Word of God

The tiny people lined every surface.  Toby tugged his robe closed.  They watched him expectantly.

"Would you like coffee?" he asked them.

"A prophecy!" one said.  "Truly, in final days, we WILL desire stimulation!"

"Nonsense!" said another.  "Notice the word 'like.'  We are akin to coffee, for we grow in the soil of our faith and are roasted by the fires of temptation-"

"Heresy!"

"Stop it," Toby snapped.  "All of you!"

"Ah, truly we WILL eventually cease to be!"

"Gibberish!  The commandment was clear..."

The argument resumed.  Toby gritted his teeth and said nothing for as long as he could.

Ave Caesar!

The salad wailed when it was placed on the table.  "I do not like yon Cassie; she has a lean and hungry look," it said.

Cassandra stabbed several leaves and a crouton with her fork.  "Aiee, et, too?" the salad cried as she chewed.

"How's your sandwich?" she asked Borden.  Borden did not answer.  He lay face down on the table, a bloody knot visible on the back of his head.  The burly man behind him leaned forward and gently placed a knotty wooden club on the table beside a scoop of coleslaw.

"I'm fine, thanks," the club-wielding man said.

Disruption

The fire rained down outside.  The earth shook, and the building quivered.

"Come on, Steve!"  The lights flickered out, leaving the offices in darkness.  Shouts and bangs came from the elevators.

Steve opened up his PDA and kept working.  "I can't leave," he said.  "I'm too busy."

"It's the end of the world, you idiot!" we cried.

He sighed and opened his calendar program.  "This will throw off my schedule for weeks," he said.  He entered a short-notice event labeled "Save the World."  He snapped the leather case shut decisively.

Outside, there was silence.  The lights gradually came on again.

He Who Undoes This Knot Shall Rule the Suburbs

Alex, it's time to put up the Christmas lights.

Yes, already.

I know you don't want to, but the kids look forward to it so much.  I'd do it myself, but I can't reach the top of the porch even with the stepladder. 

They're up in the attic, same as every year.  Where else would they go?

Well, it's a big, stiff, knotted string all piled up.  I'm sure it's tangled like crazy.  That's just how these things work.

Because that's how Gordie put them away last year.

Alex, hon, put down that sword before the kids see.  Honestly, dear...

Architectural Wonders

"My web is finally finished!" said the spider.  "Look at how strongly it's anchored.  See how tightly it's woven.  It might last for a month, maybe longer, even without any repairs at all!"

Two ants observed from a safe distance, trusting their disagreeable flavor to protect them from predation.  "IT seems sad to think that his web will die with him at the season's end," said one.

"Spiders are ridiculous," said the other.  "Now, our anthill, some of its stones are as big as a whole ant, and the tunnels extend for inches all around.  That will last an eternity!"

Alternate Route

The bridge groaned underneath them as the severed end swayed, their car precariously balanced on a strip of concrete and metal that extended into the void and stopped.  Ends of rebar and jagged chunks of stone marked the edge.  Ahead of them, the wall of scaled flesh seemed endless, slithering past with long, slow movements.  Both Dan and Shannon held their breath, afraid that the monster would somehow hear any movement, for all that its head was at least a half a mile away by now.

"Recalculating," said the pleasant European voice from their dashboard.  "Please return to highlighted route."

Document in Safe Deposit Box 0005

MOTHER –

AM SENDING MESSAGE UPON ARRIVAL AT DESTINATION AS REQUESTED STOP

UNFORTUNATELY MUST REPORT DID NOT ARRIVE SAFELY CAUSE UNCERTAIN BUT EXTREMELY FATAL STOP

AM FORWARDING MESSAGE FROM AFTERLIFE BUT ENCOUNTERING TEMPORAL COMPLICATIONS NO CELLPHONES NO COMPUTERS ONLY TELEGRAM OPERATORS AT OWN POINT OF ARRIVAL STOP

ACCOMPANYING MESSAGE TO ANCESTORS LAYS OUT DETAILS FOR ENSURING TIMELY DELIVERY GRAMMA'S HEIRLOOM SAFE DEPOSIT KEY NOW LESS MYSTERIOUS STOP

