Theodora Pirate's Cove #1

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

GreatHites Season 2 Episode 15

King Arthur has returned and he has brought his sword.

This was the month long prompt for all of March.

Download This Episode.

This week we have stories by:

Arlene Radasky
Philip (Norval Joe) Carroll
And Jeff Hite

Theodora
By Arlene Radasky
March, 2010

"Theodora, get that door open before I swat you!"
Bit pulled her blonde hair out of her eyes, and pushed the door open with her hip. Lord in Heaven, she hated serving food. The trays were heavy and she was always afraid she would drop the soup in someone's lap. Taking orders from Claire was not easy either. Claire always called her by her given name and she hated it!
"Don't call me that! I won't answer if you do! You know to call me Bit."
Theodora. Her mom laid that name on her. "Your father never cared, he didn't stick around long enough to even see you born, so I thought about the best name I could find and there it was, Theodore, but I couldn't name you that, could I, you’re a girl aren't you?" As if she were confirming that for herself. So all the adults around her called her Theodora. And she hated it.
"Well, I wouldn't have to call you anything if you'd keep up with what you are supposed to be doin', and not always day-dreamin' , silly girl," Claire whispered as they got closer to the table filled with giggling women.
She had thought long and hard about her name, ever since she realized it was her name. She used to get teased, but as soon as she got old enough to fight, the teasing stopped.
Bit's mother had died when she was six and Claire, her aunt, brought her into the kitchen and started her peeling vegetables and serving. That was six years ago.
One day when she was helping Edward carry in a bucket of mead that was beginning to slop all over the floor and her, he, the King, stood, walked to her and easily took it from her, setting it on the table for his knights and guests to start dipping from.
"That was a big load for a little bit like you." And then he ruffled her hair.
After that she started insisting everyone call her Bit. It was easy to convince her pals but others were more resistant. Again, after some minor tussles, no one wanted to get hurt just because she wanted to change her name, more of the people her age started calling her Bit. But the adults were different, she was not old enough yet to demand respect from them. Someday, she told herself, someday.
She and Claire were placing the loaves of bread on the table when the lady of the castle, Guinevere, spoke. "I do hope you have a special meal planned for this evening meal. He will be riding in about that time, according to the boy he sent ahead this morning."
"Oh yes, m'Lady. We are having roasted boar. The hunters shot a big one and brought it in three days ago. We dressed it and I started preparing it last night. It will be ready to fall apart on his plate when he arrives, m'Lady."
"That is perfect. His favorite and I am sure he has not had time to do much hunting on this trip. He will be pleased. Would you please bring out some mare's milk? I have a desire for that today."
"Oh yes, m'lady. Right away. I'll send Theodora right away."
Bit winced at hearing her name. She had been day-dreaming again. When she heard that he was coming home today, the procession that accompanied his return came to her mind. There would be people in the road welcoming him, his knights riding in before and after him and his protectors on either side of his mount, swords at hand.
She wanted nothing more than to be a part of it.
She hated being a girl. The only time she had seen women ride with him they were dressed in their finest riding clothes, never a sword or knife to be seen. Bit wanted to dress in armor and protect him, not serve him his cheese.
Back in the kitchen, Claire turned to her. "Now off as fast as you can to the stables. Find James and tell him to milk a mare for the lady. If you get back here before she leaves the table, you can have a few minutes free before we have to set up for the evening meal."
"I'll do it but I'll hold you to my free time when I get back." Claire had not always kept her promises.
Bit ran out the kitchen door, down the path to the stables. The main door was not open as most of the horses kept in the stables were all gone on this journey with the King. Bit knew it had been an important journey. There had been talk of his visit to his sister's holdings at the evening meals for many nights before they left. Something about his sister and her son causing trouble in the land was what the servants had talked about. Bit didn't understand how it could be but she had also heard that the boy was the King's son. "How can he be the King's son and not live here?" Bit wondered this to herself because when she asked she'd had her ears boxed by Claire.
Bit ducked under the fenced corral and slipped into the stable. There were windows way up high but coming in from the bright sun, it seemed to be as dark as full night inside.
"Whatcha doin' here, girl?" boomed a voice right next to her.
She jumped and let out a small screech.
"James, you scared me! I'll be lucky to have enough strength to get back to the kitchen after that!"
A deep throated chuckle was his response.
"Here, I brought you a sweet roll. The ladies just had their meal and we made honey bread for them today. There was some left, they hardly seem to eat anything."
"Thank thee," he said, bit off half the roll and started chewing. Bit had known him for as long as she could remember. He used to visit her mother before she died and would tell Bit about all the colts born in the spring and training the huge horses the knights used to fight. The knight counted on his horse to know where he wanted to go without using the reins because with all his armor on, sword in one hand and shield in the other, all he could do was lean and press with his knees to give direction. That took a lot of training of the horses and James seemed to be able to train them without breaking their spirit, or so he said the King said.
"James, I'm in a hurry. The Lady G wants some mare's milk. Do you have a mare here that can give up some?"
"More milk? Oh yes, the King is due home tonight. I swear, I'd never heard of such a thing before she came. Mare's milk to help produce a baby. She especially always wants some mare's milk the night he comes home from a trip. All our ladies before her and around her seem to get pregnant without mare's milk and it doesn't seem to be helping her. Well, its not my place to question her. I am just lucky I have had mares feeding most times she asks. Edward! Come here!"
Bit's best friend Edward walked over from the shadows. "Hi."
"Did he send you in this morning?" Bit asked.
"Yes, he wanted me to let the Lady know he was coming."
Bit heard James gruffly whisper, "Probably to make sure her bed is empty." Bit didn't understand what he meant. He turned to Edward and continued, "Go to Faerie's stall and milk her for the Lady. Only take a cupful. Her foal needs it more than the Lady."
Bit's eyes were used to the dim light now and she followed Edward back to the stall where a mare and colt stood. "Stay outside until I get settled. She should be good, but with these feet, she only needs to shuffle and I will be maimed."
Edward talked to the huge horse and moved slowly. He was fourteen years old and tall for his age. He managed her well and she let him have a cup of milk without too much trouble. "Here Bit, cover it and take it to her as fast as you can, if you get it to her while it is still warm, she will thank you."
"How do you know?"
"I brought the last one in the middle of the night before he left."
"Edward, I will have some time free after, will you, since he is not here?"
Edward was now a page to the King but had been Bit's friend since they both started working in the kitchen. They still got to see each other sometimes around mealtime. He would often sneak into the kitchen when the King was eating.
"Yes, I will meet you at the steps to the tower. I have something I went to show you."
"Good. Until later.
"Yes, until later."
Bit walked as quickly as she could and not spill all the milk out of the cup. The kitchen was filling with the smell of the roasting boar filled with onions.
The door to the dining room was open and Bit heard Claire. "I'm sure she will be right here, m'lady. Here she is!" Bit sat the cloth-covered mug in front of her and the Lady smiled, reached into her pocket and pulled out a small quartz stone. "I found this on my walk yesterday, Theodora. It carries the color of the wild rose deep inside. It might bring you luck."
Bit took the small offering, still warm from the Lady's hand and curtsied, speechless.
"Say thank you, you ungrateful girl!" whispered Claire.
Th-th-thank you m'Lady! It is beautiful!" Bit's fingers wrapped tight around her gift.
Claire waved her hand and Bit took off to the steps to meet Edward. It was just a few minutes later that he arrived.
"I have something to show you," he said." We have to climb all the way up."
"All the way? How long will that take? I have to be back down here to set up for the evening meal before he comes."
"We have time, he will not be here until close to sunset."
Bit and Edward climbed the first three flights of stairs with no problem. The stairs at that level were crafted to be used by everyone gaining access to the other floors of the castle. The last set of stairs were the narrow, spiral stairs to the very top, the tower room. Bit had never been up this high. She started to wonder if they should be this high.
"Edward, wait. Are we supposed to go up there?"
"I have been up there several times. I don't think anyone else but the king goes up there. But he is not here and I want you to see something."
"Then let's go on," Bit said and started climbing the gray, stone steps again.
The thick-planked door was heavy. Edward had to lean, full body, into it to open it. Bit walked into a very sparse room. A chest against one wall, a tiny table with a small oil lamp and a cot were all that furnished the room. Everything seemed to disappear into the curved walls yet there was not much room to walk. Bit made her way to the cot, placed just under the only window in the room, climbed up and looked out. She could just see the road below. Farmers and vendors were haggling but she could barely hear them. A bird flew by and Bit reached out as if she could touch it. A rattle next to her drew her attention, she turned and Edward was on his knees in front of the plain, wooden chest. He lifted the latch and she saw several colors of folded cloth.
She climbed down, and joined him on the floor. He reached in and brought out a piece of very worn blue and yellow cloth. When she touched it, she was afraid that it was going to fall apart, it was so old.
"What is this?" she asked.
"He didn't tell me what the cloth was from but he showed me this."
Edward laid the bundle on the floor and unfolded it. The small sword was uncovered when the last layer was laid aside. Bit stared at it. It was very small. A man's hand would cover the hilt and part of the blade. As she looked closer she could see that it had been used and the blade was scratched and pitted. Bit turned her head up to look at Edward.
"Who does this belong to?"
"Him."
Bit could not believe that, she could not see the King with any sword except Excalibur. His hand was never small enough to fit this sword.
"I don't believe you."
"It's true. He brought me up here one night, just before we left on this journey." He said he wanted to think but wanted me to see this and remember where it is."
"But why? This is his private room. Why would he bring you up here?"
"I don't know, I just know he told me that this was his when he was little, before he found Excalibur. And he told me his son played with it, too."
"His son? Who is his son?"
"The man living with his sister is the King's son. I overheard them all arguing. Even Merlin was there. She was screaming that the kingdom was their son's to inherit and the King was yelling that he would have to take it by force. Merlin was trying to quiet them and I heard a laughing in the background that must have been Mordred, The King's son. The King stomped out of the room, with Merlin on his tail, saying 'Remember the prophecy, remember!' The King answered back, 'I remember but I do not believe it. I will not believe it! Leave me alone now, old man.'"
Bit watched Edward's face as he told the story. He did not look at her as he told it, but his mouth was lined with white and his cheeks flushed.
"I followed him out of the hall, and ran up to him outside. He asked me if I'd heard. I told him, yes, I had."
"Edward, I have tried my hardest to do my best with this land. You are the hope of the land, all you of your age. I charge you to remember what your life was like while I was King. Remember the good times we have had, the grain our land gave us and the peace we lived under. It has been good. Remember the small sword? That sword was part of my life before my responsibilities, before I had to worry about the lives of others. I want you to keep it safe. Take it to the crystal caves and hide it. I will come back to get it. "
"But you will be home and can take it to the caves yourself."
"No, I will not have time. The council will gather and plan our future. I am charging you to do it."
"I will take it Sire, I told him."
Bit saw tears fall from Edward's eyes. "Bit, he was crying! He had tears on his cheeks! He told me to go get some bread, meat and water, get on my horse, go home and tell the Lady he was coming. I came as fast as I could. Bit, I think there is going to be a battle. What I am worried about is Merlin's warning. The King has been in battles before but this all seems so different." Edward shook his head from side to side, his tears falling from his cheeks spotting Bit's dress.
She scooted closer and hugged him. They both heard the commotion through the window at the same time. She watched as he picked up the sword. It fit right into his hand. He looked at it, felt its balance and nodded his head as if he had made a decision.
The cot was just big enough for both of them to stand on and watch the parade of horses and men. There were many more than had gone from the castle two weeks ago. The King had called in his warriors from their fields and farms. They walked behind him, behind all the knights in armor on horseback. Bit had never seen so many men on the castle grounds.
"Oh no, these are the men he gathers before battle," said Edward. "His farmer soldiers he calls them. The battle must be soon. I have to go tonight and hide this sword. I have to go."
"Then I am going with you," she said.
"I knew you would," Edward said. "We can both ride my horse."
They both watched as Arthur rode home, holding Excalibur unsheathed, laid across the pommel of his saddle. Bit reached into her pocket and touched the pink stone the Lady had given her. It was cold.

