful mink farm several miles to the southwest of Caddington. His wife had died unexpectedly from a fever not long after their daughter's birth and Mort had raised the girl himself. They had no other family. As the demand for mink fur grew, Mort had done rather well for himself -- the value of the farm had risen considerably. Such intrinsic value did much to raise his standing in the community, but provided little in the way of real physical comforts. Mort was rich, but his assets were tied up in the farm. He and his daughter managed to live comfortably. Several nobles had approached him about buying the property, but he refused to sell, knowing the need for a large dowry if he ever hoped to marry his daughter to someone of higher station. Life had been simple, but grand. Until Nefarious.
"I came back from the pens last week and found the door to the house standing open. I couldn't smell any dinner, and that was odd, since Lucinde always has supper on the table when I come in for the day. I knew something was wrong, so I drew my knife and hurried into the parlor."
Mort's eyes misted over at this point and he had to swallow several times before he could get enough voice to continue.
"My baby was lying on the floor, stripped down to her shift. Her hands were lashed behind her back and her mouth was gagged. She looked at me with wild eyes. I could tell she was in pain. The monster was sitting in my chair, grinning like a madman.
"I had to do something! So I rushed him, or at least I tried to. He waved his hand and I couldn't move. He told me he was Nefarious and he was taking my daughter with him. His terms were simple: pay him a 20,000 gold crown ransom and I could have her back, unharmed. Fail, and I would never see her again. I told him I didn't have that kind of money. He told me to sell the farm and gave me five days to do it. Then he grabbed Lucinde by the hair and they disappeared. I found a map on the chair with instructions as to where I should bring the money."
"Did you go to the authorities?" Valinor asked.
Mort snorted. "Baron Lieber is the closest Lord, but he was the one pushing me the hardest to sell the farm. How do you think he reacted? He was more than willing to help. His solution was to buy the farm."
"For a fraction of its value, I'll wager," Teserk noted.
Mort nodded. "I saw the lust in Nefarious' eyes as he looked at Lucinde. What choice did I have? I took Lieber's offer and followed the map. I'm not a very good map reader and I got lost once I entered the Wildwoods. I thought I had found my salvation in a lone traveler who stopped to join me for a meal. His name was Finch. He knew the area and told me he would guide me in return for a thousand crowns. I agreed."
Mort noticed the look of disapproval in Colin's eyes.
"Well what was I supposed to do?" he growled. "By that point I had only two days left to meet the wizard's demands and I was out of options. It was take this man's help or lose my daughter!"
Valinor pointed to the dead man lying on the roadside. "That's Finch?"
"No. Not long after we set out we were ambushed by a band of robbers. Finch was killed almost immediately as he tried to resist them. I used the confusion to make for the woods. The band let me go. After all, they had my wagon and its supplies. All of them but that man there. He's followed me for several hours now. If you hadn't come along?."
There was an awkward pause. Mort tested his leg, again. He limped a bit, but if there was any pain he hid it well.
"Well, I thank you again for your kindness," Mort said, "I expect you'll be on your way. Best wishes."
Theadina and Valinor exchanged a look that spoke volumes to Teserk.
"We're going after them, aren't we." His tone made a statement of the question.
Valinor smiled briefly and then headed into the woods in the direction from which Mort had arrived.
Mort shook his head vehemently. "I cannot ask your aid! The last man who tried to help me perished. I won't have your deaths on my conscience."
"Your daughter is still in danger," Theadina said simply. "We are duty bound to assist you."
Mort made to object, but was waved to silence by Colin.
"Donnae even try t' change their minds. Like it or not, ye've got our help."
"Praise the spirits, then, there's still hope!" Mort cried and clapped the half-dwarf on the shoulder.
Teserk just shook his head. What they were proposing was nearly impossible. Find a robber band and recover the lost gold, then deliver it intact to a hostile wizard all in a day and a half. And Teserk wasn't so naïve as to think that this Nefarious would turn the girl over to them when the ransom was finally met. They would all most likely die in this endeavor. Sighing heartily he followed his companions into the woods. At least it should be interesting.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
"Washed Up"
The increasingly rough sea made it difficult, but after the fourth try David managed to snag the floating object with the gaff. He hauled it in, and then retreated to the shelter of the cabin before examining it. He was surprised to discover a book, protected from the fury of the ocean by a zip-top plastic bag. It was the air in the bag that had allowed the book to float.
"How curious," he said. No one was with him on the boat, but David had long ago established the habit of talking to himself when he was out fishing. Unlike his wife, the fish never disagreed.
He took a moment to verify his position on the GPS, and then overlaid the map with a live Doppler radar feed. A small storm was coming. David considered returning to port, but the storm didn't look too severe. Better to wait it out here than waste half a day of fishing due to a little rain. Besides, the delay would give him an opportunity to check out his discovery.
Satisfied with his decision, David took a seat at the small table in the cabin and pulled the book from its plastic protection. He folded the bag neatly and placed it in his pocket.
"Never know when that might come in handy," he said. He turned his attention to the book. It was small, no larger than a three by five index card.
"Perfect for sliding into a breast pocket." The leather cover was tattered, any title long since worn away. How old was this book? He gently opened the cover.
"It's a journal!" The pages inside were in good condition. The entries were made in a jerky hand, the writing close to illegible. David snickered. "His handwriting's almost as bad as mine."
The rain chose that minute to start falling. The wind pushed it against the cabin window. David took a moment to make sure everything was in place for the storm. When he was done, he settled down and began to read.
-----
*Day One*
I'm writing this on Day Three, but I should start from the beginning. I don't know who I am. In fact, I don't remember much of anything before waking on the beach. Just flashes, really: a twenty-foot wave, the tipping of a boat, an explosion. I had hurt my head, the pounding in my skull made that painfully clear. When I could get to my feet, I realized that I was on an island. The sun was just setting. Where was I? Who was I? Some fifty feet up the sand the beach ended at the edge of a tropical forest. It looked ominous in the fading sunlight. A crack of lightning warned a storm was coming. I knew instinctively I would need shelter. That's when I saw the light, coming from somewhere back in the trees. I decided to check it out.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered a cabin not far into the trees. The light came from a lantern, hung from the porch. I called a greeting, but no one answered. When the rain started I chose to enter. The cabin was deserted. I found a couple of cans of beans and this journal. I waited for the cabin's owner to return, but hunger got the best of me. I ate a can of beans and fell asleep.
*Day Two*
I woke up stiff from sleeping at the table. Still hungry, I ate the second can of beans. The sun was shining, so I decided to explore. The island is tiny. I estimate maybe two, three square acres. The owner of the cabin is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he attempted to take whatever boat he had and tried to outrun the storm. I cannot fathom why he left the lantern burning. It has since gone out, but there is plenty of fuel in the cabin. However, there is no more food and no source of fresh water. The water is likely not an issue; I can always collect rain water - I found a ziptop bag in my pocket that will serve adequately as a water catcher. The lack of food concerns me. I wish I had not eaten the two cans of beans so quickly. I searched for fishing gear and found none. Perhaps I can make some?
