Short Story: Dead Days

 I was dead. That much was sure. On the bright side, it must have been painless. I couldn’t recall how it happened, and looking at the body, it was fairly recent.

“Mr. Crayne?” 

I jumped out of my skin…so to speak. I turned to see a rather average looking woman. Not “average looking” in terms of attractiveness. She actually looked pretty nice. But no wings or horns. No spectral glow or ethereal smoke. Just a regular woman. Standing in my office. 

“So… are you my guide to the afterlife?” 

“You could say that.” She looked at the office door, then her watch, then my body on the floor. “What do you remember?” 

I took a moment to try to recall what I had just been doing. “Nothing unusual. I was waiting for an appointment. The last thing I remember is checking Twitter. I think the client was running late.” I walked closer to my body and leaned over. The skin was still fairly pink and flush. There was a wet mark on the carpet by the desk. Wow. I really hope I didn’t piss myself. “Do you know how I died? Was it a heart attack? Dammit. All that healthy living and exercise and Eddy outlives me on a diet of burgers and fries and Netflix marathons. He is never going to let me live this down.” 

“Yeah. Ah. Look. I just need to confirm a few things. Are you Thomas Crayne, Licensed Private Detective in the district of California?”

“That’s me, formerly at your service. I’m going to haunt my doctor for missing whatever got me.” 

It was dawning on me that I was taking being dead remarkably well. When Carla Friedman dumped me for Manny Keisic in fifth grade, I cried for the entire weekend and ate a whole two litre tub of salted caramel ice cream while watching Jurassic Park on cable. That was a rough night hugging the toilet bowl. I wish I could say at least I enjoyed the movie, but it was the third one, not the original.

“Do you recall working with a Mr. Miguel Park?” The woman hadn’t moved from where she was standing. “It would have been several years ago.”

“I don’t know if being dead voids confidentially agreements, but until I know for sure, I can’t discuss anything about past clients.” I stood up and looked around the office. My phone was in its charge cradle. There was an almost full glass of water on the far side of the desk. The rim had a slight smudge of lipstick. I touched my lips, and looked back down at my body. Nope. Definitely not me. 

That’s when I saw a second glass on its side under my desk. 

“How did I die, Mrs. Park?”

“Your expertise is required, Mr. Crayne. The situation is…complex. I had to expedite the initial requirements of your employ. Time is a factor in this case. It’s already taken you longer to materialize that I was told to expect.”

“You killed me? I don’t recall agreeing to that, as a requirement for my employ or otherwise. I enjoyed being alive. I’d been practising for 38 years! I was just getting good at it.” I lunged at Joanna Park, but was abruptly stopped by a very solid, very invisible, very firm wall. Pain must have a psychological aspect. I was pretty sure all my nerve endings were lying on the floor, but my present form still felt like it had just run full speed into a brick wall without inhibition. I bounced back and found myself on the floor of my office, gasping for air through apparent pain. My face was right in front of me. 

I was breathing. I mean dead me. My body. My body was breathing. I wasn’t dead. Maybe?

Mrs. Park looked down at me. “I really need you to calm down. You’ll be returned to your physical body once the contract is complete, regardless of outcome. My team will be here in a few minutes to remove and store your body. Your consciousness has been discorporated and tied to this device.” She held up her left arm, showing what appeared to be a smartwatch. 

“Yours has a bigger memory than mine, it seems. I hope it has a better battery too. I have to charge mine every night.”

She turned towards the door at some noise from the reception area. Glancing back over her shoulder at me, she tapped twice on the watch. A green circle appeared on the screen. “Remember when I said time was a factor?”

Short Story With Time Travel

This is another short story, and I usually post these without preamble or context, hoping the story will be enough to hold itself for as much as I want to tell. But I feel like this one does need a bit of context. For one thing, normally when I write a short piece of fiction for my blog, it’s a random moment, or the very first few paragraphs to a story. This time, it’s the very last page. It all started when a friend I know through Twitter posted the following exchange a few nights ago:

My 6 yo son: I want to go to your wedding.
Me: Which wedding? Mommy and my wedding?
Him: Yes
Me: But you weren’t born yet. You couldn’t go. You didn’t exist then.
Him: But I exist now.

This instantly sparked a story in my head of a kid somehow getting a time machine just to go back and be there for his parents wedding, but getting into all sorts of trouble along the way.

I responded to her at the time:

This is the start of a ripping great YA sci-fi book involving time travel, dinosaurs and the Temporal Enforcement Division, TED. "Sorry kid. TED talks, you listen. That's just how it is. I won't be taking questions at this time..."

