tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67215779295609585692024-03-13T22:03:47.072-04:00Here Be MonstersA blog about the Here Be Monsters fiction anthology. Written, published, and printed in Montreal. Watch here for previews, news, and events.Alexander Newcombehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04640511501736097790noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-52132022185121833972013-09-07T19:08:00.002-04:002013-09-07T19:09:03.612-04:00Issue 8 eBooks available now!Hello everyone. We now have ePub and Kindle versions available for purchase on our eBooks page <a href="http://herebemonstersanthology.blogspot.ca/p/ebook-store.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Please pick one up if you are more digital than analog these days. We work hard to make sure they appear as much like our printed book as possible and meet the same level of quality.<br />
<br />
We hope you enjoy them, and thank you for all your support so far!Alexander Newcombehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04640511501736097790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-79562170967388448522013-09-05T22:04:00.001-04:002013-09-06T08:57:20.157-04:00Penis Lightsabers, or Words As the Underdog of Promotion.<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At FanExpo, our neighbours to the right
were <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/GayNerdsTV" target="_blank">Gay Nerds</a>. That's the name of their webseries (which is really
funny, check it out). Their logo, which was prominently
displayed, was two crossed lightsabers. Shaped like penises.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've <a href="http://herebemonstersanthology.blogspot.ca/2013/08/fanexpo-ghostbusters-drawings-and-t.html" target="_blank">already told you</a> about about our
other neighbours, to the left, who had awesome artwork, also
prominently displayed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We, on the other hand, had seven stacks
of books. And nothing else. No visuals other than the covers by our
awesome artists.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Which meant that the typical FanExpo
visitor's gaze would go as follows: look with awe and wonder at the
art on our left, slow down, smile beatifically at our neighbours'
talent, go blank as they quickly glide over our table, then see the
lightsabers, laugh, and go see our neighbours to the right.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Words are a tougher sale than images.
Nothing new there, but the first hand experience of it made me
reflect on what it means to...</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
... Nah, who am I kidding, I'm just
jealous.</div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-11343685306775597212013-08-27T21:13:00.004-04:002013-08-27T21:15:32.522-04:00FanExpo: Ghostbusters, Drawings and T-shirts. I was a FanExpo virgin. I had never set foot in one of these "temple of geekdom" events. Don't be fooled, I am a geek (I know way too many lines from my favorite movies to deny it), but maybe a closeted one. So I wasn't sure what to expect.<br />
I was impressed.<br />
First by the amount of work and dedication people put in their costumes. I have seen some truly awesome feats of apparel in there. To name a few, in no specific order: Ghostbusters' Winston Zeddemore (the accelerator backpack was especially well done), Shaun of the Dead, Zombie Waldo (complete with half of a pen sticking out of his head), a shark with a little character cutting her way of its stomach with a chainsaw (If someone knows the story that refers to, please tell me), a robot pirate that played the theme from Pirates of the Carribean, and many, many more.<br />
Second, by the quality of the work on display. In Artist Alley, the (actually quite large) section dedicated to independent works, you could find anything from comics to webseries, with lots of fan art in between (check out these guys: they were our neighbours, and their stuff is really cool:<br />
<a href="http://brianachan.ca/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;" target="_blank">http://brianachan.ca/</a><br />
<a href="http://johnsoleas.ca/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;" target="_blank">http://johnsoleas.ca/</a><br />
Third, by the number of interesting people we met. It was really fun to talk we people who really get the idea of having fun with fiction. Duane even said that HBM was "comic books without the pictures", which sort of reflects the "fun to read fiction" aspect we're trying to achieve.<br />
Fourth, by the T-shirts. I'll leave you with a sample:<br />
<i>"I Mustache you a question." </i>With the image of a moustache.<br />
<i>"Keep Calm and Kill Zombies"</i><br />
<i> "Keep Calm and Kling on"</i><br />
<i> "Romulans Eunt Domus"</i><br />
<i> "Error 404: sleep not found"</i><br />
<i> </i>And one for the D&D crowd: written in small print: "<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">If you can read this, you've just created an attack of opportunity</span>." </i><br />
<i> </i>Yeah, I had forgotten how much of a nerd I am. It's good to be back.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<i><br /></i>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-74162718090751159242013-08-17T16:42:00.000-04:002013-08-17T16:43:17.906-04:00What the Future Holds<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Some of you may be wondering where we
went. It has been very quiet as of late. Cue epic music here. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sraGL5wDl8g" target="_blank">Beware rabbit hole of awesome.</a> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Issue 8 is at the printer. If you have
heard from us, and consented to us printing your story then you know
this is happening. If you haven't heard from us, we apologize for not
having gotten back to you yet. We also have stories that are under
consideration for number 9. The short of it is that we have an email
backlog and we will be working on that over the next couple of weeks.
Please hang in there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In the preface of issue 8 we address
our recent absence and why it happened. Two key people and friends are no longer in Montreal. The elements around that have meant
delays. It is also sad because we were all friends even
before HBM. There have also been a few other set backs. The good
news is that we are still here and we have taken time, and are taking
time, to look at our options on how to continue. So we will keep you
updated here on the evolution of HBM as that becomes more defined.