*Day Three*
I can't recall the last time I went 24 hours without eating. I don't like it. Since I'm not sure when the owner is coming back, I have to assume I am on my own. I tried fishing, but have discovered that I am not much of a fisherman without modern gear. I have little faith my meager attempts at trapping will catch anything. I don't recognize any of the plants and am afraid to try to eat any. I started writing in this journal to pass the time, but I'm now that I'm caught up I find I have very little to say.
*Day Four*
Very hungry. Found some bugs today, but couldn't bring myself to eat them. Decided my only chance is to make a raft and leave the island. Spent the day finding materials.
*Day Five*
Built the raft today. Took longer than expected. So hungry. Ate a bug today, but it tasted so bad I threw it up. Don't know how I'm going to survive.
*Day Six*
This is my last entry. I'm leaving on the raft. In true message in a bottle tradition, I have decided to set this journal adrift in the sea. Hopefully one or the other of us will reach more civilized shores. Should you find this, please look for me. If you don't find me, remember me to God.
-----
The journal ended there. David was fascinated. What could have happened to the man? Did he survive? How long ago had this been written? David wished the man had dated the pages. Should he be looking for a man on a raft?
David looked out the window. He had been so caught up in reading the journal had hadn't been paying attention. The weather had turned dramatically worse. The wind had grown fierce. The boat began to toss drastically from side to side. David moved quickly to the con. He had to get the boat righted before the waves got too high.
He was too late. A huge swell grabbed the boat, and he began to rise. He tried desperately to turn into the wave....
Lightning flashed. Something on the boat exploded. David went tumbling backward. He struck his head on the table - and everything went black.
-----
He awoke on a sandy beach. He couldn't remember anything, just flashes, really: a twenty-foot wave, the tipping of a boat, an explosion. He had hurt his head, the pounding in his skull made that painfully clear. When he got to his feet, he realized he was on an island. The sun was just setting.
Where was he? *Who* was he?
Some fifty feet up the sand the beach ended at the edge of a tropical forest. It looked ominous in the fading sunlight. A crack of lightning warned a storm was coming. He knew instinctively he would need shelter. That's when he saw the light, coming from somewhere back in the trees.
"How curious," he said. No one was with him on the boat, but David had long ago established the habit of talking to himself when he was out fishing. Unlike his wife, the fish never disagreed.
He took a moment to verify his position on the GPS, and then overlaid the map with a live Doppler radar feed. A small storm was coming. David considered returning to port, but the storm didn't look too severe. Better to wait it out here than waste half a day of fishing due to a little rain. Besides, the delay would give him an opportunity to check out his discovery.
Satisfied with his decision, David took a seat at the small table in the cabin and pulled the book from its plastic protection. He folded the bag neatly and placed it in his pocket.
"Never know when that might come in handy," he said. He turned his attention to the book. It was small, no larger than a three by five index card.
"Perfect for sliding into a breast pocket." The leather cover was tattered, any title long since worn away. How old was this book? He gently opened the cover.
"It's a journal!" The pages inside were in good condition. The entries were made in a jerky hand, the writing close to illegible. David snickered. "His handwriting's almost as bad as mine."
The rain chose that minute to start falling. The wind pushed it against the cabin window. David took a moment to make sure everything was in place for the storm. When he was done, he settled down and began to read.
-----
*Day One*
I'm writing this on Day Three, but I should start from the beginning. I don't know who I am. In fact, I don't remember much of anything before waking on the beach. Just flashes, really: a twenty-foot wave, the tipping of a boat, an explosion. I had hurt my head, the pounding in my skull made that painfully clear. When I could get to my feet, I realized that I was on an island. The sun was just setting. Where was I? Who was I? Some fifty feet up the sand the beach ended at the edge of a tropical forest. It looked ominous in the fading sunlight. A crack of lightning warned a storm was coming. I knew instinctively I would need shelter. That's when I saw the light, coming from somewhere back in the trees. I decided to check it out.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered a cabin not far into the trees. The light came from a lantern, hung from the porch. I called a greeting, but no one answered. When the rain started I chose to enter. The cabin was deserted. I found a couple of cans of beans and this journal. I waited for the cabin's owner to return, but hunger got the best of me. I ate a can of beans and fell asleep.
*Day Two*
I woke up stiff from sleeping at the table. Still hungry, I ate the second can of beans. The sun was shining, so I decided to explore. The island is tiny. I estimate maybe two, three square acres. The owner of the cabin is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he attempted to take whatever boat he had and tried to outrun the storm. I cannot fathom why he left the lantern burning. It has since gone out, but there is plenty of fuel in the cabin. However, there is no more food and no source of fresh water. The water is likely not an issue; I can always collect rain water - I found a ziptop bag in my pocket that will serve adequately as a water catcher. The lack of food concerns me. I wish I had not eaten the two cans of beans so quickly. I searched for fishing gear and found none. Perhaps I can make some?
*Day Three*
I can't recall the last time I went 24 hours without eating. I don't like it. Since I'm not sure when the owner is coming back, I have to assume I am on my own. I tried fishing, but have discovered that I am not much of a fisherman without modern gear. I have little faith my meager attempts at trapping will catch anything. I don't recognize any of the plants and am afraid to try to eat any. I started writing in this journal to pass the time, but I'm now that I'm caught up I find I have very little to say.
*Day Four*
Very hungry. Found some bugs today, but couldn't bring myself to eat them. Decided my only chance is to make a raft and leave the island. Spent the day finding materials.
*Day Five*
Built the raft today. Took longer than expected. So hungry. Ate a bug today, but it tasted so bad I threw it up. Don't know how I'm going to survive.
*Day Six*
This is my last entry. I'm leaving on the raft. In true message in a bottle tradition, I have decided to set this journal adrift in the sea. Hopefully one or the other of us will reach more civilized shores. Should you find this, please look for me. If you don't find me, remember me to God.
-----
The journal ended there. David was fascinated. What could have happened to the man? Did he survive? How long ago had this been written? David wished the man had dated the pages. Should he be looking for a man on a raft?
David looked out the window. He had been so caught up in reading the journal had hadn't been paying attention. The weather had turned dramatically worse. The wind had grown fierce. The boat began to toss drastically from side to side. David moved quickly to the con. He had to get the boat righted before the waves got too high.
He was too late. A huge swell grabbed the boat, and he began to rise. He tried desperately to turn into the wave....
Lightning flashed. Something on the boat exploded. David went tumbling backward. He struck his head on the table - and everything went black.
-----
He awoke on a sandy beach. He couldn't remember anything, just flashes, really: a twenty-foot wave, the tipping of a boat, an explosion. He had hurt his head, the pounding in his skull made that painfully clear. When he got to his feet, he realized he was on an island. The sun was just setting.
Where was he? *Who* was he?