And that was that. Or so I thought. In fact, my brain was running it over and over, imagining scenes and moments and set pieces, and I said so.

[Bleep]. I'm now writing the entire book in my head just to get that one gag into it. I have an ending... I [should] write it down before I go to sleep...

By this time, it was past 11pm. So I went to bed, turned out the lights and shut my eyes.

Then I got up again and got my keyboard for my iPad and sat up in bed and knocked out the following in about 30 minutes. It’s rough, it needs editing, but it was fun to write, and that’s all I care for. Enjoy.

***

He held the Time Piece in front of Connor’s face as it faded out of existence.

“Sorry kid. The adventure’s over for now.” Michael put one hand on his own Time Piece, and held the other out to Connor. “As an officer of the Temporal Enforcement Division, I am authorized to return you to your time of origin.”

Connor didn’t move. He looked down at the thick moss on the jungle floor. “It’s not fair! I just wanted to see my mom and dad’s wedding day. I wasn’t going to change anything, I promise!”

“I know that. Why do you think TED just sent a single officer, me, to deal with you? We keep the big teams for the big bads, the ones trying to rewrite history.”

“Then why did you stop me?” Connor asked, with maybe a little more poutiness in his voice than he had intended.

“Delay” the officer said calmly.

“What?” Connor looked up and saw, really for the first time, not the terrifying figure that had been chasing him since he first got the Time Piece, but a person, a regular other person that had a warmth in his voice.

“Delay. Not stop. You’re just 6 years old.” Michael placed one knee on the moss and a hand on Connors shoulder. “You’re too young to really appreciate this moment. Besides, if we’d let you go now, there would have been two of you there, and that actually would have caused problems for the timeline.”

Connor was silent for a long moment. “So I will get to see it?”

“Yes. And a TED officer will escort you. In fact, I put in a request for the job.” Michael thumbed the Time Piece and Connor saw that now familiar swirling of stars and streaks of purple, and suddenly he was back home. Michael stood up and took two steps back.

“Wait!” Connor said. “What if I tell people about this?”

“They’ll just chalk it up to a six year olds imagination. But you probably won’t. This is a secret that’s worth treasuring for yourself. See you in fifteen years, kid.”

“Fifteen years?!? That’s so long! Will I recognize you?”

“Sure.” Michael looked at his watch. “It’s 3:20 on a Friday afternoon by my timeline. I’ll hopfully be assigned your escort mission before the department shuts down for the weekend. I’ll see you Monday, personally speaking.”

Connor smiled. “That’s nice that you get weekends off.”

Michael shrugged. “Union rules. Nine to five, Monday to Friday. No overtime.”

The officer touched the control on his Time Piece and faded from existence.

***

There are things I’d certainly keep if I ever wrote more. I love the “TED talks, kid. You listen” gag, so the Temporal Enforcement Division would have to stay. I also love the idea that they run a strict Monday to Friday, 9 to 5 work week. Because they time travel, there’s no deadline you have to meet relative to your own time. You can take a break and drop in after a night’s sleep at almost the exact moment you left. I’d put in moments into the story where the officer shows up and seems a little forgetful of specific details of what exactly is happening, despite having been there moments before, because for him, it’s been a whole weekend.

Of course, there are things I think I’d have to change if I ever wrote more. I think the protagonist would have to be a bit older. For the short piece I wrote, I left the reference to him being 6 because my friend’s son is 6. But 6 is very young to be getting into adventures across time. I mean, it’s not impossible to imagine that for a kids book, it would just be a very diffferent story than I’m thinking of.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Sorry about the blog post title. I couldn’t think of anything better. If you liked it, that’s awesome! I like it too. If you didn’t, my friend responded to my initial story seed with “I love it!” so I blame her entirely for all of this and you can too. Either way, you’ll probably never see any more of this story from me.

Because that’s just how I roll! Peace out! [Attempts to leap dramatically out of view, catches foot on lighting rig, falls flat on face and dislocates a shoulder] 

Martha

Clark floated in the air above a city that was familiar but different. The figure before him matched his pose, but everything else was slightly unique, from the clasps on his shoulders to the design of the belt and boots and the raised “S” on his chest. He was younger too.

Familiar, but different.

“Who are you?”

The other smiled. “I’m you, Kal. A different you, from another world. This one, actually.” This other Superman gestured broadly around him. “Welcome to my Earth. We’ve been tracking a threat that’s shifting between the various ElseWorlds, as we’ve called them. They’re using quantum tunnels to break through the barriers and building up an army of-”

“Wait. Stop. I’m in another world?” Clark looked back over his shoulder to the west.