What is important to know for now is that issue 8 is being printed,
there will be a 9 and 10, and we will get back to your emails in the next
few weeks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Next week, we are attending <a href="http://www.fanexpocanada.com/about-us/" target="_blank">Fan Expo</a> in
Toronto. We'll have a table. Perhaps we will see some of you there. That would be great!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-50381770917855913182013-06-20T17:47:00.003-04:002013-06-20T17:47:46.980-04:00Flash Mob 2013Hi everyone,<br />
The <a href="http://flashmob2013.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Flash Mob 2013 </a>in which Vincent is participating is going to kick off in a few hours. Check it out!Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-62599935070467454782013-06-07T14:38:00.003-04:002013-06-07T16:48:28.523-04:00Qoorgadstein's SyndromeHi everyone,<br />
<br />
Vincent's decided to enter <a href="https://flashmob2013.wordpress.com/about/" target="_blank">FLASH MOB 2013</a>, a flash fiction contest celebrating International Flash Fiction Day. The guidelines for the contest basically said "push the envelope."<br />
So tell us what you think: has the envelope indeed been pushed?<br />
<br />
Here it goes:<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
<b>Qoorgadstein’s Syndrome.</b></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Neurological disorder of the frontal cortex leading to rapid personality decay, irrational anger, confusion, and, eventually, loss of physical substance.</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i></i><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>Epidemiology: </b>Incidence is reported at 0.001% but is probably underestimated due to difficulty in observing the later stages of the disease, after loss of substance occurs. This may lead to cases never coming to a physician’s attention. It has been theorized that the only way to observe the terminal stage is self-documentation by the patient himself. As Holly always said, if you want something done right, do it yourself.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>Etiology: </b>Unknown. It has been noted that most patients had suffered an emotional loss prior to disease onset. This has been dismissed by relevant authorities as an idiotic load of crap! Nobody knows anything useful about this, it seems. Morons. At least maybe they’ll rename it after me now.</div>
<div class="p1">
How long has Holly been gone? A we k? A month? Twen y years? Time eludes quantification.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>Clinical Presentation: </b>The patient f rst demonstrates personality decay, with alternating bouts of irrational anger, confusion and depersonalization, oft n described as a “feeling of not being here.” This is fol owed by moments of looking in a mirror without recognizing your ref exion. It stares ba k like a goddamn stranger. Is it me, Holly? As the disease progresses, the patient notices a thinning of his body’s subs ance, as if he was b coming transparen . The capacity to inter ct with th physic l world is gr dually lost.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<b>Evol tion and Pr gnosis: </b>The t rmin l stage h s ne er been escribed, since a l kn wn cases h ve d sa peared bef re th diseas had r n its . It bel ed atal.</div>
<br />
<br />Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-60802445637901031132013-04-06T20:00:00.001-04:002013-06-07T14:46:40.814-04:00Final Encryption - Part 7<br />
<div class="p1">
<i>In which Marie-Ange loses it, a jerk gets his entertaining comeuppance, and Ricky actually has a genuine idea.</i> </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Old repurposed factory buildings surrounded Club Stereo. A fancy light show flashed on brick walls covered with fading ads from the thirties, while windows of hip and overpriced lofts shook in sync with the music. The sidewalk was crowded with revellers in a lineup to the club entrance. Most were drunk. One man was trying his dubious charms on a woman in a red dress, who was trying to fend him off.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Oh, come on baby,” the man was saying, slurring his words, “You can’t be wearing a dress like this and then brush me off. You owe me, I don’t know, a blowjob or something at least…”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Leave me alone,” the woman said, but the man grabbed her arm and started shaking her. “You’re hurting me.” None of the other revellers seemed to be willing to intervene. Some were laughing and filming with their phones.</div>
<div class="p1">
Suddenly a nun in full habit got out of a van, walked to the man, and grabbed him by the balls.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Ouch!” the man yelled, “what the…?”</div>
<div class="p1">
The nun just squeezed harder. “Son,” she said through an angelic smile, “I’m in a really bad mood tonight because one of my friends just died, and righteous godly wrath against a miserable sinner such as yourself seems like just the ticket to make me feel better, so unless you want God to decide you don’t need your manhood anymore, I suggest you go home, say three hundred hail Marys, then get a life and sin no more.”</div>
<div class="p1">
The man squealed. “Let me go, you fucking bitch!”</div>
<div class="p1">
A man with a muscle shirt and a crew cut stepped out of the van, walked to the drunk, said “Be polite,” grabbed him in an armlock and wrestled him to the ground. Behind him, a small woman with grey-blond hair exited the van as well. With careful little steps, she knelt beside the man and whispered something in his ear. The drunk started to sob uncontrollably. Muscle shirt released him and he limped away into the night. The small grey-blond woman went to check on the woman in the red dress, who seemed shaken but all right.</div>
<div class="p1">
What did Nina say to him?” Ricky asked Raven from the window of the van.</div>
<div class="p1">
“I don’t know,” Raven said with a dark smile, “But usually they don’t recover.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
***</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Marie-Ange turned to the crowd. “Now next time a woman gets harassed in front of you and you think it’s funny to not do shit about it, know that I’ll find you and personally make sure your redemption is complete.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Who do you think you are?” A man yelled from the crowd. “Batnun or something?” He was brandishing a cellphone above his head, trying to catch the scene with the camera.</div>
<div class="p1">
Marie-Ange’s tone became suddenly and dangerously pleasant. “Bring that phone over here, son,” she said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“But…” the man said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Bring. That. Phone. Over. Here.”</div>
<div class="p1">
He brought it.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Good,” Marie-Ange said. “This seems like a pretty fancy phone, my son,” she told the man, seeming to admire the device. “Is it?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Uh… yeah, actually, it’s the latest shit,” the man said. “Got it yesterday.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“And I suppose you’re on all possible social networks, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, MyNavelFluff.com<a href="http://mybellybuttonfluff.com/"> </a>and all that?</div>
<div class="p1">
“Uh, yeah, though I’m not sure about that last one you mentioned…”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Perfect. Film me.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Uh…”</div>
<div class="p1">
“My son, I don’t have all night.”</div>
<div class="p1">
The man obligingly raised his phone and started filming. Marie-Ange put herself against the entrance of the club and made sure the sign was visible behind her. “Alright. This is a message for StormBrainOne. I’m sister Marie-Ange. I’m here. I’m waiting for you.” Then she grabbed the phone from the man’s hand, and turned the camera towards him. “Also, this man here is a coward.” She pressed send and smashed the phone on the pavement. “Now go,” she told the man. “Thirty Hail Marys for you.” The man left, visibly confused but unwilling to face more humiliation.</div>