Some fifty feet up the sand the beach ended at the edge of a tropical forest. It looked ominous in the fading sunlight. A crack of lightning warned a storm was coming. He knew instinctively he would need shelter. That's when he saw the light, coming from somewhere back in the trees.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Free-Form Fridays
Welcome to Free-Form Friday! (Henceforth known as FFF.) What is FFF you ask? Well, I have long recognized that I have issues when it comes to writing long (read novel-length) stories. Good friends are capable of cranking out pages at remarkable rates while I struggle to even produce a page or two. I've tried to figure out why, and I believe I have arrived at the reason. I am a perfectionist when it comes to my writing. I want every turn of phrase to be just right. If I type something that sounds off I will stop and try to figure out a better way of saying it. Sometimes this leads to re-writing entire paragraphs right then, only to come back and change something else a few lines farther down the page. Many books I've read about writing novels stress the need to get the story down on paper first - just pound out a first draft - and worry about editing later. This thought makes me cringe. I can't image writing 80,000 words of drivel. The urge to edit as I'm writing is so strong. And yet, that's what I think is holding me back.
FFF is my attempt to cure myself of the urge to edit mid-scene. The rules are simple:
1) Write for an hour straight with no editing. I recognize the potential for abuse with this rule. If I take several minutes to think up a sentence and how to best word it I will essentially be editing in my mind before putting it on paper. This defeats the purpose of FFF. Therefore, I institute...
2) Write at least 800 words. I can type approximately 30 words per minute. (Probably more, but this will do.) Given my 60 minute time frame that puts me at 1800 words if I type non-stop. I will obviously need time to think of what to say next, so I figure 800 words is a good compromise. I will need to try this a few times to see how workable this number is. For now, though, 800 is the goal.
3) I am allowed to go over the time frame if I'm "feeling the flow." There are times when I'm writing that the words just seem to flow out. This is especially true when I write dialogue. For some reason, I can hear the conversations in my head and they come out fairly quickly. When I have to stop and describe something, though, I tend to agonize over word choice and I really slow down. Should I get in a groove I will allow myself to continue past the hour limit, but the moment the flow stops, I have to stop.
4) I will post what I have written as is. If it stinks, it stinks. Note that this means that on Friday your reading pleasure may decrease because of the errors natural to a free form first draft. Sorry. I admit that the blog is more for my benefit than yours and I really think I need this. This also means that FFF will not be full stories. In fact, I plan on doing a continuous ongoing story for FFF, so collectively it should be good.
5) I reserve the right to do FFF on other days than Friday. My other stories often take much more than an hour to write. If I find myself running short on time some day then I may audible to FFF.
So those are the rules. Who knows how this will turn out? I certainly don't. I imagine that I'll be very uncomfortable for the first several tries. Hopefully it will get better. My goal is to be fully ready for National Novel Writing Month in November. Never heard of it? Check the link:
Anyway, that's what's in store for Fridays. Wish me luck.
FFF is my attempt to cure myself of the urge to edit mid-scene. The rules are simple:
1) Write for an hour straight with no editing. I recognize the potential for abuse with this rule. If I take several minutes to think up a sentence and how to best word it I will essentially be editing in my mind before putting it on paper. This defeats the purpose of FFF. Therefore, I institute...
2) Write at least 800 words. I can type approximately 30 words per minute. (Probably more, but this will do.) Given my 60 minute time frame that puts me at 1800 words if I type non-stop. I will obviously need time to think of what to say next, so I figure 800 words is a good compromise. I will need to try this a few times to see how workable this number is. For now, though, 800 is the goal.
3) I am allowed to go over the time frame if I'm "feeling the flow." There are times when I'm writing that the words just seem to flow out. This is especially true when I write dialogue. For some reason, I can hear the conversations in my head and they come out fairly quickly. When I have to stop and describe something, though, I tend to agonize over word choice and I really slow down. Should I get in a groove I will allow myself to continue past the hour limit, but the moment the flow stops, I have to stop.
4) I will post what I have written as is. If it stinks, it stinks. Note that this means that on Friday your reading pleasure may decrease because of the errors natural to a free form first draft. Sorry. I admit that the blog is more for my benefit than yours and I really think I need this. This also means that FFF will not be full stories. In fact, I plan on doing a continuous ongoing story for FFF, so collectively it should be good.
5) I reserve the right to do FFF on other days than Friday. My other stories often take much more than an hour to write. If I find myself running short on time some day then I may audible to FFF.
So those are the rules. Who knows how this will turn out? I certainly don't. I imagine that I'll be very uncomfortable for the first several tries. Hopefully it will get better. My goal is to be fully ready for National Novel Writing Month in November. Never heard of it? Check the link:
Anyway, that's what's in store for Fridays. Wish me luck.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
"Rookie"
If you haven't read yesterday's story yet, read that one first, or else this one won't make since at the end. This was from a challenge requiring the use of the Clue phrase "[Person] did it with the [Weapon] in the [Room]."
"Join the Arcane Threat Division, they said. Cushiest job on the Force, they said. Bullcrap!" He had never been so scared in his life.
Officer Ryan Segal, aka "The Rookie," stood at the entry to the North stairwell in the basement of the Tribune building. He tried to appear calm, but his right hand kept flicking the safety on and off his weapon. He resorted to pacing to try to work off his nervous energy.
He tried to think about something else, anything else, but his mind couldn't let go of the image. The scene replayed itself in his mind....
-----
"Hurry up, Rookie. Jordan said the woman would be in the copy room in the basement."
Officer Ryan Segal followed Detective Carter down the stairs. He couldn't believe they were doing this - rushing halfway across town at the suggestion of a nutcase psychic. This wasn't the standard police procedure they taught him at the academy. When he had said as much to his new partner, Carter had simply replied, "They don't teach Arcane Threat Division Procedure at the academy." Rookies didn't argue, so he played along. Now they were in the Tribune building, racing to save the life of a woman who most likely didn't need saving. At least he was getting his exercise.
It took them a few minutes to find the right room in the warren that was the basement. Segal was shocked at what they found.
"We're too late," Carter said.
The woman lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Hair, white as the driven snow, shot out from her head at strange angles. Her face was a shredded mess of tissue, caused by the fingers of her own hands. She had clawed her own eyes out.
It was horrifying. Segal couldn't help himself. He vomited in the corner. Detective Carter, who normally had a quip at such moments, was silent on the matter. He knelt to examine the body.
"But not by much. This is fresh."
Segal wiped his mouth. He wanted to help, but couldn't bring himself to look at the scene. "What happened to her?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say she died of fright."
"Of fright? You're kidding me."
Carter shook his head. "The white hair is a classic sign. I'd say she saw something so scary she wrecked her face trying to get the image out of her head." He pulled a purple crown royal bag from an inside pocket. Opening the drawstrings, he dumped a large clear marble into his hand.
"What could do that?" Segal asked. "Make someone so scared they'd die?"
"Any number of things. I'm guessing either a demon or black sorcery."
"You're kidding me. You mean that stuff is real?"
Carter ignored the question. He mumbled a few unintelligible words and made a few passes over the marble with his other hand.
The sphere burst into brilliant green light.
"Holy Crap," Carter exclaimed, "The thing's still here!"