King Arthur
Philip (Norval Joe) Carroll

t was a bad area of town in a town already bad enough.

Every morning, around sunrise, an old man walked up the street, thou no one ever saw where he'd come from. A worn out hounds tooth fedora pressed down, hard on his forehead, it met the bridge of his cheep dime store sunglasses.

He sat, everyday, on the corner of Fourth and T. He was old, bent over and wrinkled, but when he sat on his soap box he was straight and tall. He had such a commanding presence, he looked like a king in his court. His name was Art King but everyone called him King Arthur.

He'd been coming to the corner, where he held court for more years than anyone could remember. His smile was a permeant fixture on his time weathered face, and his good natured advice was freely given to any who asked. But you had to ask.

His one possession, besides the few clothes he carried on his back, was an old Marine Band harmonica. For a nickel, or a soda, or a cigarette, he'd play you a song. Most men ignored him, the children and old women all loved him. The punks, and toughs, and wise guys all left him alone.

One day, a stranger, he must have been passing through from a different neighborhood, saw him sunning himself on his box like an old cat. He pulled a knife on Art and said, "Gimmee everything you got."

"Well, let me see what I got here in my pocket," he wheezed cheerfully

He pulled out the old harmonica, held it out to the stranger, and said, "This is all I got. You can have it, and every disease I've blown through it."

He laughed until he coughed. Through the wheezing and spluttering, all the while he smiled.
Eventually his fit passed and he said, "if you want, I can even teach you how to play it. He laughed again, spat, and played a song.
"No one makes a fool out of me," the stranger growled and slapped the harmonica from Art King's hands.
The old man stared at his stinging hands, and then at the harmonica on the concrete sidewalk, his smile was gone. He got slowly to his feet, took the few steps to the shiny metal instrument and bent to pick it up.
"You think you're really funny, don't ya, old man," the stranger continued. "Well, I have a little joke here in my pocket, and it's gonna make us both laugh, don't ya think?"
He pulled a long switch blade from his pocket. With a snap, he flipped the blade open. He held the blade's point at King's nose where he remained bent over as he reached for the harmonica.
Art grasped the harmonica, his long coat hung heavily on his old frame. From his crouched position he said, "no, I'm not funny. Just old."
With a long sigh that spoke of centuries, he stood. As he did he pulled the sword from the very concrete of the sidewalk. It sang as the steel rose free of it's stone scabbard. It resonated in elation as it was held free toward the sky to receive the sanctifying rays of the morning sun.
The would be thief didn't hesitate, but ran his knife into the old mans heart.
Art King coughed at the impact of the knife in his chest and gasped for air to refill his shocked lungs.
Blood ran freely from around the knife in the mans clenched fist. The thief laughed at the shock on the old man's face. His triumph turn to incredulity as the pain in his hand made him aware it was his own blood, and not that of the old man that ran down his wrist.
On meeting something impenetrable on the old man's body, the knife stopped short of piercing King Arthur's skin. Instead the thief's fist continued forward, the razor sharp edges cut cleanly through skin and muscle to bone. The smell of well oiled chain mail was crisp in his nostrils.
As the thief fled, several men in chain mail or studded leather stepped from the ether to surround Arthur. As one they knelt, heads bowed, the tips of their swords pointed down, and hovered a fraction of an inch from the ground.
"My Lord," Lancelot said, "it is time you come with us. We have all drunk from the Grail. But as you must be, we are all now weary. It is time we drink a second time from the sacred cup and find our eternal rest."
"You have brought it with you," the king stated blankly.
Lancelot nodded.
King Arthur finally lowered Ex Caliber, and said, "Yes, let's go."
The knights fell into step behind their king and followed him down the street and back into legend.
As they began to fade from the vision of mortal men, Arthur asked Lancelot, "it was pulling the sword from the ground that alerted you?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, Your Highness, we have been looking for you for centuries.

Return of the King
Jeff Hite


"It was September, and not a nice September day, that much I do remember. There were no birds signing and the rain, though nothing new on this little island, was cold. I think if it had been a few degrees cooler it would have been just about painful to stand out in. But then I might be remembering today, because it is so much like that today. It makes my bones ache. Ache to the point of not wanting to be here. Here The place that I have come for the last ten years. Every year at this time, to remember, and hope that maybe this will be the year that he will return. That he will wake up and help to bring us back from this brink, this dark time that has befallen us. Though I know it will not. I even I am allowed to hope, and old man who has seen time forward and backwards. I am spent, I have nothing left to give this world, but I would find a way if he were to return to us."