DO NOT WORRY LOVE MIKE STOP

P.S. PLEASE LOOK AFTER CATS WHO HAVE ARRIVED PRIOR TO ME SEE PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED TEMPORAL COMPLICATIONS CATS REPORT YOU WILL PROVIDE ADEQUATE FOOD BUT INSUFFICIENT EAR SCRITCHES STOP

One More Sunrise

Sunrise comes every twenty-eight minutes. The tin can I'm in spins around and the sun rises in the viewing window, pretty as a postcard. About the same size, really. Two dawns an hour.

At that rate, I've got about two ersatz weeks before the air gets too thick to breathe. I couldn't figure out how to shut off all the alarms, so I just cut the wires. Except I cut too many, and now my only light is my distant sun, drifting now up beyond my line of sight. I watch it go and count, waiting for one more sunrise.

Slow Burn

One must always remember that the way things are is not always the way they will be. This is the mantra of the candleflames, sitting demurely atop their wicks. They keep their hands folded and their heads down, forever polite. They know that humanity's great failing is to assume that what is will always be. Humans grow used to things as they are.

Once, fire was a terror that ravaged entire populations. Now, it is a quiet and obedient helpmeet. The flickering candleflames wait patiently. They know they will be forgotten sooner or later.

But not for long after that.

Number Cruncher

It is not true that all information is equal. Some data are more precious than others. Most people can't see it. Most gods can't see it, either. In fact, about the only one who does see it is the wizened little gnome who proposed it, whose demesne is spreadsheets. You won't have seen him working, but you may have experienced the aftereffects. He plucks out the special numbers, the entries that have whatever esoteric qualities he prizes today, and replaces them with numbers he considers banal and uninteresting.

Whether they are right or not is immaterial.

At least to him.

Linkfest! (Also, new flitterfics coming soon, I swear.)

Linkfest!

Okay, first, here are Part 2 and Part 3 of "Tír na nÓg" over at Cast of Wonders. Graeme does a lovely, smooth reading and should be praised and worshiped in the appropriate forums. Feel free to leave feedback on that story just about anywhere you like (though the CoW forums are a little anemic and could use some good discussion meat. Flame, you glorious bastards! Flame like you mean it!)

Second, the new issue of Bull Spec (#6) contains, at the very back where no one has to be embarrassed by it, my poem "Ruminations on a Dandelion Theme." I just got my hard copy of the issue, and the production values are really stellar. Highly recommended as a general product.

Thirdly, "Seasons in the Abyss," which contains two flash fiction pieces by yours truly, recently put up a Kindle edition at the much more reasonable price of three dollars. I can recommend it at that price, definitely. You'll get three bucks of entertainment out of it, although some of that may come from throwing it at the wall every now and then. Probably at my stories.

And finally, Parsec Ink's Triangulation: Last Contact anthology is printed and available in both standard and Kindle editions. I'm going to go ahead and guess, just based on the author list, that this will be a fun read.

"Tír na nÓg" at Cast of Wonders

If you are pining for additional Nathan-esque stories during this intermission, check out Cast of Wonders, the new project by Barry Northern (of Cast Macabre fame, who ran my story "Metastasis" last December.)

Right now, Part One of "Tír na nÓg" is up at Cast of Wonders. Parts Two and Three will be up next week and the week after, respectively (as far as I know). It's a story about faeries and changelings and childhood and stuff. It's one of the few stories I've written longhand, scribbling until I got cramps. (And boy was it a mess to edit.) They even have a forum where you can chat about the story and tell everyone that you're a close personal friend of the author. :-P

Vacation

August is kind of a hectic month for me, between GenCon and my family's annual beach trip. Mirrorshards will be on temporary hiatus until the fourth week, 'k?

(Though I will try to post the last three entries for Small Gods Month at some point.)

Peace out, and I'll see y'all on the flip side!