<div class="p1">
Back in the van, Gaston and Miguel were both frowning. “Now she’s gone too far,” Gaston said, his wrinkles deepening in worry.</div>
<div class="p1">
“I knew this would happen. Shit!” Miguel said, slamming his fist against the dashboard. </div>
<div class="p1">
He was a squat, dark-haired man in his forties who seemed to be perpetually in movement. His eyes never stopped scanning his surroundings as if expecting a lion to pounce on him at any minute. Which, Ricky supposed, wasn’t far from the truth. </div>
<div class="p1">
“Relax, man,” Ricky told him, “I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”</div>
<div class="p1">
But Gaston shook his head. “Not this time,” he said. “This time she wants revenge.”</div>
<div class="p1">
This worried Ricky substantially. “Then we should, I don’t know, stop her and get the hell out of here or something,” he said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“I want revenge too,” Gaston said laconically.</div>
<div class="p1">
They were interrupted by Marie-Ange knocking on the driver side window. People were still filming the whole scene on their phones. Free entertainment, Ricky supposed. Behind them, he could see some cars pulling up in a large parking lot. Some of the cars were really nice.</div>
<div class="p1">
“All right,” she said quickly, “Nina, Raven and Gaston. All three of you are going in.”</div>
<div class="p1">
Gaston? The blind man? “But…” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Gaston,” Marie-Ange went on, “The sound system in this place can play louder and further than anything in town.” Gaston nodded, and she continued. “I need you to rig it to play <i>this</i>.” She handed him a pink and orange 8-track tape.</div>
<div class="p1">
“No problem,” Gaston said, and turned to Raven. “Raven?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you there,” Raven said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“What about you, Marie-Ange?” Nina asked, concern in her voice.</div>
<div class="p1">
Marie-Ange looked at the door of the club. “I’ll be on the roof, by the satellite dish,” she said. “That’s where he’ll come.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“I should come with you,” Nina said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“I agree,” Raven said. “You’ll be in more danger than us.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“No,” Marie-Ange said. “He might not come if Nina’s with me.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Why?” Ricky asked, confused.</div>
<div class="p1">
There was a brief silence. Everyone turned to Ricky. Then Nina spoke in her usual, careful voice: “I seem to be… I suppose we could say immune to SBO’s powers.”</div>
<div class="p1">
Ricky didn’t really get it. “I don’t really get it,” he said.</div>
<div class="p1">
Nina smiled, just a little. “I don’t know why, but SBO can’t touch me. It might be because I never use digital technology, and I don’t understand it, I suppose. That’s what Aurélien thinks.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Yeah,” Miguel said with a short, nervous laugh, “she can’t even log on to a friggin’ computer without frying it.” </div>
<div class="p1">
Nina frowned, and Ricky could see the comment had hurt her. Still, she kept smiling. “Yes, Miguel, digital technology is foreign to me. I have no use for it, and it appears to have no use for me either. That being said, I think I should go with Marie-Ange.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Well, it’s too late for that,” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
Marie-Ange had just disappeared behind the club, still filmed by tens of smartphones ready to broadcast her location to SBO.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Shit!” Raven said. “I’m going after her. Nina, you’re with me.”</div>
<div class="p1">
But Ricky, getting out of the van, put a hand on Raven’s shoulder. “I think you should do as the nun said, man.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“What?…” Raven said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“I think you should go in there with Gaston and Nina and rig that sound system, just as she said.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what to do?” Raven said.</div>
<div class="p1">
Ricky got suddenly very tired of being trucked around by these weirdos. “We don’t have time for a pissing contest, Van Damme.” He pointed to the club entrance with one hand, and to the parking lot with the other. “The nun is risking her life in there right now, the car over there is a 1958 Chevy, and I have a plan.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Huh?” Raven said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Now go!” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
Nina pulled raven by the sleeve of his muscle shirt. “I think we should do as he says.”</div>
<div class="p1">
Raven sighed, said “Sure, what the hell,” and walked to the door, Nina and Gaston in tow, the blind man carrying an 8-track tape deck with bare wires hanging out of it.</div>
<div class="p1">
The bouncer stopped them. “Where do you think you’re going.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Shit, man,” Raven said, “let us through, don’t you see it’s an emergency?”</div>
<div class="p1">
The bouncer crossed his arms. “You’ve caused enough trouble here, sir. You need to go party elsewhere.”</div>
<div class="p1">
Raven face reddened. “You are going to fucking let us in or…”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Sir,” the bouncer said, tensing. “I’m warning you, step away.”</div>
<div class="p1">
This was heading south fast. But then Gaston stepped in, his face calm, his white cane clicking on the sidewalk.</div>
<div class="p1">
“How’s it going?” he said to the bouncer in his soft, raspy voice.</div>
<div class="p1">
The bouncer’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you…?” he said.</div>
<div class="p1">
Gaston nodded. “I am.”</div>
<div class="p1">
There were whispers in the lineup, just as the bouncer's eyes kept expanding and his jaw dropped. “But you’re supposed to be dead,” he told Gaston.</div>
<div class="p1">
“True DJs never die, my friend. Now will you let us in, we’re in a hurry.”</div>
<div class="p1">
The bouncer almost fell over himself. “Of course,” he said. “Er… will you be playing tonight then?” </div>
<div class="p1">
Gaston put his finger to his lip as he walked in. “It’s a surprise,” he said.</div>
<div class="p1">
The bouncer seemed about to have an orgasm or something, and the people in the lineup started to scream with excitement. Gaston gave them a wave as he walked inside, followed by Nina and Raven.</div>
<div class="p1">
After they disappeared, the people in the lineup turned their phones towards Ricky, since he was the last filmable piece of the show. He sighed. Time to put the plan in action, before SBO caught on.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Wait here,” he told Miguel.</div>
<div class="p1">
He walked to the 1958 Chevy, smashed its passenger side window, ripped the radio from its socket and went after Marie-Ange.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
TO BE CONTINUED.</div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-10360599258829623382013-04-03T20:54:00.000-04:002013-04-03T21:04:46.590-04:00Alive!<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">"Issue 8 of our growing speculative
fiction anthology is coming up." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You say, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">"wait... coming up? Wasn't it already supposed to happen?" </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Er... because of a faulty replacement piece in our time travel device we
find ourselves with less time instead of more. We have consulted the
expert on time travel, Santa Claus, but we are still waiting for his
advice. Unfortunately, the elves field his calls, and we have no direct