“Yes. You-“

“I need a minute.”

And within the blink of an eye, he was past the horizon.

***

The mailbox said “Kent”. The barn was the same red, but the farmhouse was a different shade of yellow from the one he knew. For just a moment he hesitated, thought about disappearing back over the edge of the horizon. Then Martha stepped out onto the front porch.

She dropped the mug she was holding when she saw him. He could have caught it before it broke, but, for some reason, his body was frozen in place.

“Clark?” Martha didn’t move from the threshold.

“Yes. But not from your world. I just... I’m sorry. I just wanted to see...”

Now she stepped forward. “You look so familiar, but... different. I guess the comics got it wrong. Parallel universe versions of ourselves don’t look identical to each other. Close enough, but not the same. You hold yourself like my Clark, though.”

“Genetically, there must be tiny differences that lead to physical changes. But we were raised alike.” Clark could feel his chest tighten. “And you’re so much like my mo-... Martha. I just wanted to... I just needed to...” His thoat closed up. It was only when Martha touched his hand that he realized he was standing on the ground.

There were tears in her eyes.

There were tears in his eyes.

“I couldn’t save her. I’ve saved so many, but I couldn’t save her.” He drew a ragged breath. “She got sick. It was fast, and at least...” He could taste the salt on his lips. “At least I got to say goodbye. But there was so much I didn’t get to say. So much I wanted to show her. I know you’re not her, but I just wanted to see you again once more, mom. To tell you I love you. I love you so much every day.”

Martha hugged him. For a moment, she just held him and listened to his gentle sobs. “I know. I know son. I’ve never doubted it for a second.”

Clark took a step back and grabbed the edge of his cape, pulling it to his face. When it dropped, the tears were gone, though his face was still a little flushed. “It’s okay mom. I won’t blow my nose in it again.”

“Again?!?”

They both laughed, long and hard. A few more tears.

“Would you like to come in for tea?”

“Just like mom.” Clark took a breath and turned toward the east. There was a pinprick shadow on the horizon, watching, listening, protecting, and respecting. He nodded once, then disappeared back toward the city. “There’s somewhere I have to be.”

“Maybe next time you’re in town?”

“I’d like that.” Clark turned his head to look at the woman who almost raised him one last time. “Is Jonathon...?”

Martha’s gaze drifted out across the fields. “He died years ago. Protecting Clark.”

Clark smiled. “Same. Typical dad. Some things never change.”

And with that, he was gone.

Untitled Short Story Excerpt

The car pulled up to the sidewalk and wordlessly the driver tapped on the fare meter. She paid the fare and the back door clicked and swung open.

"Thanks," she squeaked, barely audible over even the relative quiet of the engine idling. The driver waved a massive hand in dismissive acknowledgement and grunted something Sarah couldn't make out. She was about to apologize when she noticed he was talking into his radio, probably getting the next fare. She fluttered out the car door and landed on the cast iron railing that separated the sidewalk from the perfectly manicured hedges on the private grounds.

"I thought your kind couldn't touch that. You know, cold iron and all that stuff." Her contact at the scene, James, was walking towards her from the gate house. He must have seen the taxi drive past.

"Just because your people have myths and legends about mine doesn't mean that all of it is true. Actually, from what I've read, hardly any of it is true." Sarah handed James her officer's badge one her was close enough. "Besides, come on. We've been here long enough. You're just being rude."

James handed back the badge and stood with his right shoulder turned toward Sarah. She accepted and fluttered on. "Sorry. I'm from New Jersey. The Crystal doesn't reach that far. It's all still a bit new to me."

"Oh, it reaches that far. We just don't like New Jersey either."

"Now who's being rude?"

Canals On Mars

"Hey Burke."

Burke pushed her hat barely an inch off her face. "Yeah?" From under the brim, she could just see her partner pointing to the skies above.

"See that star, right there. The red one. That ain't a star. That there's the planet Mars. You can tell, because it ain't moving like the rest of the stars. And it's red."

"Is that so?" she said, and let the hat slide back over her eyes.

John shifted on his coat, and Burke could tell by the sound of the grit underneath that he had rolled onto one elbow. "Yup. My dad told me all about it. Was readin' in the papers the other day that some fella in Italy seen canals in its dirt! Imagine that. Canals on Mars!" The excitement in his voice was boyish enough to remind Burke how young John probably was, despite the thick beard he chose to sport.

Burke kept her hat low. "What's a canal?"