Carter turned to Segal, his face tight with fear. "Get back to the stairwell now. Make sure nothing or no one gets past. If anything looks out of the ordinary, shoot first and ask questions later. You don't move from that spot until I tell you. You see something you holler, you hear me?"
Segal could only nod. He legs shook as he ran for the stairs. His radio crackled to life as Carter made a call.
"Carter to Dispatch. We need ATD backup to the Tribune building now. Repeat, ATD backup to the Tribune building NOW...!"
----
That was the last he had heard from Carter. That had been five minutes ago. Now here he stood, holding the exit against a sorcerous demon running around the basement with the ability to scare people to death. No freaking way.A movement down the hall caught his eye. As he turned that way, the lights in the hall dimmed dramatically, leaving everything in a hazy shadow.
"Who's there?"
A small flame came to life in midair. It floated his direction.
"This is Officer Ryan Segal of the Chicago PD. Do not come any closer."
The light kept coming. Squinting, Segal could make out a hunched figure walking his way, holding the light out in a shrouded hand.
"I repeat, do not come any closer." Segal raised his gun. "Don't make me shoot you."
The figure was close enough now that Segal could hear a rhythmic chanting. Strange symbols flared into existence just below the flame. In response, a thick black shadow roiled forth from the figure, tendrils of deepest black lancing their way toward Segal.
The rookie raised his gun and tried to fire, but his nervous clicking had left the safety on. He thumbed at the switch as the blackness slammed into him. Fear like nothing Segal had ever experienced washed through him, robbing him of his physical control. He froze in place, riveted to the spot. The figure approached through the midst of the living shadow. It reached for its hood. Segal knew with certainty that to gaze upon the face beneath the hood was to embrace terror and insanity, but he couldn't make himself move. He screamed....
"What the #$%@ are you doing, Rookie?"
Like a cleansing tidal wave, the voice washed away the fear and darkness. Stripped of its concealing light, the figure was easily recognizable. A short man, dressed in a dark green robe stood not five feet from Segal. In his right hand he held a lit candle, the candle and stick etched with funky symbols. His left hand pulled back the hood of the robe, revealing a completely unremarkable pudgy face, with vicious expression.
That expression turned to shock as Officer Joe Spurgeon stepped past Segal to punch the man in the mouth. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed on the ground in a heap.
"What kind of pansy move was that, screaming like a girl?" Spurgeon asked. "You have a %#$@$ gun. Next time just shoot the bastard."
"You...you saved me!"
"Saved you from what, a freak in a robe?" Spurgeon reached down and picked up the candle from the floor. He blew out the flame. "What a load of $#*%. What kind of pansy wusses are they turning out at the academy these days?"
Detective Carter chose that moment to round the far corner of the passage at a full run, his gun out and ready. He stopped when he saw Spurgeon.
"Ah, I see the cavalry has arrived."
"Yeah, just it time," Spurgeon retorted. "It was almost 'Mr. Green in the Hall with the Candlestick. ' What are you teaching this kid, Carter?"
Carter smiled. "Oh, the usual. Cuff that guy, rookie. Make sure you search him and remove anything that looks - unusual."
Segal looked from Carter to Spurgeon. What had just happened? He shook his head, and then pulled his cuffs from his belt. "Cushiest job on the force, my a$$."
"Join the Arcane Threat Division, they said. Cushiest job on the Force, they said. Bullcrap!" He had never been so scared in his life.
Officer Ryan Segal, aka "The Rookie," stood at the entry to the North stairwell in the basement of the Tribune building. He tried to appear calm, but his right hand kept flicking the safety on and off his weapon. He resorted to pacing to try to work off his nervous energy.
He tried to think about something else, anything else, but his mind couldn't let go of the image. The scene replayed itself in his mind....
-----
"Hurry up, Rookie. Jordan said the woman would be in the copy room in the basement."
Officer Ryan Segal followed Detective Carter down the stairs. He couldn't believe they were doing this - rushing halfway across town at the suggestion of a nutcase psychic. This wasn't the standard police procedure they taught him at the academy. When he had said as much to his new partner, Carter had simply replied, "They don't teach Arcane Threat Division Procedure at the academy." Rookies didn't argue, so he played along. Now they were in the Tribune building, racing to save the life of a woman who most likely didn't need saving. At least he was getting his exercise.
It took them a few minutes to find the right room in the warren that was the basement. Segal was shocked at what they found.
"We're too late," Carter said.
The woman lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Hair, white as the driven snow, shot out from her head at strange angles. Her face was a shredded mess of tissue, caused by the fingers of her own hands. She had clawed her own eyes out.
It was horrifying. Segal couldn't help himself. He vomited in the corner. Detective Carter, who normally had a quip at such moments, was silent on the matter. He knelt to examine the body.
"But not by much. This is fresh."
Segal wiped his mouth. He wanted to help, but couldn't bring himself to look at the scene. "What happened to her?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say she died of fright."
"Of fright? You're kidding me."
Carter shook his head. "The white hair is a classic sign. I'd say she saw something so scary she wrecked her face trying to get the image out of her head." He pulled a purple crown royal bag from an inside pocket. Opening the drawstrings, he dumped a large clear marble into his hand.
"What could do that?" Segal asked. "Make someone so scared they'd die?"
"Any number of things. I'm guessing either a demon or black sorcery."
"You're kidding me. You mean that stuff is real?"
Carter ignored the question. He mumbled a few unintelligible words and made a few passes over the marble with his other hand.
The sphere burst into brilliant green light.
"Holy Crap," Carter exclaimed, "The thing's still here!"
Carter turned to Segal, his face tight with fear. "Get back to the stairwell now. Make sure nothing or no one gets past. If anything looks out of the ordinary, shoot first and ask questions later. You don't move from that spot until I tell you. You see something you holler, you hear me?"
Segal could only nod. He legs shook as he ran for the stairs. His radio crackled to life as Carter made a call.
"Carter to Dispatch. We need ATD backup to the Tribune building now. Repeat, ATD backup to the Tribune building NOW...!"
----
That was the last he had heard from Carter. That had been five minutes ago. Now here he stood, holding the exit against a sorcerous demon running around the basement with the ability to scare people to death. No freaking way.A movement down the hall caught his eye. As he turned that way, the lights in the hall dimmed dramatically, leaving everything in a hazy shadow.
"Who's there?"
A small flame came to life in midair. It floated his direction.
"This is Officer Ryan Segal of the Chicago PD. Do not come any closer."
The light kept coming. Squinting, Segal could make out a hunched figure walking his way, holding the light out in a shrouded hand.
"I repeat, do not come any closer." Segal raised his gun. "Don't make me shoot you."
The figure was close enough now that Segal could hear a rhythmic chanting. Strange symbols flared into existence just below the flame. In response, a thick black shadow roiled forth from the figure, tendrils of deepest black lancing their way toward Segal.
The rookie raised his gun and tried to fire, but his nervous clicking had left the safety on. He thumbed at the switch as the blackness slammed into him. Fear like nothing Segal had ever experienced washed through him, robbing him of his physical control. He froze in place, riveted to the spot. The figure approached through the midst of the living shadow. It reached for its hood. Segal knew with certainty that to gaze upon the face beneath the hood was to embrace terror and insanity, but he couldn't make himself move. He screamed....