I watched Merlin ramble for a few more minutes, as he stood before the door to King Arthurs grave. He had given more than his share in the king's time, and it was unfair what they was about to do to him, but life is rarely fair. I watched him move carefully away from the door, he raised his staff looking so much like the powerful wizard that he was and lock the door to the tomb. It was for the last time he knew. The last time that anyone would be able to open the door, unless it was opened from the inside, Or so he thought.
The stone melded together, forming a perfect wall of rock, without blemish. Then carefully he inscribed it in a writing that only another wizard like him would be able to read. "Here lies Kind Arthur, King of the round table, The once and Future King."
He coughed as he finished the last word and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Consumption, or whatever they called it in his day was eating him from the inside out. He would die soon. I knew that, and so did he. It was not something that I enjoyed watching, but I had seen it more times than I cared to count. He would lay down next to the tree to rest, with plans to make his journey to the place everyone thought he was already was buried. But he would never get up from the spot. After he stopped breathing, the lady would come. She would carefully pick him up, and undo what had cost him his life's energry with a slight wave of her had. The great door would open and he would be laid next to his king.
"Dr Mander, I have reviewed the logs and I think we have met the conditions you were looking for."
"Good Matt. Let's take a look."
"I have found the spot when they are all together. She is so much more powerful than the other two. Why not just get her?"
"She would not help us alone, She will not work for anyone, but to help the other two. To help the world. Now you are sure she was helping him, and now trapping him?"
"Yes, she was helping, but if we really needed it, why didn't it just happen on it's own."
"So many questions today Matthew. You disagree that we need the help now?"
"No I just wonder why it has not happened on it's own."
"Come with me, I will show you."
"What I am going to show you, I have never shown anyone else. It has taken me years to get this far, and your work, has allowed me to continue mine uninterupted. I really appreciate that."
"Your welcome Dr."
"This is very important, we have to complete our work so that we can wake the King."
"But what have you discovered that will allow us to do that."
"Let me show you." The Professor led Matthew to the back of the build and down into a basement room. When we stepped into the room the cold hit me like and arctic blast, and I shivered in spite of myself. Once my eyes had adjusted to the low light I could see there was very little actually in the room, a number of large pieces of equipment that I didn't recognize and there in the middle of the room, was a silver coffin shaped box.
"Ten Years ago when I was on a survey mission, I found her, I found the Lady you just saw watching Merlin into the the cave."
"But How."
"She was Frozen in the bottom of the lake. We were on a geologic survey of the area and thought she was another bog body. But then we found her, she was perfect. She looked just like this." He said pulling the lid back.
There laying before us was the sleeping form of the lady that I had indeed seen in the view screen only ten minutes ago. She had put Merlin in the cave with Arthur and sealed it up.
"Your research proves that most of the so called historical accounts of her were fictional. She seemed to be helping Merlin and not trapping him. Or at least laying him to rest with as much respect as was paid to Arthur."
"Ok that sounds about right but what are we going to do?"
"We are going to wake her up of course, and get her to understand what a mess the world is in. Ask her, no beg her to get the sword and wake Arthur and if possible Merlin up too so they can help get us out of this mess." We stood in almost reverent silence until my teeth started to clatter. "Alright it is time to get started. You will help me wake her up now." He said as he turned and left the room.

It took what I thought was a surprising like short amount of time to wake the sleeping lady. We had barely warmed the temperature of her chamber above freezing, and she started to stir, within an hour she was fully awake. That was when the trouble started.

"Who are you?" The now fully awake and surprisingly tall goddess of the lake as demanding of Dr. Mander.
"Madam, I am Dr. Mander, I, we have found your body frozen in the bottom of a lake and rescued ou. We woke you up hoping that you could help us with a problem."
"You woke me up. I wake up on my own time."
"Yes, I know," he said almost cowering, "But you have been asleep for nearly two thousand years."
"Two thousand years the earth has survived without the old gods why have you woken me now?"
"We need leadership and guidance that we think you can help us with."
"I am not a leader. I cannot do what you ask." She said as she began to walk away from him. "Where is my lake from here, I will need to return to my slumber."
"Madam, I beg your forgiveness, but we were not looking for you to lead us. We were hoping that you could help us find King Arthur and awaken him." She stopped then and rounded on him.
"King Arthur? You seek the leadership and guidance of him?"
"Yes, we are in dire circumstnaces, our governments are falling apart, we need someone who can help lead us."
"He was a Minor king, who managed only to untie his people for a few years, then he was distracted by a woman and sqandered the powers of the one man who could help him. Merlin," she said choaking a little on the name, "was a fool to have helped him. He swandered his life and his power protecting an even greater fool." There was silence in the room while we stared at each other and then she turned to walk out of the room. We followed her and Dr Mander continued his argument.
"But wait, with your help, he might still be able to help us."
"How?"
"His short comings are all but forgotten now, he was known as the great leader, and a man who could bring men together. If he were brought back he would be listened to and maybe just maybe he could help us turn our lives around before the human race kills itself."
"I think you put too much faith in a long dead king."
"What about Merlin?"
"What about him?"
"Can he help us?"
"Unlike Arthur, he died. Arthur was put to sleep before his wounds could kill him, if here were woken up he would need a doctor right away, or he would die too."
"So you can't help us."
"I tell you that you are as big of fools as Merlin was to want him to come back. He was an ancient king and would know nothing of this worlds problems. I have been sensing the world since you awoke me thought your communications devices and your in-ter-net and that fool man child would be utterly lost. He would not know what to do."
"What made Arthor who he was?"
"I did, I did and Merlin. Without our powers he would not have been able to do what he did. He knew what he wanted to do, but in order to convince people he was right he needed out help. but once he got a taste of the power." She trailed off and a tear rolled down her cheek. "I don't know why Merlin helped him for so long."
The room was scilent for a long time then, and only the hum of the computers filled the air.
"Take me back to the lake." She said finally.
"Yes, of course." Dr Mander relented.
"I need to get the sword execaliber. I think there is something I could do for you. You young man, What is your name?"
"Matthew."
"Very good sir Matthew, I will need your assistance. You know history?"
"Yes, me'lady," I said with a little bow.
"You will come with us. I can teach you what you need to know."

A week later, we had gotten the necessary documents for her to travel with us back to the coast of Enland where her body had been found. We sailed out in a small rented sailboat to near the middle of the lake, she got the sword and gave it to me.

So here I am, dressed as king arthor, Dr Mander dressed as Merlin, at my side. It has been like this in nearlly a dozen countries in the last two weeks. Merlin Knows who I am of course, but everyone else believes it, I mean really believes it. But now we stand before our real test as we stand at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial waiting. And even though I know what is going to happen, when it happens I am startled. From the center of the reflecting pool something begins to surface, slowly the blade of excaliber raises out of the water. I look around the pool and thousands of cameras turn their focus from me to the sword that is now fully above the surface. Now the hand that holds it is beginning to emerge. I know the hand, I know what it looks like because I have seen it do this before, when she gave the sword to me two only weeks ago from the lake were Dr. Mander had found her. The arm is now visible to the elbow and is moving toward this end of the pool. The clear water shows no one below the surface, and no matter how the camera's scan they will not see her. She is not there after all. She is in her lake at home, the source of her power.

"Now King Arthur," The presidents voice portrays how much he believes that is really who I am. "How are we to know that sword is for you?"
"Send your men out to retrieve it. If they bring it back to you, you can hold the power of Camelot, and bring peace to the the world." he nodded and three of the secret service men plodded out into the pool water not quite at their waist. They each reached for the sword in turn and all three hands passed over the sword without being able to grip it.
"What is this?" The president was angry now.
"Only the rightful owner the ruler may hold the sword."
"Then why did you send them out there?"
"You had to be sure it was safe, they would go with you anyway, would they not?" His face was dark but he nodded his head.
"So I am supposed to go out there not and try to grab it?"
"You are the most powerful ruller in the free world, if the the position is to be yours, you will be able to grab it."
"I was freely elected by the people. I have not tried to wrestle this position from anyone."
"I make not arguments to you claim. Go retrieve the sword for yourself." He Nodded again and started toward the pool, when it was clear the sword would come no closer to the edge five more secret service men entered the pool ahead of the president, sweeping the pool with their feet as the surrounded their charge. He stood before the sword and hesitated. In that was his mistake, she had said that there was a chance that if he were a true leader and reached for the sword right away, he might be able grab it, but becuase he hesitated it meant he was not the leader the world needed, and the sword again go to me. I had almost hoped that he would be able to grab it. Let us find a true ruler, the next king Arthur and then we would not have to go on with this charade.
The anger was clear on his face as I walked out to the center of the pool to meet him.
"So the sword is yours?"
"We will see," I said and reached for it. It came away from the hand and rested in mine as the arm disappeared below the surface. I stepped away from the president to the side of the pool and raised it above my head. Merlin was the first, but soon after everyone along the mall fell down on bended knee.
"King Arthur has returned, and I have brought my sword as proof."

Great Hites Destruction

During The month of December I asked toss out the prompt of Destruction, and you guys delivered it in a blaze of glory.

A warning, these stories are probably rated pg-13, for mature subject matter and implied violence.

Download these stories

Four Great Destruction stories by:

Arlene Radasky
Ashley Redden
KM Law
And Phillip (Norval Joe) Carroll



Check out the discussion forum.

Greathites 77

This week Great Hites has a special guest host, Arlene Radasky.

We had two stories, From Ashely Redden and <--------- This week's Winner
Philip (Noval Joe) Carroll.<--------- This week's Winner

Thank you so much to Arlene. Her help this week was invalauable

Download this weeks Episode.