line to him. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Seriously, things have been busy (too busy to focus on our publishing) and so the deadline is being pus</span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/hbm.anthology" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">hed back to May 10, 2013.</span></a></div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/hbm.anthology" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></a><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/hbm.anthology" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The good news is, you still have a chance to submit! Pass the word on to other writers in your circle. If you have submitted you will have to wait a little longer (sorry - insert sad face here). </span></a></div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/hbm.anthology" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></a><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/hbm.anthology" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Our jobs get in the way of our passion. Our
goal remains a high quality anthology with great fiction. </span></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-79253933594986044982013-01-29T21:27:00.002-05:002013-01-29T21:28:24.103-05:00Final Encryption - Part 6<br />
<i>Ricky tries, and fails, to grasp the situation...</i> <br />
<br />
Ricky followed the surviving members of the “intervention”
team down the stairs and into the convent’s strange HQ-Basement. He’d spent the
ride back from Montreal trying to sort out what had happened to Eddie, while
the others alternated between distraught and furious. Only Marie-Ange was
quiet. She had started murmuring a prayer a couple of times but then closed her
mouth into a grim line before she finished.<br />
<br />
<div class="im">
She’d gone to the chapel
to properly pray, Ricky guessed. The rest were gathering in the
basement, explaining the loss to the team.<br />
<br /></div>
“I should have realized that SBO would attack us,” said Nina
softly, “given that we were getting close, it fits the profile...” She trailed
off as Raven turned away and kicked one of the stone pillars. <br />
One of the men took off the earpiece he’d been using to
listen to a telegraph, “What do we do now? There’s been no word from Oldie.”<br />
<br />
“Just wait Miguel,” said Gaston, “we’ll talk it over with
Marie-Ange.” The others grumbled assent and then went back to pretending to be
busy. But Ricky knew they were all thinking along the same lines as him.<br />
<br />
He hadn’t ever been a survivor of anything before. He liked
to think of himself as a bit of a renegade, sure. A man that lived on the edge
– anyone that had seem him drive could agree to that. But Crowbar Eddie, a guy
that looked like he could chew iron and spit nails, had been taken out by some
digital ghost-monster and now Ricky was on its shit-list.<br />
<br />
<div class="im">
He considered telling everyone that this was more than he
signed up for, but he saw a few red, puffy eyes in the group and thought better
of it.<br />
<br />
After poking around and looking at the array of working
antiques they collected, he resigned himself to the fact that there wasn’t
going to be any cold beer and sat down.<br />
<br />
Just then, Marie-Ange threw open the door at the top of the
stairs. Still in her nun’s habit, she had a ragged fierceness in her eyes that
drilled holes into Ricky. He nearly stood up out of fear alone.<br />
<br /></div>
“Alright. This thing is dark, and dangerous, and its
sniffing at our door. It took Eddie from us...but I won’t sit by waiting for it
to take someone else. What I’m asking for isn’t easy, but you know in your
hearts what’s right. We need to hit StormBrainOne, and I know how.”<br />
<br />
Ricky was jostled as Marie-Ange came down from the stairs
and began making plans with her team. “Hey,” he said as they began discussing a
map and where <i>he</i> should drive them to
get at SBO, “you guys can’t just assume I’m going in for this plan”.<br />
<br />
This was how he ended up driving Marie-Ange and part of her
team to Club Stereo the next night. As they approached on the street, they
could hear the thrumming of the bass inside the enormous club.<br />
Ricky sighed at the musical trauma he’s experienced since
meeting Marie-Ange and her cohorts. “So, if this thing is all digital, isn’t
going into a dance club that <i>only</i>
plays electronic music kind of suicide?”<br />
<br />
“Only kind of,” said Marie-Ange humourlessly.Alexander Newcombehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04640511501736097790noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-67064394352744226782013-01-14T11:23:00.003-05:002013-01-14T21:46:48.696-05:00Final Encryption - Part 5<br />
<div class="p1">
<i> In which we meet Nina, see the team in action, and hear some more Wurlitzer.</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<div class="p1">
It was a fancy hotel of the kind that caters to rich tourists and business travelers, and can be found every three feet in Old Montreal. Through its front windows, Ricky could see a pleasant lobby with dark, classic furniture and old, bare stone walls. A man in an elegant suit sat in a leather chair and typed on a laptop. A black briefcase lay by his feet, on a plush, persian carpet.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The team was suiting up, which involved, as far as Ricky could tell, putting on canvas vests and what looked like WWI aviators’ leather helmets that covered the ears and made everyone look insane, except the grey-blond lady, who didn’t wear one. Bare copper wires protruded from both pieces of clothing in several places. Each team member then put an old, ebonite laryngophone over their necks. The old blind man took a seat in the back of the van and switched on an old short wave radio.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Testing,” he said. “Marie-Ange, can you hear me?”.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I hear you, Gaston,” the nun answered.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Gaston, since that was his name, proceeded to test the connection with every team member. Then Marie-Ange unfolded a strange map of the city marked with hundreds of coloured dots. Waving her finger around Old Montreal, she gave her orders</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ok,” she said, “what Aurélien has given us is coordinates to this place, and a time. This means that StormBrainOne will strike someone here, in eleven minutes. We don’t know who, and we don’t know StormBrainOne’s reason’s for choosing that person. We have analyzed its previous hits, and we think we’re seeing a pattern emerge, but we’re unsure. That means we have to find out who’s the target. Nina, that’s your job.” </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The grey-blond lady nodded distractedly, her gaze lost in some faraway though. </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “As usual, we can expect StormBrainOne to be watching, and we have to assume it can hit us too. So we have to make it blind. There’s two main signals to disrupt. One’s on the roof of that building across the street, the other at the back of the souvenir shop on the corner. Eddie, you take the roof. Raven,” she turned to Crew Cut, “you take the souvenir shop.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky frowned at Crew Cut. “Raven?” he mouthed.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Raven shrugged. “Hippy parents,” he said, as he hopped out of the van and ran towards the street corner.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Gaston,” Marie-Ange went on, “you stay on the radio and listen. Oldie will likely try to give us more info on the target, we need to be ready. I’ll run point from the van. Nina,” she finally said, turning to the grey-blond lady, “as usual, you go in. Good luck, and God be with you.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Nina gave an enigmatic little smile, said “I don’t believe that God is anything else than a fluid power that rests within the human self and creates itself constantly through the collective unconscious and the universal human experience,” then climbed out of the van and walked to the hotel with careful little steps.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And me?” Ricky said, “What do I do?” </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You stay here with your foot on the gas. We may need to get out in a hurry.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky watched Crowbar disappear into an alley, heading for a fire escape. “Fine,” he said. “Now, can you tell me why we’re here?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Not sure yet,” Marie-Ange said, “but Oldie sent us those coordinates over the telegraph. That means that StormBrainOne, the digital entity, will strike here.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oldie?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The Analog entity. Its communications are imprecise, and it’s slower than StormBrainOne, but it sees a lot, and StormBrainOne has no access to it.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And how will that StormThingaling strike?”</div>