"What the #$%@ are you doing, Rookie?"
Like a cleansing tidal wave, the voice washed away the fear and darkness. Stripped of its concealing light, the figure was easily recognizable. A short man, dressed in a dark green robe stood not five feet from Segal. In his right hand he held a lit candle, the candle and stick etched with funky symbols. His left hand pulled back the hood of the robe, revealing a completely unremarkable pudgy face, with vicious expression.
That expression turned to shock as Officer Joe Spurgeon stepped past Segal to punch the man in the mouth. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed on the ground in a heap.
"What kind of pansy move was that, screaming like a girl?" Spurgeon asked. "You have a %#$@$ gun. Next time just shoot the bastard."
"You...you saved me!"
"Saved you from what, a freak in a robe?" Spurgeon reached down and picked up the candle from the floor. He blew out the flame. "What a load of $#*%. What kind of pansy wusses are they turning out at the academy these days?"
Detective Carter chose that moment to round the far corner of the passage at a full run, his gun out and ready. He stopped when he saw Spurgeon.
"Ah, I see the cavalry has arrived."
"Yeah, just it time," Spurgeon retorted. "It was almost 'Mr. Green in the Hall with the Candlestick. ' What are you teaching this kid, Carter?"
Carter smiled. "Oh, the usual. Cuff that guy, rookie. Make sure you search him and remove anything that looks - unusual."
Segal looked from Carter to Spurgeon. What had just happened? He shook his head, and then pulled his cuffs from his belt. "Cushiest job on the force, my a$$."
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
"Doubt"
This was my response to a challenge on "Doubt."
"I'm William Muenster of Internal Affairs and I'll be taking this interview. Will you please state your name for the record?"
"Officer Joe Spurgeon, Chicago PD."
"Okay, Officer Spurgeon. You understand that this deposition interview is being recorded and that the transcription may be entered into evidence at the trial?"
"Yeah, I understand."
"Good. Now, what exactly is your complaint against the Chicago Police Department."
"They got me pigeonholed in this total joke of a job. It ain't right. They're discriminating against me."
"Let's address those points one at a time. Why don't you describe your job?"
"I work for the 'Arcane Threat Division.'"
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah, you heard that right. The Arcane Threat Division."
"Arcane? As in magic?"
"Yup."
"The Chicago PD has a Division devoted to magical threats."
"So they say."
"Wait, you're in this division, right? What do you mean 'so they say?'"
"I mean that they put me in this division, but I ain't ever seen no magic. Other cops in the division, they swear this stuff is real, but I ain't never seen any of it."
"What kind of 'stuff' are they talking about?"
"Crazy stuff, like magic and voodoo, evil spirits and fairy dust."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I sure as [expletive deleted] ain't! Just last week they claimed this guy was throwing fireballs at couple of our boys and called for backup. I show up and find this freak in black magician robes just standing there, flipping his hands like Spiderman, expecting something to shoot out. I walk up to him, sock him in the nose and cuff him. The other guys thanked me for saving their hides, but the guy didn't DO anything. What a bunch of [expletive deleted.]"
"And this happens often?"
"Every [expletive deleted] time. They claim they're in trouble, but when I show up there's nothing out of the ordinary going on."
"Interesting. "
"It ain't interesting, it's [expletive deleted] insane!"
"So what exactly is your role in the department? Officially, I mean."
"You're not gonna believe it. My job title is 'Paranormal Skeptic.' I am, in the words of my Lieutenant, the 'Official Doubter.'"
"The Official Doubter? So what are you supposed to do?"
"According to the Lieutenant? Doubt everything."
"That's it?"
"Yup. I'm supposed to show up and doubt."
"And what's that supposed to do?"
"Again, according to the Lieutenant, magic can't survive in the face of disbelief."
"So, if I understand this correctly, when you show up any magic is supposed to stop working."
"That's what they say."
"And you've never seen any magic."
"I ain't seen, [expletive deleted]."
"Hm. Officer Spurgeon, have you ever considered - and I can't believe I'm actually about to say this - but have you ever considered that you might actually just be very good at your job."
"What?"
"Okay, I know it sounds crazy, but say, just for a minute, that magic really exists and that your division really tracks and contains magical threats. The fact that you have never seen any magic actually lends proof to the theory that you stop magic from working. Your ability to doubt would then be invaluable to your team."
"You have got to be [expletive deleted] me."
"I know it sounds far fetched, but you've got to admit it would explain what has happened to you."
"I can't believe you're feeding me this [expletive deleted]. I'm the one with the complaint here. You're supposed to be on my side."
"I'm on your side, Officer Spurgeon, but I also need to be fair. Let's say I could bring you irrefutable proof that you are actually performing the duty your job description prescribes. Would you be willing to believe it then?"
"I doubt it."
"Somehow I thought you'd say that."
"I'm William Muenster of Internal Affairs and I'll be taking this interview. Will you please state your name for the record?"
"Officer Joe Spurgeon, Chicago PD."
"Okay, Officer Spurgeon. You understand that this deposition interview is being recorded and that the transcription may be entered into evidence at the trial?"
"Yeah, I understand."
"Good. Now, what exactly is your complaint against the Chicago Police Department."
"They got me pigeonholed in this total joke of a job. It ain't right. They're discriminating against me."
"Let's address those points one at a time. Why don't you describe your job?"
"I work for the 'Arcane Threat Division.'"
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah, you heard that right. The Arcane Threat Division."
"Arcane? As in magic?"
"Yup."
"The Chicago PD has a Division devoted to magical threats."
"So they say."
"Wait, you're in this division, right? What do you mean 'so they say?'"
"I mean that they put me in this division, but I ain't ever seen no magic. Other cops in the division, they swear this stuff is real, but I ain't never seen any of it."
"What kind of 'stuff' are they talking about?"
"Crazy stuff, like magic and voodoo, evil spirits and fairy dust."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I sure as [expletive deleted] ain't! Just last week they claimed this guy was throwing fireballs at couple of our boys and called for backup. I show up and find this freak in black magician robes just standing there, flipping his hands like Spiderman, expecting something to shoot out. I walk up to him, sock him in the nose and cuff him. The other guys thanked me for saving their hides, but the guy didn't DO anything. What a bunch of [expletive deleted.]"
"And this happens often?"
"Every [expletive deleted] time. They claim they're in trouble, but when I show up there's nothing out of the ordinary going on."
"Interesting. "
"It ain't interesting, it's [expletive deleted] insane!"
"So what exactly is your role in the department? Officially, I mean."
"You're not gonna believe it. My job title is 'Paranormal Skeptic.' I am, in the words of my Lieutenant, the 'Official Doubter.'"
"The Official Doubter? So what are you supposed to do?"
"According to the Lieutenant? Doubt everything."
"That's it?"
"Yup. I'm supposed to show up and doubt."
"And what's that supposed to do?"