Don't forget you can discuss the stories or anything else on your mind in our forum here


 Rescue Mission
By Ashley Redden



First Striker Cayhill Banning checked his telltales again, more out of habit than need. A lifetime of reliance on spacecraft and more imminently Space suits had taught the soldier that it was far better to become habitualized to checking vitals than not. So he checked the telltales of his suit every few minutes, mostly subconsciously. Such habits had so far kept the first striker alive through situations thick and thin, usually more thick than thin.
Banning looked to the left then the right. The members of his squad, six counting the first striker sat upon the nose of the ship spread out in a standard entry wedge formation. The five soldiers were all ablebodied marines, ranked first ablebodied through third ablebodied. Banning preferred and even requested that any marines sent to his squadron be straight out of basic. He preferred to train blank slates. Once they began thinking for themselves it was all downhill from there.
Besides, they were all ablebodies to him. Once his marines began insisting to be called by names and worrying about things like rank, it was time for them to move on; they were of no use to him anymore. He didn’t have time to worry about losing people, but losing ablebodies didn’t weigh so much on the conscience. What First Striker Cayhill Banning and his marines did was dangerous work. A person had to keep their sanity any way that they could.
Banning’s soldiers sat upon the hull of the ship in the exact same repose as the first striker, each suit bonded in three places to the plastimetaloplasma hide of the assault vessel Kellan. The feet of each marine and rest bar extended from the back of each perspective suit were bonded to the skin of the ship making each marine in essence a tiny living piece of the Kellan.
The soldiers would stay attached until each marine’s suit released the contact points. The metal contact surfaces of the suits had been changed from one state of matter to another, from metal to metaloplasma.
Were the ship to be attacked and the Kellan’s hull blasted and ruptured beneath the their very feet, though each marine would be long dead from the impacts by then, they would still be just as attached as they were now. The first striker smiled as he wondered when miracles had become commonplace so that things such as the ability to ride on the nose of a spacecraft barreling through space would become routine.
Maybe it was his age. After 113 years of active service, just about anything could become pedestrian. The First Striker was 138; soon he would be hitting the big 1 5 0, middle age. Banning hoped to reach 300, but only if he was still wearing combat suits and knocking the teeth out of some smart ellic puke’s mouths.
‘You never know,’ thought Banning. ‘I might even outlive the Kellan.’ The First Striker smiled mightily, his smile was almost too big for his helmet.
The Kellan was shaped something like a great fat bird, without an extended head and the wings were not wings as such but more like thinner extensions of the ship’s body. Some of the navy pukes that drove the vessel had told Banning earlier that Kellan came from an ancient race of humans that spoke a language called Gaelic and stood for warrior princess.
Banning had no idea if the puke was telling him the truth or not but since ships were supposed to be female, if a marine had to be on any ship it seemed fitting they would ride the warrior princess. Actually, he would have preferred to name it just that, but Banning didn’t think like a navy puke and they sure didn’t think like a marine.
Most of the pukes acted as if they had obtained their brains from what normally resides in a toilet, but the first striker had to give them some grudging credit. At least they got the marines to where they were going and picked them up after the mess, most of the time. So he guessed everything must have a purpose, even a navy puke. Pukes may have a reason for being, but nobody said that he or any other marine for that matter had to like them.
He looked out across the vastness from his perch near the nose of the Kellan upon the bright green globe of the moon CM-3. The moon loomed large even though the ship was still several mega clicks distant.
As Banning studied the moon, it was impossible not to also consider CM-3’s mother planet as the behemoth filled the horizon. The gas giant Chalkos stood out against the pitiless black of vacuum as if some great hand had dropped a reddish-orange plate with a slightly metallic luster upon a tablecloth of the darker than can be imagined ochre.
The planet so resembled natively occurring copper that it had been named after the metal. Banning had no idea where the word Chalkos came from or what the connection to copper was. Some smarter than he should be navy puke said the association was there. Banning asked what the relationship was and the dirty puke had answered, “It’s Greek to me,” and then roared in laughter with his smart ellic puke buddies. The first striker had to restrain one of his marines from going after the puke. The puke sneered and left, but the first striker thought it was a pretty good bet that Banning had just saved his arrogant puke life. First Striker Banning’s marines played for keeps.
If the planet Chalkos was a great plate, then the moon CM-3, which was so named as Chalkos moon number three, looked like a bright green marble that had been dropped and forgotten upon the red plate’s surface.
Banning shook his helmeted head. Sometimes just the scenery alone was worth the job, not always, but sometimes. First Striker Cayhill Banning settled in for the long wait, but he remained restless, he always remained restless and continued to check the telltales of his suit every few minutes or so.
The operations officer of the Kellan transmitted, “First Striker Banning, ready for soft dock.”
Banning replied, “Roger.” Soft dock meant that the ship would get close and the marines would jump across, with the aid of their suit propulsion. Being a marine was not a job for the faint of heart.
Banning readied his troops for disembarkment. The operations officer had already reported that all scans had come back negative. The science station was five-by-five intact and all systems operational though each at the minimum setting. The scans showed no signs of life whatsoever. The science station glittered black haloed by the bright green of CM-3. The station had gone quiet a little over two standard years ago. It would be up to Banning and his marines to go over there and find out what happened. Or more accurately, to make sure the place was secure so some of the brainier navy pukes could come over to piece together the puzzle.
No matter, the first striker had a job to do and do it he would.
The operations officer called the soft dock and Banning’s marines launched in quick succession across the black void and landed onto the science station’s dock. Within minutes, the marines were inside the station, one ablebody was stationed at the lock, and the rest proceeded with quiet precision in the direction of the station’s operations center.
At each of the two major junctions within the station, Banning left an ablebody and moved on no resistance met, no life found. When the marines reached the operations center, the first striker moved to the other side of the large single console that dominated the confined space.
Several monitors were active, though dark. The central monitor was bright with words on the screen that read to play message push blinking button. Just below the monitor a single blinking button flashed. All the other buttons along the console were either dark or a steady green.
Banning reached forward and pressed the blinking button.
A picture immediately appeared on the screen of a small child standing in the very place that the first striker now stood. The marine to his right gasped and put her free hand to her face as if to touch her mouth.
Banning snapped, “Control yourself ablebody. You’re a marine, act like one”
The marine lowered her hand and answered, “Yes first striker.”
Banning looked back at the image on the screen and understood full well how his marine felt.
On the screen stood a small child, for all appearances human, but…the child was completely nude. There was a great red welt that ran from just below it’s chin to where it’s legs met. Where the child’s sexual organs should be there was nothing but smooth skin, parted by the welt. As Banning looked at the welt, he licked his lips and blinked in discomfort. The welt was red as red could be but it didn’t look infected. Actually, the more the first striker studied the red line down the front of the child, the more it reminded him of a weld, like a seam that has been melted and sealed. The first striker shook his head.
Other than the welt, the skin was completely unblemished, too much so in Banning’s opinion.
The hair on the child was cut in a pageboy style, as if a bowl were placed upon it’s head and the hair that peeked out cut off. The child’s complexion was a ghostly white, it’s hair jet black.
Banning and both of his marines gasped as the child spoke.
The child stood weaving slightly back and forth it’s hands clasped cutely before it smiling it’s sweetest smile. The child said, “Hello. You are probably wondering who I am and why I am here.”
The child smiled even bigger and continued, “First of all I am not so much of a who as a what. As to the what, the scientists who discovered me called me a tickler because they said I tickled them when I interacted with them. When I was first discovered, you see, I was not embodied. I am not sure exactly what I was made of because the scientists never figured that out, so how could I know? I was able to enter the scientist’s minds and speak with them, like a child at first, but I learned so quickly. When the scientist first discovered me, I was unaware. I was simply there orbiting the planet below and feeding from the complex gravity system of the planet or moon as the scientists called it.
Once I realized that there was a me, an I, I began to experiment with the scientists at first to help them, but later to help myself. I began to delve into the natures of the scientists. They were rich in diverse feelings and thoughts; every new discovery was a revelation. I must admit that I was a bit intoxicated by the emotions of the scientists at first. Unfortunately, I used most of them up quickly, humans I found out, are so very fragile.
But later, I was able to move more slowly and the last few scientists lasted much longer. I craved the flesh that they so took for granted, so I made my own.”
The child released it’s hands and turned from side to side with it’s hands out showing off its pale unblemished flesh, unblemished except for the great red welt.
“I read in one of the last scientists mind that it is customary to leave a recorded log for the final survivor. So I decided to record this message.”
The child pouted and momentarily appeared sullen.
“But I grow weary of speaking into this dumb machine. Machines are no fun, they are so cold and don’t feel anything. I have great need for new specimens to continue my experiments so that I may grow and develop. There is no way that I can go back to what I was before. I need more humans, many many more.”
Banning was shocked at how much the thing on the monitor looked just like a petulant human child.
The child leaned forward and placed both small hands onto the camera, just out of the picture’s screen. The child’s expression darkened and became very intense, it did not blink.
The child whispered, “I have discovered from the memories of the scientists that lived here before that it is customary for trumpeters to herald a king. I will soon be your new master, soon all humans will aid in my quest to improve.
The herald is supposed to announce who or what is coming. I believe that a scream would be better than some silly trumpet and a more appropriate harbinger of my arrival. Yes, a human shrieking in anguish and torment would truly announce who and what I am”
The child’s eyes filled with blood swirling in from all sides until the entire eye, pupil, white and all was black, unreadable. Tears of blood began to form in the inner corners of each of the child’s eyes, slowly methodically. Banning watched with morbid fascination as the tears formed from small dots that swelled slowly as if he could watch the shape grow and bulge until finally the tears tumbled from each eye down the child’s face marring its perfect complexion with foul scarlet streaks. Two tears crawled down the child’s face in unison, slowly followed by two more, then another pair. The blood tears did not stop.
The child with the black eyes whispered, “I hope that the journey back home is long. It will give me plenty of time to get to know you better, better than you know yourselves. Thank you so much for coming to rescue me, I have been so lonely. I will see you soon and our new life together will begin. Listen for the scream that shall mark the dawn of my arrival.”
The child looked for a moment longer into the lens, it’s face looming large, the eyes black and the blood tears plummeting down it’s otherwise too perfect face. The child’s head turned slightly and leaned to it’s right. The picture flashed and vanished. Words appeared on the screen stating that to replay the message push the blinking button. Banning stood, shocked to the spot looking at the blinking light.
As the first striker stared at the small blinking light trying to decide if what he had just seen was real or not, he snapped his head up as a blood curdling scream sounded through the entryway, from somewhere down the hall. The marines to his left and right snapped to attention and brought their assault rifles to bear on the opening.
As the marines listened, they could hear a great panting cry that grew louder and louder finally erupting into another scream that turned into a penetrating howl of pain. This time it did not stop. The screamer did not seem to take a breath as this scream continued on and rose in crescendo to become an all encompassing shriek.
Finally, the sound seemed to lessen, then sounded wet, gurgling and finally died away.
A giggle drifted down the hall that could have come from a child at a candy store, all sweetness and joy.
One of his ablebodies said, “Oh my God.”
“Easy marine.”
Banning stood in the middle of his marines that he had trained to meet all possible situations with fierce professional determination and had no idea what to do. For a few never ending seconds he was as lost and bewildered as a babe in the woods. Finally, he shook himself out of his stupor and swallowed hard.
Banning keyed his transmitter by staring at the icon on his helmet’s heads-up display.
“Operations here.”
“Send someone to the marine’s section and enter the armory and access the artillery locker. Send the weapons from the artillery locker across to the science station.”
“First Striker Banning, are you requesting that the ship’s personnel go to the marines section and bring you those weapons?” replied the Kellan’s operations officer with a great deal of incredulity.
“Correct, but send them on a remote controlled sled, no people. Do not, I say again, do not hard dock with the station”
“Let me get this straight Banning, you want the navy to send some guns to your marines?”
“Not guns, but weapons and yes we need more. All we currently have are assault rifles. Strongly suspect that there is an alien presence aboard the station. Suspect that all station staff members are dead, I say again, suspected alien presence aboard station. Send the extra weapons as soon as possible.”
“Which weapons,” asked the operations officer?
Banning glanced to the right; the ablebody didn’t look back at him but he saw her cut her eyes his way then back forward. His marines remained focused on the entryway weapons at the ready, tense and edgy. Banning nodded ardent approval, his mood dark and ominous.
First Striker Cayhill Banning said, “Send everything we’ve got, all of them.”