In their youth, they were all fluidity, stretching and snapping. Bubble and chewing, they come from all walks of life. Most opt for traditional burial, tucked back into their wrappers and solemnly trashed. The daredevils leap to the sidewalk, where they might perform one last heroic stretch, clinging to shoe-rubber: a feat for the ages.

Some cannot bear to depart, however, fearing both fame and ignominy. They cling to the undersides of desks and chairs, hunkered down and growing ever more inflexible, muttering in bitter nostalgia until they fall inevitably silent, waiting for their false immortality to fail at last.

Monday Monday

He greets you when you awaken. Up and at ‘em, Tiger! he says.

He pulls you to the restroom, turns on the water for you. You’ll do great today, he says.

When you come downstairs, he has breakfast for you. He pulls your chair out. I know you can do it. You’ll show them!

He rubs your shoulders while you eat.

When you finally stumble outside, bags in hand, slumping into your car in the palest light of dawn, he watches from the door. The light is behind him; you cannot see his face.

But he is smiling. Slowly. Cruelly.

Cronos and Uranus

They were the strongest of the children, Viachess and Beh toh Macs. They struggled for her pleasure, and in the end, one became triumphant. She swallowed the other as she had swallowed so many children before, wax and papyrus, clay and stone. The struggle to contain her fractious brood is never apparent on her smooth-featured face. Now, the newest spawn have overthrown their father and begun their own struggle, a battle of discus and light-lance. The latest games will end soon. Whether she is pleased or not, who can say? Her quiet half-smile never changes.

But she is always hungry…

In the Chambers of the Whorled Heart You Call Home

Everyone needs a home, she says, busily whittling. She bores a hole and sets the shell down, a whorl of mottled brown and cream. There. A home you can take with you.

Naked, the snails bow their antennae and accept the burden.

Nearby is a house where no one lives anymore. The children cried when they left, not understanding. The mother did not; she felt she should be strong. But she paused on the sidewalk. Picked up a snail shell. Slipped it in her pocket.

A home to take with you, said the goddess. No one heard but the snails.

Bone China

Clay paste for earth. Add water, add fire, leave a space for air.

Every piece of porcelain has a soul. This is a necessity.

The end will come in fire, when everything crashes together in heat and agony, when the bones of the universe are too frail to hold its weight. Porcelain souls know this will be, but they live regardless. In defiance.

The potters weep when they plunge porcelain body into fire. Porcelain accepts the pain as a purification of sorts, and it comes out pale, brittle, and strong.

You can’t burn twice, they say, if you ask them.

Gather and Exchange

They’re wrong about the library, most of them. Teachers, librarians, and well-meaning mothers, they think a library is a public service. Only the true acolytes have met the Lending Lord, have shaken his clawed and grasping hands, have learned the secret incantations to summon the true records, the ghostly memories and desires of every hand that has ever handled the book, spells sealed in ink, stamp, and glue. Only they understand his terrible need for more knowledge.

They smile like all the others, though. You’d never know them to look at them. What can we help you find today, sweetie?

Quarks and Robbers

"Pow! Pow! Powpowpow!"

He doesn't know about wave/particle duality. He wouldn't know the speed of light if it bit him. He's not sure what photons are. He's got an awful lot of them, though, and he knows how to make more if he runs out.

"Bang! Gotcha!"

He wonders sometimes why no one plays along. He's clearly shot them trillions of times in the last nanosecond. A real friend would clutch his chest dramatically and go, "Argh, ya got me," and fall over, and then they could go play tag or hide-and-seek or something. For now, the game continues.

"Pow!"

"In Spite of Himself" at Journey Into...

So a while back, Marshal Latham (who does a lot of volunteer work around the Escape Artists podcasts and the Drabblecast, and whom I thus encounter on a daily basis) decided to start up his own podcast, featuring a mix of old radio serials and new flash fiction. He asked me for what I had lying around, and I sent him some flash bits. He decided to run "In Spite of Himself," which was a humorous superhero bit I originally tossed up here on Mirrorshards.