"Again, according to the Lieutenant, magic can't survive in the face of disbelief."
"So, if I understand this correctly, when you show up any magic is supposed to stop working."
"That's what they say."
"And you've never seen any magic."
"I ain't seen, [expletive deleted]."
"Hm. Officer Spurgeon, have you ever considered - and I can't believe I'm actually about to say this - but have you ever considered that you might actually just be very good at your job."
"What?"
"Okay, I know it sounds crazy, but say, just for a minute, that magic really exists and that your division really tracks and contains magical threats. The fact that you have never seen any magic actually lends proof to the theory that you stop magic from working. Your ability to doubt would then be invaluable to your team."
"You have got to be [expletive deleted] me."
"I know it sounds far fetched, but you've got to admit it would explain what has happened to you."
"I can't believe you're feeding me this [expletive deleted]. I'm the one with the complaint here. You're supposed to be on my side."
"I'm on your side, Officer Spurgeon, but I also need to be fair. Let's say I could bring you irrefutable proof that you are actually performing the duty your job description prescribes. Would you be willing to believe it then?"
"I doubt it."
"Somehow I thought you'd say that."
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
"Last Man on Earth"
This was my response to a challenge to begin a story with the words: The last man on earth sat alone in his room. There was a knock at the door...
The last man on earth sat alone in his room. There was a knock at the door. He tried to ignore it, but it came again, then again, never insistent, but ever persistent.
"Yes, yes, come in."
The door opened slowly and a hunched form shambled in. The sharp black suit and shades were a stark contrast to the condition of the being's skin. Bits of his flesh fell to the floor in clumps as he made his way to the desk where his master sat.
The man didn't bother looking up from his writing. "What do you want, Jones?"
"Brains-s-s- s-s."
"Very funny," the man replied. He finished his entry and put down the pen. It really wasn't funny, not anymore. True, he had found it humorous the first thousand times or so, but now? The only word he had heard for months from any mouth but his own was 'brains.' He was more than a little tired of it.
He took the tray from Jones and set it on the table. Time to eat. After all, Arther Beadleman, Undisputed Ruler of the Entire World, had to keep up his health. He snorted.
What a joke.
"Brains-s-s- s?"
"Oh shut up and go away."
Jones put a decomposing hand to his collar and whispered a muffled "Brains." He didn't seem to notice as a large chunk of his cheek fell onto the eagle emblazoned on the floor as he shambled back out the door.
Arthur looked at the microwave meal on the desk in front of him. It was still frozen.
"Ahhhhhgg! What was I thinking? It sounded like such a good idea at the time."
The fact that most evil geniuses failed to think their plans through held little consolation for him. Most evil geniuses were foiled before their plans ever came to fruition. Many failed multiple times, or were stopped just moments after achieving their goal. At least that's what the "Evil Geniusing for Dummies" book had said. Leave it to him, Arthur Beadle, to succeed his first time out.
How was he supposed to know his zombie virus would work so well? How could he have predicted the speed with which the world would succumb? Who knew that all life would be affected - animals and plants - leaving him as the world's only living occupant? How could anyone have guessed he would be stuck eating processed food that his "servants" could never remember to cook, use candles for light because no one had enough brains left to run the power plants, and be stuck forever in the freaking White House because going outside put him at risk of catching the MUTATED virus that he had no antibodies for?
He adjusted his position at the Resolute desk. Who knew that the President's chair was so freaking uncomfortable?
Arthur Beadle tore the top off the meal and munched on a frozen french fry.
Being the Undisputed Ruler of the Entire World sucked big time. He picked up his pencil and went back to work. When he published the updated version of "Evil Geniusing for Dummies" he would make certain he included that fact.
The last man on earth sat alone in his room. There was a knock at the door. He tried to ignore it, but it came again, then again, never insistent, but ever persistent.
"Yes, yes, come in."
The door opened slowly and a hunched form shambled in. The sharp black suit and shades were a stark contrast to the condition of the being's skin. Bits of his flesh fell to the floor in clumps as he made his way to the desk where his master sat.
The man didn't bother looking up from his writing. "What do you want, Jones?"
"Brains-s-s- s-s."
"Very funny," the man replied. He finished his entry and put down the pen. It really wasn't funny, not anymore. True, he had found it humorous the first thousand times or so, but now? The only word he had heard for months from any mouth but his own was 'brains.' He was more than a little tired of it.
He took the tray from Jones and set it on the table. Time to eat. After all, Arther Beadleman, Undisputed Ruler of the Entire World, had to keep up his health. He snorted.
What a joke.
"Brains-s-s- s?"
"Oh shut up and go away."
Jones put a decomposing hand to his collar and whispered a muffled "Brains." He didn't seem to notice as a large chunk of his cheek fell onto the eagle emblazoned on the floor as he shambled back out the door.
Arthur looked at the microwave meal on the desk in front of him. It was still frozen.
"Ahhhhhgg! What was I thinking? It sounded like such a good idea at the time."
The fact that most evil geniuses failed to think their plans through held little consolation for him. Most evil geniuses were foiled before their plans ever came to fruition. Many failed multiple times, or were stopped just moments after achieving their goal. At least that's what the "Evil Geniusing for Dummies" book had said. Leave it to him, Arthur Beadle, to succeed his first time out.
How was he supposed to know his zombie virus would work so well? How could he have predicted the speed with which the world would succumb? Who knew that all life would be affected - animals and plants - leaving him as the world's only living occupant? How could anyone have guessed he would be stuck eating processed food that his "servants" could never remember to cook, use candles for light because no one had enough brains left to run the power plants, and be stuck forever in the freaking White House because going outside put him at risk of catching the MUTATED virus that he had no antibodies for?
He adjusted his position at the Resolute desk. Who knew that the President's chair was so freaking uncomfortable?
Arthur Beadle tore the top off the meal and munched on a frozen french fry.
Being the Undisputed Ruler of the Entire World sucked big time. He picked up his pencil and went back to work. When he published the updated version of "Evil Geniusing for Dummies" he would make certain he included that fact.
Monday, July 6, 2009
"Fish Story"
I wrote this one on the fly today with very little editing. Don't know why, but it popped into my head.
What a beautiful evening. Moments like this were rare, when my wife and kids were otherwise occupied, and I found myself with a couple of hours of free time. Only one thing to do: hit the lake.
I drove down to the local park and made my way down to the pond; fishing pole in one hand, tackle box in the other. I usually fished with worms, contenting myself with catching the small panfish that hung around the dock area, but I was itching to try out a new lure. The professional angler on TV swore by it, and I had watched him pull largemouth after largemouth out of the water with the thing. The tagline had been enticing: "The lure that makes wishes come true." Surely the big bass that allegedly swam in this pond would be as incapable of resisting its advertised charms as the ones on television? One could always hope.
Since I had never had luck catching anything but fingerling bass near the dock, I opted to try the far side of the lake. There was a concrete spillway there that carried rainwater runoff down into the pond, and I'd been told by the friend of a friend that the larger bass liked to hang out in the area.