Some wise man once said ‘in space no one can hear you scream’ which in itself is quite true. But place a vessel of some sort in space. Fill said vessel with that gaseous cocktail normally referred to as atmosphere and unlike in hard vacuum sound waves travel extremely well. In fact, not only can any and everyone on board the vessel hear you scream, but there is nowhere to run to get away from the sound. And if the scream is loud enough and long enough and at just the right pitch, it may even echo also. But have no doubt, each and every scream will most definitely be heard and be heard well.



Apollo 26
By: Norval Joe


“Houston, this is Anderson. We will begin our pass behind the moon in less than five minutes,” the mission commander said. “We will resume communication in an hour.”

Anderson waited for Houston’s reply. When none came he looked at his companion in the small lunar orbiter.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Captain Baker said to his superior, “maybe we’re already blocked.”

“We shouldn’t be for another few minutes. Look at the mission clock,” he said, confusion evident in his voice.

“Houston, this is Anderson. Do you hear me?” he asked, but there was no reply.

“Look at the log, Carl. When was our last communication from Mission control?” Anderson asked.

“You’re right,” he replied, shock and concern in his pensive whisper. “It’s been over half an hour. I’ve been concentrating on the lunar orbit so much, I hadn’t noticed their absence. They should have checked in fifteen minutes ago.”

“We better check all our instruments and find out which are malfunctioning,” Anderson said, thoughtfully, “I’ll bet mission control is going crazy, not being able to communicate with us.”

“Right,” Baker said. “I hope it’s just us, and not them that has the problem.”

Baker worked with his instrument panel, flipped switches and turned dials while watching the various gauges and indicator light.

He spoke into the microphone. “This is Captain Baker of Apollo 26. Do you read me?”

He waited, and a moment later the words crackled across the speaker system, ‘This is Captain Baker of Apollo 26. Do you read me?’ as the radio waves bounce back at them from the surface of the moon.

Anderson went pale and said, “well, we can send and receive. We’ll just have to see if Houston can in...18 minutes.”

They watched the monitor view of the moon's surface and waited for the earth to rise above the horizon.

Even before the earth was visible, Anderson began. “Houston, this is Anderson of Apollo 26. Do you read me?”

He repeated the words over and over, more frantic with each repetition until the earth was fully above the crater pocked, curved, horizon on the monitor. Small pin pricks of intense light flashed occasionally across the North American continent.

“What, the...” Baker began, but realization dawned on the astronaut at the same moment as it did on his companion.

“A nuclear strike,” Anderson said, “Huston is off line. Try Cape Canaveral.”

"I'm on it. Cape Canaveral, Cape Canaveral, this is Apollo 26, do you read me?" Baker fairly screamed.

"Nothing. Damn it. Now what? Edwards Air force Base?" he asked Anderson.

"Try," was all Commander Anderson said.

"Edwards, this is Apollo 26, do you read me?" Baker said into the microphone.

All that returned was static. The two astronauts neither spoke, nor looked at one another as they pondered their options.

Baker fiddled with dials on the control panel and listened for patterns in the static as he slowly moved the receiver from one band width to the next. He shook his head and sighed. "Are they all dead? Is there no one left alive?" he asked the air in general.

The continuous stream of static made a faint "pause, pause, pause," sound, and Anderson shouted, "Hold it there."

He leaned over to Captain Baker to watch the other astronaut work. "Fine tune that one," he said.

Baker turned the larger knob. It moved the indicator needle a small fraction of an inch at a time. He set the volume as high as it would go.

Faintly, they heard one side of a ham radio conversation.

"...as I can tell....yessir....all network stations are down here. No TV or AM radio. How about you?.....no...no idea....Yeah, I got food enough for a year, or so. Can even live under ground.......no....don't know what good that will do if the rest of the world is gone...Yeah, check back with me tomorrow...good luck..."

They listened a while longer, but there we no further comprehensible transmissions. Their fears confirmed, dread filled the small capsule.

"Harry," Baker asked?

"What, Carl?"

"Do we continue our mission, or just head back now?" Baker asked.

"Right." Commander Anderson smiled grimly, "No sense hanging out in space. Let's go back."

Anderson stared up at the monitor, the earth hung unnaturally above the grey and black horizon of the moon.

"Keep transmitting," he said to Captain Baker, "hopefully there is still someone waiting for us out in the ocean. If not, it's going to be a long swim to Florida."

Weiner Dog Songs Special

We have a special Treat for you today. A while back we had a very unusual musical prompt. About those funny looking little Dachshunds that some people like to call Weiner dogs. I had one of these growing up and he was my best friend for a long time so this brought back a lot of good memories.

Download Weiner Dog Songs


Thank you Mick for hosting and putting it all together.

Thank you Philip NorvalJoe Carroll for suggesting it.

Thank you all who sent your songs in.

We are not going to have voting on this one so just enjoy it. Let me know if you like these kinds of specials, and I will ask the non-tone deaf co-hosts if they would be interested in doing more of them.

Great Hites Bonus October #3

This bouns Episode is a nice scary poem by Arlene Radasky, Just in time for Halloween. IT has a Pg-13 Rating for subject matter so parents please listen once before you let your kids listen.

Download

Great Hites October Bonus Episode3



Music By: Kevin Mcloud from Incompetech.com
Production By:Jack Hosley

Here is a link to the Original Audio with no muted sections.

Enjoy

Great Hites 68

This week we have stories by:

Download




Marla J. Mercer
Norval Joe
Arlene Radasky
and
Mick Bordet <--------- This week's Winner



Marla J. Mercer

My story is based on a newspaper item that I found in the Business Section of the Los Angeles Times dated 8/19/09. The headline reads, “Coffee Jar Case Isn’t Closed”. It’s about a former male model who is suing Nestle USA for using an image of his face on the Taster’s Choice freeze-dried coffee label without his permission. The piece gave me the idea for the following story entitled . . .


An Unauthorized Likeness
By: Marla J. Mercer


A woman in the dayroom is using my face without permission. I saw her reflection in the window today as I was taking a brief walk around the ward. She was standing next to the television. When I turned to confront her, she quickly darted into the water-therapy room. I immediately reported the infraction to the new nurse. He is a big man with thickets of black hair on his forearms. I believe his name is Nurse Roland, though I may have him confused with one of the characters in the novel I am writing—I’m not sure.

That’s one of the things I like about my stay here at the hospital. The members of the staff understand the subtleties of my craft and make no demands on me to sort out what is real from what is fictional and vice versa. When I lived at home with my husband, Benjamin, it was an unspoken rule that I keep my writing-mind separate from my wife-mind, a task I found extremely difficult and frustrating. Sometimes it took all my concentration to keep the filters working. In retrospect I’m surprised that the screaming didn’t start much earlier.