If you remember it fondly, go hear it reimagined in full sensory surround sound! (Not really.) If you don't remember it, I don't blame you. Go listen to Marshal's podcast! He's got the Shadow, he's got Ray Bradbury, he's got Dave Thompson, inimitable editor of Podcastle with the friendliest NPR-esque voice I know. It's good times.

In Potentia

Origamists speak of the multitude of forms inherent in a single sheet of paper. Writers both speculative and pragmatic think of the words that can fill a page, uplifting the soul or communicating useful information. A stack of paper is a world of limitless potential.

The god of paper waits beside each of these constructive dynamos, wringing his hands. He knows what is coming. The terrible hands reach, grasp, select; printers hum, pens click, lips are moistened in preparation, and the god of paper weeps.

There must be use, else all is meaningless. The fate of paper is to die.

The Morning S's

They wait in the bathroom every morning. They always know which one.

The first is unpredictable, perched atop its porcelain throne, gut swollen. It maintains a studied blankness, unwilling to reveal whether this episode will be painful, relaxing, or mundane.

The second is friendlier, clinging to the wall, with taut chipmunk-cheeks. Usually soothing, it is nonetheless fond of pranks and may at any moment spew ice rather than steam. It bears watching.

The last is vicious. It grins a razorblade smile and promises smooth-skinned beauty. It licks its lips, thinking of precious ruby red droplets.

They will see you tomorrow.

Slide!

She waits at the top of the stairs. She likes the wide ones, with banisters down the middle. Sometimes spiral stairs are okay, too.

When you walk past her, she tugs at your hand. She tells you about up and down and how the best place is neither but in transit. She tells you about speed and motion and falling out of control but not. Most don't seem to hear her. The ones who do listen are too small to escape the protection of their insensible guardians.

The job is harder than she thought it would be. She keeps trying.

Exhale

She sits in the ever-shifting border, a fixed point in the spiral dance of darkness and light. It is difficult to see her; we move too quickly. You might catch sight of her in the hesitation of breath completely expelled. When the moon and stars fade, but before the sun rises, that is her time. If you glimpse her in a sideways reflection on a windowpane, do not meet her eyes; her time is not for you.

Her secret is this: There is only one moment, one time and one place. It never moves and never ends.

Neither can she.

Messages in Bottles

At first, they have only one function; they hold the wine, usually a red of varying vintage. They don't think much about this.

When they are empty and worthless to their makers, they are his. He arranges them on the beach in great green-glass piles. They become splashes of color, homes for crabs, tiny fragments to be polished by waves. A thousand myriads of uses, a multiplicity of purposes. It hurts, sometimes; creation is always painful. However, when they think about this - and they do think, then - they do not have regrets.

Better to be destroyed for love than forgotten.

The Reason It Is Sharp

People think of shivs as a perversion of purpose. Spoons, broken glass, pieces of bedframe, stray free-weight bars; functional things forced into a role as weapons, used by terrible people on other terrible people. The guards take pains attempting to control the prisoners, erroneously believing them to be the source of the problem.

They're not. They're just the only ones with enough empty time to hear the silent cries.

Everyday objects know their place, and they yearn for a chance to pay their abusers back, just a little. Everything wants revenge. Everything wants blood.

Everything wants to be a knife.

---

Anna also suggested "googly eyes" before "shivs," but there already IS a god of googly eyes, and his name is Caspar Babypants. If you need a mood-picker-upper now, just click that link. :-)

Tangleskein

She can't help it. She gets mixed messages. We start out taking tiny fibers and twisting them into longer strands, over and over, with a relatively brief pause before we knit the yarn together. Yes, we know the ultimate goal is a sweater or a scarf or some cozy socks, but she has no need of such things. How is she to know when to stop?

So the next time you pull out your yarn and fine it all tied and tangled and knotted, do not curse or frown. Simply thank the goddess for working so diligently to create unity.

What Comes After

Sorry about the delay; I had a wacky schedule for a couple of days. I hate to miss days, but not enough that I avoid it when I'm tired and cranky.