The sun dropped closer to the horizon as I made my way down the worn path from the top of the spillway to the water's edge. I estimated I'd have an hour or so before the light went completely. That should be plenty of time to catch the limit. I smiled. I'd never caught the limit in my life. Well, there was always a first time, and this time I had the tool to do it.
I put my pole together and pulled the new lure out of my pocket. I tore open the package and held the thing up before my eyes. I'd never seen a more impressive looking lure. The paint job was exquisite. The silver spinners, designed to "flash like a wounded baitfish," had that shiny new metal look. There was even a chartreuse "grass skirt." I had no idea what the skirt was supposed to do, but the pro angler seemed happy with it, so I was, too. I couldn't wait.
I slipped open the swivel snap and attached the lure to my line. I had to admit, it looked fine. I took a second to survey the area, picked a spot, and gave it a cast.
The lure flew out like a dream, landing exactly where I had aimed. I began reeling it in. I felt the slight tug that always accompanies spinner baits. I was ready for that first strike.
The lure was back at the shore before I knew it. No problem. How often does someone get a strike on the first cast, regardless of the lure? I tossed the lure back out. Steady retrieval. No bite. No biggie, I just had to find the spot where the fish were. A fish jumped from the water about twenty feet down the bank. Aha! I moved closer to the spot and cast out past the location of the fish. Oh yeah. Here it comes.
No strike.
The fish jumped again, in the same patch of water I had just cleared.
I tossed the lure out again, this time right on top of the fish.
No strike.
I was starting to get annoyed. The pro on TV would have caught three fish by now. What was going on? Undaunted I cast again, then again. I fished up and down the bank, next to fallen trees, through the grass, around rocks. No strike.
The sun was falling rapidly toward the horizon. I had maybe five minutes left of light before the park would close. This was ridiculous. I was starting to doubt the pro angler's words.
"I thought this lure was supposed to make wishes come true," I said, though no one was there to hear me. "Where are my wishes?!"
I shouted that last part loud enough to startle a nearby duck into flight. Stupid TV advertisers. I should have known better than to trust the claims made by some TV commercial. It's just - the fish this guy had been pulling out.
I had time for one more cast. I had given up on trying to pick the right spot. I just wound up and snapped the lure out there. I retrieved the lure slowly this time, half-consciously deciding that since this was the last cast I was going to make it last. I looked at my watch.
There was a pull on the line.
I was so surprised I almost dropped the pole. That would have been disastrous, but my reflexes saved me. I jerked hard to set the hook...
...And realized that I was hung up on the bottom. I tugged a few times to confirm it. Yup, I was hung up good. I walked back and forth along the bank, tugging sharply at multiple angles trying to free the line, all to no avail. Great, just great. No fish, and now I was going to lose the lure.
The sun dipped lower. The park was closed now, and I needed to leave. There was nothing for it. I pulled my knife from my pocket and prepared to cut the line.
That was when the line moved.
It wasn't fast, but the line was definitely moving to the right. It hit me then what was happening. I hadn't snagged the bottom after all. I had hooked a fish. A very BIG fish.
I dropped the knife and took the pole firmly in both hands. I had to be very careful. I was only using 10 lb test and this fish was definitely bigger than that.
I looked again at the sun. I could get fined if they caught me here after dark. It was a chance I had to take.
For the next hour I fought that fish. I gained inches, I lost inches, but I gradually worked it to shore. The sun going down left me in the dark. Fortunately the moon came out, and it was full, allowing me to see enough to continue the struggle.
By the time I hauled the fish onto the bank we were both exhausted. It was worth it; the fish was a behemoth. I'd left my measuring tape at home, but it was clearly more than four feet long. Its girth was such that I doubted I could wrap my arms all the way around it. I had no clue what it weighed.
I was also unsure about the species. I had expected a bass, or possibly a giant catfish. This one looked like a strange mix between the two. It had the shape of a catfish, but its silver scales fairly twinkled in the moonlight. And its eyes; its green eyes glowed with a light of their own. It stared at me with such intensity the fish looked almost intelligent. I squatted down to get a closer look.
"Are you going to stare at me all night or are you going to take this hook out and throw me back?"
The fish talked. I was so shocked I fell backward onto my rear end.
"You talked!"
"You're an observant one," the fish said.
"You talked!"
"Yes, so you've said. Look, this hook is very uncomfortable. It's obvious you aren't going to let me go without getting your wish. Let's have it so we can be done with this, and we can both get some rest."
"Wait, what? Wish?" I was so articulate when I was stunned.
"Let's cut to the chase. The lure guys promised this lure would make wishes come true. Obviously they couldn’t do that on their own, so they contracted with us to make it happen. You invoked the terms of the contract and here I am. So wish your wish and let's get this over with."
My mind was finally starting to make some sense of the situation, if sense could be made from a talking fish spouting on about granting wishes. "You're a wish granting fish?"
"Congratulations, Captain Obvious."
"And you're granting wishes due to a contract with a company that manufactures fishing lures?"
"Wish. Singular. You only get one wish. It's there in the fine print. Hurry it up; I am a fish out of water, you know."
Perhaps it was my time spent roleplaying where tricky, malevolent genies did their best to turn your wishes against you, but I wanted more information.
"Are there any limitations to this wish?"
The fish sighed. "Don't make it easy, then. Limitations. One, no wishing for more wishes. Don't sigh like that, it's standard procedure and I'm sure you knew it. Two, no making people fall in love. Three, no bringing people back from the dead. That's pretty much it."
"That's sounds very familiar. Aren't those the limitations they used in that movie, Aladdin?"
"Those writers did their homework. Look, are you going to make a wish or not, I'm running out of air here."
This fish was highly annoying, and frankly, so was the situation. I'd just caught the biggest fish of my life and in exchange for setting it free I was getting one wish. What I really wanted was a trophy - something that could prove to everyone I had actually caught a fish this big. I suppose I could wish for one, but that wouldn't be real - it wouldn't be the fish I had caught. Unless....
"One more question, fish. How long does this wish last? Let's say tomorrow you swallow a bad worm and kick the bucket. Is my wish going away?"
"Wishes are permanent. Once granted they are independent of the grantor."
I smiled.
"I take it you're satisfied?" the fish said. "You're ready to make your wish."
"Oh yeah."
-----
That was five years ago. I suppose my life could have been a lot different had I wished for money or fame, but I never really wanted those things. What I got was a lot more satisfying. What I got was proof of the biggest fish story I'll ever be able to tell. And if people don't believe me, I just point to that big old catfish shaped, silver scaled monster mounted to my wall.
And for the record - the magic fish weighed seventy-eight pounds.
What a beautiful evening. Moments like this were rare, when my wife and kids were otherwise occupied, and I found myself with a couple of hours of free time. Only one thing to do: hit the lake.
I drove down to the local park and made my way down to the pond; fishing pole in one hand, tackle box in the other. I usually fished with worms, contenting myself with catching the small panfish that hung around the dock area, but I was itching to try out a new lure. The professional angler on TV swore by it, and I had watched him pull largemouth after largemouth out of the water with the thing. The tagline had been enticing: "The lure that makes wishes come true." Surely the big bass that allegedly swam in this pond would be as incapable of resisting its advertised charms as the ones on television? One could always hope.