But, I digress. Getting back to my complaint, using the image of another’s person face without prior approval is a clear violation of hospital policy, and unfortunately, this is not the first time it has happened. On several occasions, I have noted that same forlorn-looking woman using an unauthorized likeness of my hands and upper torso. If appropriate steps are not taken to stop her, I may be forced to sue. I will ask my husband about it the next time he visits. Benjamin is an attorney and knows all about the law.

Take, for instance, the details of my commitment. Benjamin was able to quickly cut through the legal red tape and have me admitted for immediate long-term care, forgoing the usual 72-hour observation period. Everything is spelled out quite clearly in the meticulously prepared documents that he has since filed. Benjamin prides himself on being efficient and well-organized, which is why he considers me to be such a disappointment.

I suppose I can’t blame him for thinking that I have failed him as a wife. For the record, though, I would like to state that I tried very hard to be the kind of competent woman he wanted me to be. Each morning, before Benjamin left for work, we would carefully review the list of daily household chores and errands that he had prepared for me.

“Just work your way down the list, one task at time, and you’ll see how easy it is to get everything done,” he would say.

I would nod in agreement and kiss him goodbye, fully intending to follow his instructions to the letter.
It’s just that . . . I would find myself walking past the computer. And then I would start thinking about a story I was working on, and without even realizing it, I was Alice down the rabbit hole. Before I knew it, Benjamin would be home from work, and I would still be dressed in my pajamas, clicking away at the keyboard, and not a single item crossed off the list.

I have tried to explain the phenomenon of writing-related time warps, but Benjamin thinks I am crazy. To him, time proceeds in an orderly and methodical fashion. His minutes are well-trained soldiers on parade, each equal distance apart and marching in perfect cadence. He keeps a very close eye on them, too, and is forever checking his watch, especially when he comes to visit me.

Luckily, the fluid nature of clocks and calendars is no longer an issue that concerns me. The staff here keeps track of everything on my behalf. Visiting days, appointments, meal times, medication schedules—I need not give them a second thought. For the first time in my life, I am free to write day and night, without any restrictions.

It took my good friend, Doctor Melvin, to figure out that if I am writing, I am not screaming, which is why he has issued orders for the staff never to interrupt me when I am working. Their cooperation and support do not go unnoticed and will be duly acknowledged when my novel is published. I will also be including a special dedication to Doctor Melvin for supplying me with the most amazing computer imaginable. It has increased my productivity a thousand fold.

My old computer at home required me to manually type the words to my stories, a method so pathetically slow that only the tiniest percentage of my ideas ever found their way to my fingertips. Here at the hospital, however, Doctor Melvin has granted me round-the-clock access to a special brainwave computer that eliminates the need for any keyboard input whatsoever. With my new equipment, I am able to transfer each and every thought directly into the central processing unit at the same lightening-fast speed at which my neural synapses are firing. Though Doctor Melvin has yet to reveal the technical specifications of the hardware, I strongly suspect the circuitry involved is similar to the machine used for my shock treatments, for I often experience a tremendous rush of creativity after a session.

I have asked Doctor Melvin and the staff not to mention anything to my husband. If Benjamin were to find out about the brainwave computer, I fear he would have me transferred to another hospital. After what happened the night I was committed, I am convinced he would stop at nothing to keep me from pursuing my writing career.

“I’ve had it with this little hobby of yours” he had declared that evening.

I had just returned from the grocery store and was putting a sack of groceries on the counter. “What are you talking about?” I had asked.

“You weren’t here when I got home, and now it’s six-thirty, and you haven’t even started supper. I’ve tried to be tolerant and indulge you, Lena, but I’ve reached my limit. Look at this place. It’s a mess. Enough is enough. From here on out, you’re going to stop all this writing nonsense and get your priorities back in order.”

His words had slapped my face as surely as an open palm. “But, I can’t stop writing,” I had protested. “My stories are the only things in my life that—”

“Your stories are gone,” Benjamin had interrupted. “While I was here by myself, wondering where you were, I was forced to take matters into my own hands.”

A shiver of fear had run up my spine. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying that I’ve solved our problem. I deleted all your document files and shredded your paper copies. I cleared everything off the external hard drive, as well.”

“You what!”

“It’s for the best, Lena. I read a few pages. Believe me—it’s no great loss. You’re a housewife, not a writer.”

And that’s when the high-pitched screaming had started. Until then, I hadn’t realized the full range of my vocal chords. At least, I think I was the one doing the screaming. It’s possible that it might actually have been a character in my novel. It’s so hard to keep these things straight. Or perhaps it was that very sad-looking woman who keeps using my body without proper authorization or consent. I have a hunch she is the one I sometimes hear crying when I wake up at night. Maybe I should write a story about her.

Then again . . . maybe I already have.


An Unauthorized Likeness by Marla J. Mercer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.


Crowded Living Space
By: Norval Joe

"Come on, it's over this way," Dean said. He motioned for his cousin to follow, and ran forward, not waiting for a response. When he reached a bend in the passage, he turned to wait for the slower boy.
"Wait, Dean, let me rest a bit. No one is following us anyway." Bent over, his hands on his knees, he gasped for air.
"We don't know that Vance, my little brothers are sneaky and persistent. If you'd stop breathing so loud, I could listen for them, and know for sure." Dean stepped back down the dark hallway and listened. Vance tried to control his breathing. For the few seconds while there was silence, Dean confirmed that they were, in fact, alone.
They held their lanterns in front of themselves. While the light illuminated the ground at their feet for only a few yards, it was picked up by reflected by small sensors on the walls for almost 100 feet. "Three more sensors on the left and then we turn," Dean said.
"How can you be sure. I'm completely lost, and you think you know where you're going?" Vance was skeptical.
"Look, Vance, you just have to pay attention. How far was it from our apartment, to the lowest inhabited floor?"
"Umm. Six, I think. Was it six," he asked Dean?
"No," Dean said, incredulous. "It was eleven. Then how many floors did we descend until got to the long passage? Think about it, four flights of stairs for every floor, you should have been counting." He could see Vance wrinkle his brow and purse his lips in concentration.
"Ten?" Vance guessed.
"You have no idea, do you? Come on, you look rested enough." Dean walked down the hall, his lamp creating an island of light in the vast darkness. "We descended eighty four flights of stairs. That's twenty one more floors. Thirty two in all. At about twenty feet per story we've dropped 640 feet from our apartment and 420 below the last active air pump."
"Air pump. Now I get it," Vance said, and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Is that why it's so stuffy down here?
There aren't any air pumps working."
"Yeah. Where the people live they have to pump the air in to keep it fresh. Once, I tried to get to an opening on our level. I wanted to see the sky and breath outside, in the open air. I walked for almost a day, maybe in circles, but I never found a way out. Here is the next turn. Come on, in here."
They entered another passage. It ran a short distance, maybe 100 yards, and stopped at a heavy door.
"Be careful here," Dean said to Vance. "Here, take this chair leg and jam it in there when I open the door," Dean said and indicated the hinged side of the door. "It worked to hold the door open the last time I came through here, but it was tough doing it by myself."
Dean pulled back a large spring loaded bolt, held it with one hand, and pushed on the manual door release with the other. Years ago the door may have been operated electronically; prismatic sensors on the door and wall were evidence of past technology.
Dean pushed the door open and Vance wedged it like he was told. Wind from outside rushed past them blowing their hair and clothes, and trying to force the door shut again. There was just enough space through the open door for each boy to squeeze through and onto a narrow ledge.
Dean was smiling as he watched the other boy make his way out onto the ledge and look down. The shock and fear on his face was clear and Dean laughed out loud, and shouted at his cousin, "slide sideways over this way. There's a wider place to stand."
They moved along the narrow shelf to a broader landing where they could sit, comfortably, and catch their breath.
The outer wall of the building dropped away into darkness impenetrable to the light of the small lanterns. Only a few feet away, across the infinite drop, was another building. It had a similar landing to the one where they sat, and an open doorway.
"So is this what you wanted to show me? A ledge above a bottomless pit," Vance asked. "I mean, what can you see? All I can see is ways up to the side of the building and that other one over there."
"No, this isn't it. We're almost there, though. It's just through that door and way down at the end of the passage." Dean replied pointing at the rectangular shadow on the building opposite where they rested. He got to his feet, took a few running steps and jumped across the chasm.
"Are you crazy? What are you doing?" Vance cried at Dean.
"Come on, you wimp. You could step across that big a space if you didn't think about it. Let's go. We need to get back home sometime." Dean laid on the pressure.
They walked along the passage without talking for some time, then Vance said, "how many apartments do you think we've passed? And not a person in one of them."
Dean started calculating, "well, there are supposed to be around 8000 apartments on the floor we live on, and that's without crossing to other buildings on our same level. We've dropped 21 floors that are uninhabited, to where we crossed over to this one. If this building is anything like ours, that would be 42 floors total, so about 320,000 apartments. If you put 20 people in each of them, like we have at home, then you could house 6,400,000 people in the space we have walked."
"Huh," was all Vance could say.
"Hey, look ahead of you," Dean said.
"Why? All I can see is five feet in any direction with this cheep lantern," Vance said, then stopped, suddenly. "No, wait your right. What' that?"
Dean didn't answer. Instead he burst into a run, and shouted, "let's go."
They ran the rest of the distance to the open doorway at the far end of the passage where they burst through and fell gasping for breath on a landing similar to that at the opposite end.
Again, Dean watched the other's face as realization dawned on his cousin.
The sun was only slightly smaller in appearance to the great orange planet above them. The sun stood side by side with Jupiter as if pausing for a moment before passing behind the gas giant.
"Perfect," Dean said. "Last time I was here the sun was on the back side of the moon and all I could see was the planet. Let's wait for the full eclipse before we head back."
They ate crackers and protein slices they had brought with them and watched as the sun slipped slowly behind Jupiter. When the sun was completely hidden, Ganymede was cast into an eerie semi darkness, illuminated by the glow from the planet.
Narrow stairs climbed precariously up and down the cliff like exterior of the city building. Other buildings, like mountain peaks, rose from below, built upon the foundations, or even the backs, of other, more ancient structures.
"Come on, let's head back. Our mothers are probably worrying by now," Dean said. He got up and brushed cracker crumbs from his clothes. Vance followed and got to his feet as well.
"Dean, why don't we stay here? It's so crowded back home, with four families crammed into one apartment. Here we have plenty of space to move around, and the air is fresh. It doesn't need to be pumped; we can just leave the door open."
"There are only two problems," Dean said, heading back up the tunnel. "Food and water. We need both to live, and right now the only source of those is Uncle Rob. He's feeding all of our families."
There was a slope to the hallway they hadn't notice coming down. They were soon huffing as they hiked back up.
Between breaths, Dean suddenly said, matter of factly, "I saw one of the slaves."
"You did not, liar." Vance said, out of childish habit.
"I did. That time I was trying to find a way out on our level. It was carrying some packages for an old woman." Dean slowed to allow his companion to catch up.
"Was it ugly? I heard they're blue, I would kill it if I found one. For taking all our jobs. Well, for taking our parents jobs."
Dean shook his head. "It was kind of blue, but kind of grey too. Something to do with how they lived underground on Callista." He paused, then started again, "You're right. It's not fair that they come in here, get all the advantages of modern civilization, live with some rich old woman, and take all our jobs."
"But then we wouldn't get to have all the fun we do, if we weren't squeezed into the one small room together, would we?" Dean asked sarcastically.
They both laughed as they stepped through the door way onto the inner landing, between the two buildings. The laughter ended suddenly and they stood, stunned.
"Well, ok. I guess my brothers will have a little more space in the bedroom from now on," Dean said. "The door to our building is closed, and there's no way to open it from outside."