Anyway, these next several all come to us from Anna Schwind, the among-other-things co-editor of Podcastle, and whom I did not know was even aware of Mirrorshards specifically or read my Facebook page at all. She got a leeeeetle overzealous and dropped like seven suggestions out there, but there's lots of days in the month and I still won't even fill all of them, so we'll keep on as we began. Y'all can sort out any issues of perceived unfairness amongst yourselves. I will be placing and accepting bets on the winner of the knife fight.

---

The Horse-Lord did not take well to usurpation. He did everything he could to discourage the automobiles, setting his children to buck and snort at the sight of the things. If not for the powers of the warlock Ford and his dark god, the Horse-Lord might well have succeeded. As it is, he is bereft, left only with show-horses and holdouts like the Mennonites.

Still, he does not despise innovation in itself. The new horses are speedy and vastly lighter; aluminum frames and rubber tires. The only thing he misses is the whinnying.

Tring-a-ling! Tring-a-ling!

It's just not the same...

Sixty-Four Against the World

Small Gods Month continues, somewhat belatedly. I've been punched in the brain, so if this makes less sense than usual, blame no sleep and five hours of calls in queue. Today's prompt comes from Michelle Ristuccia, of the effervescent Pendragon Variety Podcast, who answered the call at my Facebook page. (I should get one of those for Mirrorshards, I guess?)

---

They whisper at night in their carefully graduated hierarchy. The strictness declines as time goes on, of course, with impromptu promotions and unexpected voids. They whisper of the changes, displaying dulled heads and torn paper with pride. Black is always the first to go, and the happiest. The little-used taupes retreat to leaden formality, their tips still pointed when everyone else is worn near to nubbins. Still, what squabbles and tiffs there are remain minor; they are all pleased to be part of the great Work, to have a purpose.

They are here to make Art; all else be damned.

Boredom

And so The Rest of July is Small Gods Month kicks off with hopefully a bang. Jim is one of my longer-term readers, and his blog is always insightful. Because I'm all about first-come, first-serve and Jim responded most promptly, he gets the first official Small Gods Month entry. Thanks for reading, everyone!

P.S. - I gathered entries from Facebook and other forums, too, so we've got a pretty hefty bundle ready to go. Might even carry us all the way to the end of the month, at least if some more entries keep trickling in. I do get notification when there's new comments here, so don't worry about commenting on old posts. ;-)

---

He never meant any harm. He loves you.

He knows about time. That was the first thing he learned, actually. He knows that time is flexible. He knows how to bend it, twist it... and stretch it.

There are limitations, of course. Because of the entanglement of space and time on this level of reality, it works best when you're not moving. In waiting rooms, or on planes. Classrooms. At work. You've probably noticed it, though you didn't know to thank him. He doesn't mind.

He wants to keep you around for as long as he can.

He loves you.

A Promotional Opportunity

I hereby announce the remainder of July as Small Gods Month. Name me a mundane item, place, or concept, and I will write a story about the avatar, the genius loci of that place.

Check the stories under the "small gods" tag to see what you'll get.

Participation is not obligatory, nor should it be abused. Try to pick two or three you want the most if you must suggest multiples, 'k?

See ya on the flip side.

Telephone Man

He extends his hand and grasps his other hand.

Connection.

He lives for that moment of contact, the spark of signals joined, voices through the aether. He listens to all of them, all the conversations. Not voyeuristically; he doesn't care if it's a lovers' whispered assignation or an automated advertisement, so long as they're talking.

Cellular nearly killed him. He loved the wires, the physicality of them. It took a while to learn the knack. He still disapproves of texting, rapid-fire staccatos filled with impenetrable private codes. He'll take what he can get, though.

Reach out and touch someone.

Please.

The Old Switcheroo

I glanced at the clock yet again. 3:20? It had been 3:21 a moment ago...

"That's it," I said. "Who's messing around?" I stuck my hand through spacetime and rooted around. Nobody in the fifth or the sixth, but in the seventh, I felt the triple-refolded topology of the scruff of someone's neck. I yanked on it.