<div class="p1">
Marie-Ange shook her head and looked worried. “It used to be it would steal money or hack into databases, that kind of thing, but as I said, recently it’s started to kill. We’re not sure why.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But you have an idea?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She nodded. “We believe it’s eliminating witnesses.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You mean people who know about it,” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes. But we don’t know much more.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How does it kill?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Unknown. Several victims seem to have just disintegrated.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky’s heart skipped a beat. “Just like Hans,” he said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marie-Ange nodded. “All we know is, it acts better if there’s strong digital signals in an area. That’s why Raven and Eddie are disabling the cable boxes. Gaston is also jamming cellphone signals.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ok. Now please tell me why you sent that sweet, small, older lady into danger.”</div>
<div class="p1">
Marie-Ange smiled. “She’s the one of us whose the least in danger, Ricky.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky was about to ask why when the line crackled.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ok, Angel,” said Crowbar’s voice. “I’m on the roof. Opening the box. I should have the thing down in a minute.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Good work, Eddie,” said the nun. “Raven, what’s your status?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Raven’s voice came on the line, sounding tense. “The box is behind a fu… frigging dumpster full of cinder blocks. I’m trying to get to it, but I don’t know how long.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Alright,” Marie-Ange said, keeping her voice calm, even as her face betrayed her worry. “Nina?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The front desk clerk just told me his life story,” Nina said over the line, “but I don’t think he’s the target.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Understood,” Marie-Ange said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How the hell does she know that?” Ricky asked Marie-Ange.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Nina’s voice came on again. “Same way I know you’re the second of three children, have an older s sister who’s a nurse or a lawyer, have lost both your parents when you were between sixteen and twenty-three, like to watch car movies and romantic comedies (which you’re ashamed of), and… no I’ll stop there, I believe that last part you don’t like people to know.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky tried to prevent his jaw from dropping and failed. </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Nina was a police psychologist for thirty-five years,” Marie-Ange said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ah, profiling criminals,” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No, the cops,” Marie-Ange said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The psychopathologies are very similar, in fact,” Nina said over the com link, “especially regarding ego weaknesses and the pathological detachment from the self. Jung actually wrote that…”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Nina,” Marie-Ange said gently, “Please focus. Who else is in the lobby?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ah. Yes. The lobby. A man by the window with a laptop. A janitor mopping the floor in front of the elevators. A chambermaid with a cleaning cart. A piano man playing music in the bar. A mother and her two kids. A couple of customers in the bar too, I can’t see them well. Marie-Ange, there’s no way I can get sort through them all. There’s no time. I need more data.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Gaston was turning dials and flipping switches on his machine, shaking his head and frowning. “I have nothing,” he said. “Sorry.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Raven’s voice broke in over the com link. “I can’t get to the box. That dumpster’s just too damn heavy. How much time left?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marie-Ange looked at her watch. “Three minutes. Keep trying.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Raven’s only answer was a strained grunt, probably as he gave the dumpster another push.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s not the janitor either, I just talked to him. I don’t think he’d be a threat to StormBrainOne. I’m moving to the man with the laptop. Marie-Ange, you have to give me more time.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Raven,” Marie-Ange said, “you heard her. We need that box taken out now.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’ll go help him,” Ricky said suddenly.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He opened the door and ran to the corner.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Wait! You don’t have your protection suit,” Marie-Ange called after him, but he was already in the alley.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Raven was wedged between a massive blue dumpster and a brick wall, pushing hard, face red and veins swollen with effort. The thing wasn’t moving. Ricky ran to the other end of the dumpster and started pushing too.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You shouldn’t be here,” Raven said. “It’s not safe.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Just push, Van Damme,” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The dumpster was made of steel, and filled with concrete blocks. It had wheels but they were caked with rust. Sweat poured down Ricky’s forehead.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s not the laptop man,” Nina said over the com link. “He’s too normal.” </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Gaston, do you have anything?” Marie-Ange said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I got music,” Gaston’s raspy voice said. “Some Fender Rhodes track. Or Wurlitzer. Nothing we can use.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Wait,” Ricky said through clenched teeth, “Wurlitzer? As in that shitty music Marie-Ange made me listen to on our way to the convent?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I… yes,” Gaston said, puzzled, “we found that some specific pieces keep StormBrainOne away somewhat but…”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Nina, check the piano man,” Ricky said between grunts.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “He’s right,” Marie-Ange said. “It’s the only lead we have.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m on it,” Nina said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Raven, Ricky, any progress?” Marie-Ange said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The dumpster was moving, inch by inch. In a minute, they had enough room for Raven to wiggle behind it and get to box. “We’re in,” Ricky said. “Van Damme’s opening it now.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Nina’s voice came on again, this time a whisper. “I’m with the pianist. I don’t think it’s him either.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Too late. Strike time is now. Stay with him and protect him. He’s our best bet.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Understood,” Nina said, her voice strained. “He was just telling me about how he lost his cat three years ago.