No karaoke for you! Bad wiring spells tone-deaf
By: Arlene Radasky


"Gracie? Where are we going tonight?" Josh's voice carried over the stunted walls of the warehouse like office.

"Oh no, you didn't invite him, did you Gracie?" Mary's stage whisper didn't carry as far but embarrassed me just a much.

"I couldn't help it, he overheard us talking at lunch. You know how much fun he said he had the last time he came with us," I responded in a muted grimace. "He invited himself."

I stood up, looked toward Josh's voice and saw him standing, no towering, over the half wall that separated us all like mice in a maze. He was at least six foot two and had a body of a tennis player. I always compared a lanky man's body to a tennis player's. I loved watching tennis and dreamed of meeting Andre Agassi and Roger Federer climbing the stairs of my apartment building. But Josh was a not a tennis player, his rangy dishwater blond hair hanging to his ears in disarray; he looked like the geek he was. His shirt pocket sported at least two pens and the black-rimmed glasses were not over his brown eyes, but slipped half way down his nose. And he wasn't coordinated. As a matter of fact, we all had learned to step out of his way when he was up walking. He invariably would catch his feet under a chair or even his own foot as he made his way to or from his cubicle.

"Tony's Bar and Grill," I said.

He disappeared. I shook my head as I again imagined him climbing into one of those little clown cars. How comfortable can he be all day long in the tiny cubicle of our office spaces? It was hard for me to stay put all day in our individual cell-like squares.

I heard Mary getting ready for our departure and reached into the bottom drawer for my sweater and purse.

Mary stood waiting in the entrance to my cubicle while I turned off my computer and straightened up tomorrow's work on my otherwise bare desk. Mary had pictures of all her nieces and nephews spread around the walls of her cubicle, a vase with a plastic rose, an tiny hour glass filled with sand from the Grand Canyon, a six inch Eiffel Tower and more that she arranged and rearranged everyday. She had been to the Grand Canyon last year and said when she held the Tower that she could imagine herself climbing its steps "all the way to the top to look over Paris someday".

"Why don't you at least bring in some pictures of your family?" she asked.

"I see them often enough, I don't need pictures," I said. I didn't want to explain that there was no family to have pictures of. My twin brother and I had been orphaned, farmed out to foster families, after our parents were killed by a drunk driver when we were ten. Then he got sick three years ago, just before I started work here, and died. I remembered him just fine. Anyway, there were no pictures of him that I knew of. The foster families we were with never took pictures.

"Come on, if we don't hurry, all the good seats will be taken," I said. We caught up with Josh at the elevator. "We can take a taxi and share the fare or the train, take an hour and still have to walk a mile," I said.

"Taxi," they both said at the same time.

The three of us squeezed into the backseat, me in the middle because my legs were shorter, and I told the driver where we were going.

Just after we got started, Josh's cell rang. We all had to squirm into yoga-like positions while he dug into his pocket. Finally retrieved, he opened his phone.

"Hello. No, Tamisha, don't do that. I'm sure she'll be fine. Just be sure there is water and food out for her and I'm sure she'll come out when I get home later. Okay. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

What…did he have a wife hiding under the covers at home?

I looked at Mary and she shrugged.

"Do you need to go home?" I asked.

"No."

Brave Mary leaned forward and asked, "Well, who is Tamisha and who the heck is the water and food for?"

We didn't know what his situation was at home, but I knew I remembered him saying he wasn't married the last time he came out with our group. There was no way I would want to be out with him right now if he were.

"Tamisha is a neighbor. She lives in the apartment next to me."

The silence was deafening, even with all the traffic on the streets and the songs on the taxi radio with words I didn't understand.

Mary had not settled back into the seat yet and even found enough room to turn toward Josh. I squirmed as the little room I had between them seemed to grow smaller.

"Okay. Tamisha goes in and feeds Twinkie when I'm late. She loves my dogs, well, now my dog, and I'm hardly ever late so she told me to call her when I needed. I called her before we left."

Now it was my turn to ask. "Twinkie?"

"Yes, Twinkie. She's my miniature Dachshund. I had two but Burger died two weeks ago and Twinkie still misses him. She hides under my bed most of the day."

Oh my God. A rush of memories flooded my brain. My brother had a Dachshund. He said he wanted a pet and a small dog was perfect. His dog's name was Brandy. He said it was because she was the color of his favorite drink. She was five years old when she got cancer and died. He spent a small fortune, money he didn't have to spend on a dog, on her. But she died anyway. It was just months later that he was diagnosed. At that moment, I realized just how much I missed seeing that little dog. All the times I saw them together, before her illness, I remember him smiling.

On my left Mary said, "Oh, I hate those little wiener dogs. They look so weird. I mean, why are they so long? And so low to the ground? I don't like any dogs. I'm allergic."

Now I realized just how little I knew about Mary.

"I love them," I said. "Are you going to get another to keep Twinkie company?"

"I have my bid in with a family who has a litter of pups. They live near my sister. I have the pup picked out and he will be ready to pick up in two weeks, when he is two months old."

"Yuck. Puppy pee all over your carpet and chewed slippers is all you have to look forward to," said Mary.

Josh's arm lying on mine, in this crowded cab, did not seem so much an inconvenience any more. Actually, I kind of liked its pressure on mine.

The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of Tony's and we fell out of the back, one at a time, all reaching for our money. Paid, the driver took off, singing along with the song on his radio.

We found our table in the back, but with a fairly good view of the karaoke stage. Four others from our office were already there so we pulled up some empty chairs and joined them, Josh sitting next to me.

I loved karaoke. I don't know why, but even with my fear of standing in front of any one and talking, to the point of throwing up before any meeting I have to give a presentation at, karaoke did not scare me. I loved to sing. And here was a stage, shared with others like me, who knew we would not get the chance any other time to sing in front of a crowd. Perfect. So I came as often as I could.

The noise was loud enough that I had to lean toward Josh and asked, "Last time you came, you didn't sing. Are you going to tonight?"

He shook his head hair bouncing around his face, "No. I'm tone deaf. I can't sing. I actually can barely tell one song from another." His finger pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "I can tell by the words, but if it is instrumental, I can't tell classical from jazz."