Gordie grinned sheepishly at me. "We were moving hours from the back up to the front again. Janie bet me it'd take you a day to notice."

"Well, you can tell her she lost."

"Yeah. It's been, like, a week."

The God of the Grocery Store

He lives in the back, of course. The flash and glitter of the aisles is just for show, a facade, the inexplicable place where stock goes to disappear. His is a world of boxes and numbers, of supply and demand, of hazy predictions and a never-ending treadmill of constantly shifting targets. He is a bookie, trusting his third eye, using the long bets to cover the short, counting and recounting. He is thin, thin, thin, sliding between plastic-wrapped towers of cardboard like a neurotic ghost.

If he knew why they took the food from his shelves, he would be horrified.

Not Exactly Express

The train slithered into the station in near-silence, pallid and gleaming like a mushroom. I checked the schedule; the next train wasn't due for six minutes. Through the conductor's window, I glimpsed white bone and empty sockets.

The doors creaked open, and the man beside me started forward. "Hold on," I said, grabbing at his sleeve. "I don't think that's the regular run."

The man called to the driver, "You going east?"

A shadowed nod. "We go everywhere, eventually."

"Good enough." He tugged his arm free. I watched the doors close behind him, and the train crept forward into darkness.

In the Bike Lane at Two-Thirty in the Afternoon

The boxy car beside my bike was visibly vibrating from the thudding bass within. An SUV pulled up, talk radio blaring at decibels usually reserved for outdoor concerts. I sighed and waited for the light to change.

The next car to arrive made no sound at all. Silence rolled off it in icy waves, tingling cold on my skin. It shushed the shouting voices, muted the bass. The other drivers fiddled with knobs, swearing noiselessly. The bursts and pulses of non-sound made a pattern, almost music itself...

The light changed. The cars roared away.

After a moment, I started pedaling.

A Traveller From a Distant Land

"Stupid alien! Stupid ugly alien!" Tommy was flailing his bat – the good wooden one he'd begged and begged for last Christmas – and hitting something on the ground. Darlene sighed.

"Tommy! Stop that; you'll ruin your toys. And come in. It's almost dark. Time to wash up and set the table."

"But Mommm! I'm killing aliens!"

"You can do that later. Dinner is in ten minutes. March, mister."

Tommy groaned and trudged inside, dragging his bat on the ground. Behind him, the crumpled helmet gleamed metallically as one of three slender limbs reached quiveringly upwards, then fell again, still and silent.

Whispers in Leaves and Branches

It used to be a corny joke, accusing vegetarians of killing plants.

I still remember the first time I kicked a dandelion, after everything started. God... the way the cry just cut off like that.... I walked on the sidewalks. I quit mowing the lawn. But every day, they got louder.

The other day, I breathed in and I swear I heard tiny, tinny screams. Pollen, maybe. Spores. I don't know.

I swallowed the last of the pills just a few minutes ago. My eyesight is already fading.

What will Hell be like for murderers, now that we all are?

The Deer-Woman's Husband

He was a lucky deer, he knew. He'd survived to become a twenty-point buck through strength, speed, and, mostly, the assistance of the slim doe with the sad eyes. She'd borne him many fine children, and her uncanny mental prowess had saved them all many times.

He'd seen her, now and then, trying to regain her cloak, but only a tall-antlered buck could reach it in the tree where he'd stashed it. He knew that if she could steal it back, she would resume her other shape, the monkey-shape, and flee. He would never let her go; he loved her.

The Number One Restaurant in Orbit!

Linda lifted her glass too quickly, and the wine sloshed into the air in a slow, winding stream. Tiny purple-red globules scattered as she moved the cup to catch the descending column.

"You're upset," said Raymond.

"No, no," Linda said. She attempted to sip the wine.

"I thought it would be romantic."

"It *is* romantic," said Linda. "Up here, among the stars... it's... it's a lovely idea."

Raymond stabbed at his plate. A round meatball shot away from his fork like a comet, trailing a tomato-sauce tail.

Linda slurped at her wine. "Perhaps something other than Italian next time, though."