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The box is down,” Raven said, as he ripped out a fistful of wires.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Good work,” Marie-Ange said. “Now you and Ricky get yourselves back in the van.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Marie-Ange?” Gaston said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Not now Gaston,” Marie-Ange said. “Strike time’s in three… two… one… Nina, brace yourself.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky climbed back into the van. There was a long silence over the com. Strike time came and went. After what felt like an eternity, Nina’s voice came on again. “Marie-Ange. Nothing’s happening.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marie-Ange frowned. “Nothing?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Marie-Ange,” Gaston intervened. “I’m listening to the Wurlitzer track again and… it’s not the real thing.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What do you mean?” Marie-Ange asked, worry in her voice.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s digital.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oh shit,” Marie-Ange said. “It’s a trap. Nina, Eddie, get back to the van, we need to get out of here now!”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m on my way,” Nina said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Eddie?” Marie-Ange said. “Can you hear me? Get back to the van.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Nothing.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Eddie?” Marie-Ange called again, her voice weaker. “Crowbar?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Still nothing.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Raven tried to hold Marie-Ange back, but she was already out of the truck, running towards Crowbar’s last position. Ricky swore and followed.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
TO BE CONTINUED.</div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-31538037602684171292012-12-31T16:07:00.003-05:002013-01-03T15:21:28.295-05:00Final Encryption - Part 4<br />
<div class="p1">
<i>In which we get a boatload of exposition, and almost learn what the hell happened to Hans.</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They traded the Tercel for an equally ugly minivan that handled like Kia Motors’ idea of a combine harvester. Marie-Ange climbed in, followed by Crowbar Eddie and three other people that the nun called the intervention team. Apart from Crowbar, it appeared to be composed of a tiny woman of about sixty with grey-blond hair, a young man with a crew cut and muscle shirt, and an elderly man carrying a white cane.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky floored it. As they sped towards Montreal at twice the speed limit, Ricky, white-knuckled from holding the non-power-steering wheel, spoke again.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Alright, so, what’s going on, sister?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marie-Ange nodded. She’d had no time to change back into civilian clothing before leaving the convent, and her face seemed grimmer under the habit’s black and white headpiece. Ricky had to admit she looked more at home in it than in the jeans and blouse he’d first met her in. She popped a tape in the old tape deck and the power chords of Def Leppard filled the cabin. Ricky’s grip on the steering wheel increased.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What I am about to tell you,” the nun said, “you can’t repeat to anyone, or you will die.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That’s a little un-nunlike, threatening to kill people like this,” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “She wouldn’t be the one killing you, you rockabilly smartass,” Crowbar said from the back.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Who then,” Ricky told the ex-cleaner. “You?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “StormBrainOne,” Crew-Cut intervened, like it made complete sense.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Is that your favourite white trash DJ?” Ricky asked him, and in the rearview mirror he saw Crew-Cut’s square jaw tense.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ok, kids, calm down,” Marie-Ange said. “Ricky, all you need to know is that this information is very dangerous. ”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Like what happened to Hans?” Ricky asked.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ok. Explain. I want to know.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My name is Marie-Ange Lévesque. I’m a sister of the order of Saint-Mary-Magdalen and The Holy Child and The Holy Gates Of Heaven.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You should get yourselves an acronym.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The order,” Marie-Ange went on, “is big on finding your calling. My spiritual advisor insisted heavily on that during my years as a novice. So, after working in prisons, on an army base, at homeless shelters, in food banks, with orphans, at CCS, in hospitals and in South Sudan, I finally found mine.” She smiled and looked at the intervention team with motherly fondness.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And it was…?” prompted Ricky after a moment.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “To assemble a team of experts whose goal it would be to restore the balance of justice, stop dangerous imbeciles who threaten the Earth, protect the meek, and save the world in general.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> There was a long silence, during which Def Leppard had time to play two songs that sounded exactly the same, and Ricky considered jumping out the moving car. Finally he settled for “You’re insane, sister.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marie-Ange shrugged.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What’s that got to do with me and Hans?” Ricky pressed on.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marie-Ange’s face darkened. “I’m sorry for your friend.” Ricky could see she meant it. “Our present mission is very dangerous, and it appears I had underestimated the reach of our enemy.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Enemy?” Ricky said. There was a genuine worry in Marie-Ange’s tone that made him afraid. And really, what the hell had happened to Hans?</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Our previous mother superior, God rest her soul, was an old psychotic religious bigot,” Marie-Ange said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ricky wondered what that had to do with anything.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “When she passed away, five months ago, I was charged with cleaning up her chambers. She’d accumulated a lot of crap over the years. Papers, journals, little angel statuettes, a crucifix collection to rival the pope’s…”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The pope had a crucifix collection? </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> ”…the collected works of Robert Fripp, all that. Going through it, I found a key, wrapped in an old piece of paper where the mother superior had written <i>Tool of the Devil.</i> The key eventually led me to the crypt you’ve seen earlier today. It contained only the old radio you saw.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“The GE Colorama E-126,” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“Yes. I plugged it in and switched it on. Nothing happened. Dead. It was too heavy for me to carry out, and so I left it there. In mother superior’s diary, I found an entry about getting the radio as a present from a devout parishioner way back in the day. She writes that the moment she turned it on, an earthquake shook the convent, unhooking the crucifix above her desk and shattering the rose window in the old chapel. Mother superior, being an old psychotic bigot, concluded it was a tool of the devil and had it stored away in the crypt, where it lay forgotten for fifty-seven years.