Since I had never had luck catching anything but fingerling bass near the dock, I opted to try the far side of the lake. There was a concrete spillway there that carried rainwater runoff down into the pond, and I'd been told by the friend of a friend that the larger bass liked to hang out in the area.
The sun dropped closer to the horizon as I made my way down the worn path from the top of the spillway to the water's edge. I estimated I'd have an hour or so before the light went completely. That should be plenty of time to catch the limit. I smiled. I'd never caught the limit in my life. Well, there was always a first time, and this time I had the tool to do it.
I put my pole together and pulled the new lure out of my pocket. I tore open the package and held the thing up before my eyes. I'd never seen a more impressive looking lure. The paint job was exquisite. The silver spinners, designed to "flash like a wounded baitfish," had that shiny new metal look. There was even a chartreuse "grass skirt." I had no idea what the skirt was supposed to do, but the pro angler seemed happy with it, so I was, too. I couldn't wait.
I slipped open the swivel snap and attached the lure to my line. I had to admit, it looked fine. I took a second to survey the area, picked a spot, and gave it a cast.
The lure flew out like a dream, landing exactly where I had aimed. I began reeling it in. I felt the slight tug that always accompanies spinner baits. I was ready for that first strike.
The lure was back at the shore before I knew it. No problem. How often does someone get a strike on the first cast, regardless of the lure? I tossed the lure back out. Steady retrieval. No bite. No biggie, I just had to find the spot where the fish were. A fish jumped from the water about twenty feet down the bank. Aha! I moved closer to the spot and cast out past the location of the fish. Oh yeah. Here it comes.
No strike.
The fish jumped again, in the same patch of water I had just cleared.
I tossed the lure out again, this time right on top of the fish.
No strike.
I was starting to get annoyed. The pro on TV would have caught three fish by now. What was going on? Undaunted I cast again, then again. I fished up and down the bank, next to fallen trees, through the grass, around rocks. No strike.
The sun was falling rapidly toward the horizon. I had maybe five minutes left of light before the park would close. This was ridiculous. I was starting to doubt the pro angler's words.
"I thought this lure was supposed to make wishes come true," I said, though no one was there to hear me. "Where are my wishes?!"
I shouted that last part loud enough to startle a nearby duck into flight. Stupid TV advertisers. I should have known better than to trust the claims made by some TV commercial. It's just - the fish this guy had been pulling out.
I had time for one more cast. I had given up on trying to pick the right spot. I just wound up and snapped the lure out there. I retrieved the lure slowly this time, half-consciously deciding that since this was the last cast I was going to make it last. I looked at my watch.
There was a pull on the line.
I was so surprised I almost dropped the pole. That would have been disastrous, but my reflexes saved me. I jerked hard to set the hook...
...And realized that I was hung up on the bottom. I tugged a few times to confirm it. Yup, I was hung up good. I walked back and forth along the bank, tugging sharply at multiple angles trying to free the line, all to no avail. Great, just great. No fish, and now I was going to lose the lure.
The sun dipped lower. The park was closed now, and I needed to leave. There was nothing for it. I pulled my knife from my pocket and prepared to cut the line.
That was when the line moved.
It wasn't fast, but the line was definitely moving to the right. It hit me then what was happening. I hadn't snagged the bottom after all. I had hooked a fish. A very BIG fish.
I dropped the knife and took the pole firmly in both hands. I had to be very careful. I was only using 10 lb test and this fish was definitely bigger than that.
I looked again at the sun. I could get fined if they caught me here after dark. It was a chance I had to take.
For the next hour I fought that fish. I gained inches, I lost inches, but I gradually worked it to shore. The sun going down left me in the dark. Fortunately the moon came out, and it was full, allowing me to see enough to continue the struggle.
By the time I hauled the fish onto the bank we were both exhausted. It was worth it; the fish was a behemoth. I'd left my measuring tape at home, but it was clearly more than four feet long. Its girth was such that I doubted I could wrap my arms all the way around it. I had no clue what it weighed.
I was also unsure about the species. I had expected a bass, or possibly a giant catfish. This one looked like a strange mix between the two. It had the shape of a catfish, but its silver scales fairly twinkled in the moonlight. And its eyes; its green eyes glowed with a light of their own. It stared at me with such intensity the fish looked almost intelligent. I squatted down to get a closer look.
"Are you going to stare at me all night or are you going to take this hook out and throw me back?"
The fish talked. I was so shocked I fell backward onto my rear end.
"You talked!"
"You're an observant one," the fish said.
"You talked!"
"Yes, so you've said. Look, this hook is very uncomfortable. It's obvious you aren't going to let me go without getting your wish. Let's have it so we can be done with this, and we can both get some rest."
"Wait, what? Wish?" I was so articulate when I was stunned.
"Let's cut to the chase. The lure guys promised this lure would make wishes come true. Obviously they couldn’t do that on their own, so they contracted with us to make it happen. You invoked the terms of the contract and here I am. So wish your wish and let's get this over with."
My mind was finally starting to make some sense of the situation, if sense could be made from a talking fish spouting on about granting wishes. "You're a wish granting fish?"
"Congratulations, Captain Obvious."
"And you're granting wishes due to a contract with a company that manufactures fishing lures?"
"Wish. Singular. You only get one wish. It's there in the fine print. Hurry it up; I am a fish out of water, you know."
Perhaps it was my time spent roleplaying where tricky, malevolent genies did their best to turn your wishes against you, but I wanted more information.
"Are there any limitations to this wish?"
The fish sighed. "Don't make it easy, then. Limitations. One, no wishing for more wishes. Don't sigh like that, it's standard procedure and I'm sure you knew it. Two, no making people fall in love. Three, no bringing people back from the dead. That's pretty much it."
"That's sounds very familiar. Aren't those the limitations they used in that movie, Aladdin?"
"Those writers did their homework. Look, are you going to make a wish or not, I'm running out of air here."
This fish was highly annoying, and frankly, so was the situation. I'd just caught the biggest fish of my life and in exchange for setting it free I was getting one wish. What I really wanted was a trophy - something that could prove to everyone I had actually caught a fish this big. I suppose I could wish for one, but that wouldn't be real - it wouldn't be the fish I had caught. Unless....
"One more question, fish. How long does this wish last? Let's say tomorrow you swallow a bad worm and kick the bucket. Is my wish going away?"
"Wishes are permanent. Once granted they are independent of the grantor."
I smiled.
"I take it you're satisfied?" the fish said. "You're ready to make your wish."
"Oh yeah."
-----
That was five years ago. I suppose my life could have been a lot different had I wished for money or fame, but I never really wanted those things. What I got was a lot more satisfying. What I got was proof of the biggest fish story I'll ever be able to tell. And if people don't believe me, I just point to that big old catfish shaped, silver scaled monster mounted to my wall.
And for the record - the magic fish weighed seventy-eight pounds.
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