"'What's a...'? Are you serious?" John said, and Burke heard him sit upright. "When you'd leave school? A canal is one of them manmade rivers for moving water and boats around. Manmade, Burke!"

Giving up on getting to sleep any time soon, Burke took off her hat and sat up, turning to the warmth of the dieing embers. "You're telling me there's men on Mars? Well that's great, 'cause there's too many of you down here already." Behind her, John was getting increasingly excited.

"No, dummy! There's aliens up there! Little folks that don't look like you or me, but have towns and carriages and probably cows too, I'll reckon." He paused, and Burke imagined him scratching at his beard they way he always did when he was thinking hard. John was great to play poker against. "Maybe not cows. Bugs. Big 'uns. Big enough to ride around on."

At this point, Burke had heard just about enough, but before she could say anything, she heard a loud ping from her coat. She turned to see John starring into the moonlit sky. The red "planet" had suddenly shifted and was now falling through the sky.

"That's weird. What do you-" John said, but the rest of his words were lost as his ashes drifted out on the cool night air. The ship came to a silent hover above the grass.

Burke holstered her raygun. "'What's a canal?' You fucking dumbass."

You've Been Hacked

You've Been Hacked.

I never imagined it would take so little to strike fear right to my core. Just three words on a black background. I opened my eyes and blinked twice.

You've Been Hacked.

It was still displayed on my Message Center, on a red banner, scrolling across my eyes. It took a few seconds before I realised I was shivering, and a few more before I realised why. I stumbled out of the freezing shower, gasping for breath, and fell painfully onto the bathroom mat. You've Been Hacked floated above the back of my hands.

I shook my head, willing my Message Center to close, and had to approve the standard confirmation request in the event of an unread priority message. I looked around, grabbing the towel I kept on the back of the door and wrapping it around myself, without actually standing up yet. Once I felt I had regained enough control of my shaking legs, I tried supporting myself on the toilet and pushed to a standing posture.

My heart skipped half a beat when I opened the door. I could hear low voices from the living area. I didn't remember inviting a guest to stay, let alone enough to hold a conversation without my involvement. My apartment just wasn't big enough for that many people. I inched into the hall, trying to be quiet, but every splash of water from my clothing sounded like a waterfall in my head. I was soaked through. I must have been in the shower for a while.

A moment of brief relief passed over me when I saw that the wall monitor was set to a station, broadcasting a report with someone talking from a studio to a woman standing outside, the honeycomb dome barely visible in the night sky behind her. The sound was turned low, such that, even standing at the doorway, I couldn't make out what was being discussed.

I shuffled, shivering uncontrollably, into the bedroom. I was just pulling on a warm, dry pair of cargo pants when my Message Center flashed up again.

1 Priority Message. 4 Messages. 16 Missed Calls.

I willed my Message Center to display my messages. Two were marked Where are you? One CALL ME, in all caps, and one Have you seen the news feeds? I walked into the living area, expecting it before I saw it.

My face stared, dead-eyed, back at me from the wall monitor. Well, it was almost my face. No amount of rendered pores, blood vessels or muscles could hide the uncanny valley effect of a 3D generated model mask, despite the cost of the police software behind it. But it was definitely me, or my evil, plastic twin.

The woman reporter reappeared, mumbling something just below comfortable hearing level. Lights flashed behind her, reds and blues casting odd shadows across her perfectly retexture features, ruining the effect of a very expensive procedure. Below her, a ticker scrolled past.

16 Confirmed Dead In Terrorist Attack On El-Rail Car

Time to read that Priority Message.

Mysterious Tales Of Mystery

So here's the thing: I spend a lot of time thinking of stories. Some people like to sing in the shower, I like to plot out scenes. Usually, that's all I get. One scene, one encounter, with a handful of characters.

But when I come to write them out, I often second guess myself and start to see the flaws in the story, or the simplicity of the writing. Or maybe I just don't like how it flows on the page. But for whatever reason, the story gets scrapped and I move on.

The thing is, I really like to write. I've posted some stuff here in the past, from an idea to reboot Batman to a collection of opening paragraphs. Some of my tales come from playing in RPGs with friends, while others evolve from my desire to have an enjoyable back-story for my character. Once, I even posted a story that was inspired as a reply to a friends email!

So I'll stay writing. I'll stay scrapping works and getting frustrated. I'll stay world-building and character generating. And maybe, some day, I'll have something I really like, and I can go back to that world for a few more pages, a few chapters or even, just maybe, a few books.

Untitled Short Story

I'm asleep at my desk with my hat down and my feet up when she walks in. My assistant likes to let clients through unannounced. He says it's to remind me that he's not a secretary. I remind him that I don't need an assistant either, but we both know that's a lie.