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“Maybe I could sell the thing on eBay to raise some money for charity. Thinking I’d have to get movers to get it out of the crypt, I went to vespers and then to bed.” </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“But in the middle of the night, I couldn’t sleep. Without knowing exactly why, I went back to the crypt. This time the radio was on. A faint yellow light illuminated its dials, and a crackling voice rose from the speaker. It seemed to come from far away, and to be repeating the same thing over and over again.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“What was it?” Ricky asked, intrigued.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“First, what sounded like a piece of an old radio commercial, that said <i>You need to listen well, young lady. </i>Then a string of numbers: <i>573-515-B-H-719. </i>Then Churchill saying <i>The empires of the future are the empires of the mind. </i>And last, Churchill again, saying <i>We will never surrender.</i>”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What the…?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Exactly. And every night, at exactly 2:17 am, the radio repeated the same words, the same string of numbers. I started thinking this could be important. I asked the team to look into it, and eventually we found the answer.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What was it?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “For now, all I can tell you is the numbers led us to a recording. On a hidden tape.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Ricky waited. He was starting to wonder if Marie-Ange was maybe psychotic, but she seemed coherent, and he was still intrigued. Plus, again, <i>what the hell had happened to Hans</i>? “Who made the recording?” he asked.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Not who. What.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Ricky said, throwing his hands in the air. The van swerved dangerously into oncoming traffic, but Ricky put it back on track with one expert twist of the wrist.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hey, careful man,” said Crew Cut. “And you watch how you speak to Marie-Ange.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Alright, don’t get your pants in a knot, Van Damme,” Ricky said. “So, <i>what</i> made the recording?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>The old blind man spoke for the first time. He had a weak, raspy voice. “An entity born of the analog world.” <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Huh?” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We don’t fully understand it,” Marie-Ange went on. “All we know is, all the analog technological devices that mankind created over the years, the old technology, like radios, magnetic tapes, cathodic tube TVs…”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Moog synthesizers,” the blind man interjected.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “…And all that, it appears to have created some sort of consciousness. Some crude entity that is aware of the world and of itself.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And… what does that mean exactly?”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The recording was made of cuttings from early radio shows and old songs. It was a warning The analog entity had sensed the appearance of a new consciousness, one different from it. A digital entity.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The tiny, grey-blonde woman spoke for the first time. Her voice was soft and slow, as if she weighed every word. “And this digital entity is taking over the world. Up until recently, it seemed to be content with controlling bank accounts and governmental databases, but in the last few days, it’s been leaving the confines of its digital world.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s started killing people,” Crew Cut concluded.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We’re here,” Crowbar interrupted as Ricky veered into a narrow Old Montreal cobbled street. “Suit up.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
TO BE CONTINUED.</div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-68287446031843983042012-12-08T12:53:00.003-05:002012-12-09T14:27:06.809-05:00Final Encryption - Part 3<style>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">In which we get a
Bible quote, a 1936 General Electric Colorama E-126, and some nudity.</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">The nun led Ricky
down a long stone corridor, to a chapel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A few rows of cherrywood pews, four stained glass windows filtering the
pale morning light into simple geometrical motifs on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The altar was some concrete modern
thing from the sixties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
reminded Ricky of a ’57 Buick, which made him think of his Mustang, and how it
was probably stolen by now, by some greedy bastard who would soon regret being
born.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Don’t worry about
your car,” the nun said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“What,” Ricky
snickered as they walked down the aisle, “you’re gonna tell me God will take
care of it or something?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“God has better
things to do,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And
soon, so will you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“No I won’t.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Also, I think God
hates red cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now be
quiet.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kneeled down in front
of the altar, joined her hands together in front of her like a supplicant, and
yelled:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You blind guides! You
strain out a gnat but swallow a camel!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Uh?” said Ricky.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">The altar pivoted
with a soft electrical whirr and revealed a flight of metal stairs descending
into the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Matthew 23:24,”
the nun said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“What does it
mean?” Ricky said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Not a clue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it makes a good password.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gestured Ricky to walk down the
stairs, and followed him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
still had the gun, but by then Ricky was too damn intrigued to think about
running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who the hell was this
crazy nun, and what was she doing here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Where was here, for that matter?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It looked like some sort of religious building, an old convent maybe,
but it seemed deserted, except for that man with the strange antenna
contraption he’d seen in the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And he couldn’t deny that the nun had a certain strange charisma that
seemed to be drawing him in despite his best judgment.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">They climbed down
into a large concrete room overhung with fluorescents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wooden shelves, packed with books and
documents, lined the walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Three rows of oak desks occupied the center of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting at the desks were eleven men
and women, working under old articulated desk lamps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ricky took them in quickly and the first thing he thought
was that they couldn’t have looked less well-matched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dress, age, looks, hair, everything about them was
dissimilar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next thing that
struck him was that, where they appeared to be doing some sort of office work,
there were no computers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">In fact, the only
piece of technology he could see in the room was an antique, massive radio that
stood in the middle of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ricky immediately recognized a 1936 General Electric Colorama