I stared at him. "Really?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a part of a study. I've been to Harvard Medical School three times now. There is a doctor there, who wanted to find out how different our brains were. I get all wired up and then she records what happens when she plays music. And she asks me to sing. Afterwards, we have a good laugh. My singing is really bad."

"But then, why did you come here tonight?"

I think he blushed but it was hard to tell in that light.

"I want to get to know you better. And I thought it would be easier this way. I don't do well asking women out on dates."

"Oh… Me?"

"Yes. You. I like the way you smile and you are so nice to everyone in the office. Even Mary." He smiled and I could see his eyes crinkle. I loved it when men's eyes crinkle.

Suddenly I wanted to tell him everything. Everything that I had never told anyone in the office before. About my parents dying, about being raised by foster parents, about my brother's dog, Brandy dying and then my brother, Terry leaving me. I wanted to get him into a corner of a quiet place and open my heart. Why? Why? Because he loved Dachshunds and his eyes crinkled.

"My brother had a Dachshund, named Brandy, who died of cancer. Was that what Burger died from?"

"No, his kidneys shut down."

We were almost yelling when the crowd got quiet as the first karaoke singer started. It was Country Western night and a lot of teasing and cat-calls were expected at some of the songs that were going to be picked. All in fun. I smiled in anticipation.

It was my turn. I got up to the stage and made my request.

Two measures of music led into Ghost Riders in the Sky and I started singing.

An old cowboy went riding out one dark and windy day

Upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way

When all at once a mighty pack of brown-eyed dogs he saw

A-plowing through the ragged sky and up the cloudy draw



Their tongues hung in greetings and their tails wagged hello

He knew the respect they carried and their hot breath he could feel

A longing of love went through him as they thundered through the sky

And he saw the pups coming hard and he heard their yipping cry



Yippie yi Ohhhhh

Yippie yi yaaaaay

Ghost Dachshunds in the sky

Yippie yi Ohhhhh

Yippie yi Yaaaaay

Ghost Dachshunds in the sky

Yippie yi Ohhhhh

Yippie yi Yaaaaay


I heard laughter I had heard before. Looking over at our table, I saw Josh laughing and wiping his eyes. It was my brother Terry's laughter. The same from the belly laughter that I didn't hear often enough from him. Yes, I told myself. I don't care if he is tone deaf. I love his laughter. I want to get to know Josh much better and meet Twinkie.


The Pit
by: Mick Bordet


It had been a long day for Jim Sykes. Not only had he spent the last five hours with his mother, listening to her planning out the strategy for her entry into the World Cloutie Dumpling Championships, "they're to be held in Lochaber, this year, you know, James," she had told him at least a dozen times, but he had been volunteered to give his crotchety sister a lift back to her home in Auchterarder. If he didn't know her well enough, he might have thought she was so crabbit* because she had spent the last week with their mother, a kind, well-meaning old widow who threw herself into each new venture with a passion rarely seen in the over-eighties. Up until the recent announcement that the dumpling competition was to be held in Lochaber, practically on her doorstep, she had been knitting scarves for "the old folks", as she called everyone in her own generation. Now she had something with a challenge, a deadline and, most importantly, the opportunity to prove, once and for all, that she could out-bake Sadie MacIver and receive a trophy to prove it. Jim and his sister, Brenda, had sat patiently, listening to her admit that some arty-farty chef from one of the posh restaurants would probably win, but as long as she made it into a round higher than Sadie, she'd be happy.
Brenda always spent at least one week every year at her mother's house and had been doing so since their father died. It had started with her feeling she should be there for her mother on the anniversary of his funeral, but as the years went on, she found she enjoyed the company more and more. She was quite happy living alone with her two dogs and a goldfish for company most of the year, avoiding most human contact, but had to admit that she always looked forward to her annual trips North, even if she always came home with a new set of neuroses about her mother's latest infatuations.
"I may love them to bits," said Sykes as he waited at the junction to join the traffic speeding by on the A9 towards Perth, "but thank God I live on my own. If Janice had been that intense, I'd probably have strangled her long before she got the opportunity to leave me."
He was glad to be back on dual-carriageway after the last two and a half hours travelling under fifty around the highland roads. The scenery on the road to Lochaber was certainly more stunning and rugged than that on the East coast, but he was happy to exchange beauty for the chance to put his foot down and get moving again.
"Aw, damn it!" he cursed as he rounded a corner not much more than a mile further on to be confronted by a long tail-back of traffic. He tapped the screen of his satnav to work a way around the jam, which directed him to turn off onto a B road that would return him to the motorway on the other side of Perth. The new route took him back onto twisty country roads, through the village of Forteviot, where a line of cars had parked along his already narrow route. There was a group of people milling around in the middle of what had once been a field, but now looked like a cross between a construction site and a crime scene. His natural curiosity got the better of him and he parked his own car at the end of the line, locked it up and walked up to the gathering to see what was happening.
He was almost disappointed to see a sign announcing an open day for an archaeological dig that was taking place. That was not something he would expect to see drawing crowds like this, nor would it, in the past, have been of any interest to him. However, given his recent brushes with obscure ancient symbolism, he did now have a newly discovered interest in Scotland's distant past, so headed towards the middle of the group of people.
There he found a young man with rosy cheeks and wind-blown hair explaining the latest find to those gathered round him with an infectious enthusiasm.
"... and it is clear from the items found in the tomb here, that this was a man of some standing within the community, most likely a king. The effort required to move a slab as large as this," he said, pointing to a huge rectangular stone sitting to one side of the hole in the ground, "would not be undertaken lightly."
Sykes glanced at the huge rock, impressed with the feat of engineering required to move such a massive object, but more interested in the artefacts the man had mentioned lay within the tomb. Only after a few moments did it occur to him what he had just seen. He moved closer to the rock and adjusted his glasses to look at the detail. There, carved into the stone, were a set of familiar symbols. Now he wished he had known about this earlier and had seen the man's whole presentation.
"Excuse me," he said to the man, interrupting his talk,"but could you tell us about these symbols?"
"Well, they are a bit of a puzzle, I'll admit," the youth answered, "you see, those were carved on the inside of the tomb, but their location is such that they would have been scraped away when the rock was dragged into position. It seems that they were etched there only after the stone had been laid in place, so either these people had some way of raising and then lowering four tonnes of solid stone, or..."
Sykes finished the sentence for him, "... or someone was buried alive."


# # #

Alfrad thought back to the day it had all started, the day the stranger came to the village. His people had shown the man the same courtesy and hospitality that they had shown Alfrad eighty years earlier when it was he who was the stranger, looking for shelter from the biting rain. It was in their nature to welcome any such traveller or visitor on a quest and they saw nothing untoward in the new arrival. Within a day or two of his appearance, though, Alfrad started to notice that the man was constantly questioning people and most of the questions seemed to point back to him. Why was this person, whom he had never even seen before that day, so interested in his life?
Seeds of doubt had been sown amongst the people he considered to be his friends, his adopted family, even. Now they were asking him questions, clearly prompted by the stranger, about where he came from, why he had stayed here, so far from his own kin and, most telling, why it was that everybody knew him to be a visitor from an island far away, yet nobody had any memory of his arrival. He stalled the questions as best he could, but there was no good answer. How could he explain that he had been living amongst them for a dozen years before even the oldest of the elders had been born?
Over all the years he had lived in here, nobody had asked such things, indeed he didn't believe the thoughts had even occurred to them. He had felt like this was his home, had never been more at ease, comfortable and loved, but for the first time ever he had become an outsider.
A group of eight men, guided from the rear by the stranger, had grabbed him from his sleep that morning, binding his wrists and legs and preventing him from reaching any of the tools he owned that he could have used to protect himself.
The shallow pit was of his own devising; he had taught the villagers the stone-working skills necessary to dig and line it, ready for use as a multi-purpose store for the harvest over the winter months and as a water store over the dry summer. He had struggled for his life when they dragged him over and threw him in, then all had gone dark as his head hit the stone floor.
He regained consciousness as the huge slab was being pulled over him, waking in time to see the last inches of daylight being blocked out.
"Help me! Why are you doing this?" he shouted in desperation.
"You have tricked us for too long, daemon. Connor has shown us the truth of it. You never age, your skills in stone craft are unnatural and you talk of strange things, the like of which we have never heard.
Alfrad was stronger than most men, despite his narrow frame, but with his hands tied and the sheer weight of the massive stone slab, he was unable to stop them closing out the daylight forever. He had never cried before, his people rarely did, but now he wept. Not for himself, but for the experiences he would miss, for his friends, misled by some unknown evil or insatiable greed to betray him and for their future, for without his guidance and teaching, they would be subject to the same diseases, famines and hardships as every other un-developed clan in the area. Then at some point, when it was too late, they would realise their mistake and rue the day they had listened to the twisted words of a stranger over their friend and ally.
All that remained was for him to wait for the end, his mind drifting off as the oxygen in his tomb was used up. Productive to the last, he worked with a piece of quartz from beneath him to scratch out a message to his people. He left the symbol for his own clan and alongside that, the symbols that said simply, "Forgive them".



Notes:
*Crabbit - Scots word for grumpy