I try to right myself a little too quickly and end up on my back behind the desk. I hear her stifle a laugh, but, to give her credit, by the time I'm on my feet, she has her serious face on again. Pity. I imagine she looks much nicer smiling. I imagine a lot of things in that first second.

She's got a trenchcoat on, soaked through from the afternoon rain. The curves of her body are mostly hidden, but the hints at what sits out of sight makes my mind, and other things, run wild. The hat covers most of her hair, but a few red strands lie on her shoulder, stuck to the coat.

I hit her with my best opening line.

"How can I help, ma'am?" Hey, this is a business, not a bar.

"It's my husband..." (My heart sinks) "He's missing." (That's better).

I offer Curves a chair and some water.

"Got anything stronger?" she asks.

I shake my head. "I run a legitimate business here. I uphold the law, not break it."

"That's okay. We don't have time for drinks. We need to get to my husbands office, where he was last seen." Curves turns from the desk and heads for the door, holding it open while I grab my coat. We step out into the gloom of the afternoon. I look up at the glow of traffic, shielding my eyes from the unending rain, popping my collar against the wind. Far above I can make out the murky shape of the dome, sickly rays of sunlight bleeding through.

"My car is this way," I say as I point her toward the garage. "Tell me about your husband."

"He runs the xenogenetics division for BioDiversity, developing new strains of XNA for clients. His office is at Maginus Base. That's where we're heading, Mr. Walsh."

"Wait." I grab her by the arm and spin her around. "Maginus Base? Isn't that...?"

"On the moon. Yes. I have two tickets to Jansen Base, the nearest civilian habitat, leaving in six hours. Can I count on your assistance? As you can imagine, I can pay you for your services, and expenses. I hear you're the best, Mr. Walsh. I need you."

My heart skips a beat before my brain reminds me that she's a married woman. I unlock my beat-up old Ford and yank the door open. It's not pretty, but it gets me places.

"Thank god you got those tickets, ma'am. I don't think this thing could handle the mileage."

She cracks a smile, and I'm lost in the movie theater of my imagination all over again.

The Dead Pool

I wrote this in response to an email I received from a good friend. His mail was written in a funny noir detective style, opening with the awesome line "I was sitting counting the doors in the office, there was only one but I couldn't be sure of that, I would have to recount". I responded in a similar style, but dropped the professional comedian level of humour that my friend had reached, knowing I could never best his effort.

Once finished, I actually quite liked what I'd written and thought I'd share. Remember, I wrote in just a few minutes, with no editing or rewrites. It's not perfect, but it is fun. Enjoy.

The sun dripped through the blinds like syrup, pooling on the office floor. My first thought was that I should mop that up before someone slips on it and sues. My second thought was that those drugs were really good...

She had slipped them into my drink when she leaned over to read the casefile. Other things had slipped too, probably why I didn't notice her dropping the white power in my bourbon. The last undissolved grains sat on the bottom of the tumbler, laughing at me. Literally. They had formed a tiny face and were mocking me with their tiny laughter. I tried to throw the tumbler across the room but my arm was jelly. Strawberry, I think.

Legs stood in the shadows near the huge plastic plant I like to have the intern water every morning. Her ruby red dress was swimming across her chest and thighs, running down her leg to mix with the golden pool on the floor. Somewhere far away a voice was confirming something. Probably hers. I didn't hear an answer, but that made sense. She was on the phone. My phone. I'll have to check my wire tap I installed on my own line last fall once my head clears. If I survive that long.

Vancouver's a helluva place. The streets are clean, the broads are hot and the cars are sexy. I thought there wasn't a dark patch within city limits. I was wrong. Everywhere Legs walks, shadows follow her.

A million miles away a door opens and closes. Footsteps ring though my body, each one it's own tiny explosion of ominous foreshadowing. The creek on the fifth footfall confirms my dreamy suspicions. Someone is coming up the stairs. Legs brushes past me, her golden hair melts down into the red dress and then into the pool on the ground. I'll really have to clean that up soon. It might stain and affect my damage deposit.

A movement of air on my face tells me that Legs opened the door to my office. For a moment, I curse myself that I didn't lock it before I left. Then I remember I'm sitting in my chair, inside the office.

My vision tries to clear and for a second I focus on the face in the door. It's not a face I was hoping to see. Instinctively my body shifts in the chair to get more comfortable. I'm going to be here a while.

Guess I'll just have to get the intern to clean that pool after the weekend. I should leave her a note...