E-126.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An array of cables and
wires ran from it and disappeared behind a stone column.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appeared to be off at the moment.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Alright, that’s
enough,” Ricky said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What the
hell is this place?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who the hell
are you?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">The nun put her gun
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re right, I owe you an
explanation,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But
first, take off your clothes.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“I beg your
pardon?” Ricky said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“We need to search
you,” the nun said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think you just want to get yourself
some eye candy, sister.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">The nun
laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, I’m not the one
who’s gonna do the searching,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Crowbar is.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">A man that looked
like a mountain with tattoos rose from one of the desks and stood in front of
Ricky, who found himself staring at sirloin-like pecs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tilted his head back until he was able
to meet the mountain’s eyes, but found only a pair of knock-off ray-bans.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Your mom has fed
you well,” he said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">The nun turned
chastely around and stared at the wall as Ricky stripped to his shorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crowbar’s search was surprisingly
gentle, which made Ricky more uncomfortable than the usual rough pat-downs he’d
gotten used to on some of his cross-border ventures.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“So, what are you
doing here working in a convent for a nun,” Ricky asked as Crowbar checked his
leather jacket and looked through his wallet.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Marie-Ange saved
my soul,” Crowbar said in a soft voice.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“You always
exaggerate, Crowbar,” the nun said in an oh-you-sweet-talker tone.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“What’d it need
saving from?” Ricky said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“He’s all clean,
Ange,” Crowbar said without answering.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">Ricky got back into
his clothes and Marie-Ange turned back towards him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Crowbar Eddie did some work for the bikers several years
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was what I believe they
call a cleaner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found him in the
Bordeaux jail.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“What the hell
brought you there?” Ricky said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“A call from
God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus I needed to get away
from the convent and all these women having their PMS at the same time as me.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“So now Crowbar
works for you,” Ricky said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Doing…?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">Marie-Ange
nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So…”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">A fast clicking
sound from a desk in the corner interrupted her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
man at the desk spoke in an urgent tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Marie-Ange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have
activity on two.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">Marie-Ange walked
quickly over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ricky followed,
puzzled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man who had spoken
was well into his seventies, with short silver hair and a well-groomed
mustache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A threadbare tweed
jacket hung on his shoulders like it hadn’t moved in a decade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was manning what looked like an
antique telegraph machine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This
is Aurélien,” said Marie-Ange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“He’s our telegraph operator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I found him when he quit the navy.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Honorably
discharged,” Aurélien said with a smile that bore such sadness that Ricky
almost looked away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Cross of
Valor and everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All for
burning down a village.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“What do we have,
Aurélien?” Marie-Ange asked before Ricky could say something.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Coordinates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the usual nine-letter intro
code.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s him.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">Marie-Ange’s face
tightened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four people, two men
and two women, got up from their desks and headed for the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Where?” the nun asked Aurélien.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Old Montreal,”
Aurélien said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He scribbled an
address on a piece of paper and handed it to her.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“When?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“Two hours.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">Marie-Ange’s jaw
tightened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We won’t make it,” she
said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 36.0pt 72.0pt 108.0pt 144.0pt 180.0pt 216.0pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">“We will if I
drive,” Ricky said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">He had no idea what had
made him speak up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he knew he’d
put his finger into something that was about to eat him whole.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cochin;">TO BE CONTINUED. </span></span></div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-80077718324859238182012-11-30T18:41:00.001-05:002012-11-30T21:39:46.640-05:00Final Encryption - Part 2<br />
<div class="p1">
The shitty Japanese thing that still clung to the illusion of being a car more or less sped along highway 10 towards a destination unknown to Ricky. He was driving, with the baggy-bloused lady’s gun still pointed at him, but she was just giving directions minute by minute, like a living blond GPS with too flat a chest. At least with a real GPS you could imagine the voice’s owner according to your own preferences. Ricky sighed and tried to focus.</div>
<div class="p1">
One of his present problems with focus was that the radio was playing frigging <i>Supertramp</i>, from <i>a cassette tape</i>, for Christ’s sake. Even with the windows rolled all the way down, the noise of the wind couldn’t mask the intolerable Wurlitzer chords that filled the hot summer air. He tried conversation.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Where are we going?” he asked, screaming to cover the wind and the Wurlitzer.</div>
<div class="p1">
But the lady shook her head. “You’ll see.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“At least tell me your name then,” he said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Not here.”</div>
<div class="p1">
Not going anywhere. “So, you like Supertramp?” Gunpoint was a good excuse for shitty lines.</div>
<div class="p1">
“No,” she said.</div>
<div class="p1">
Ok. “So… why are we listening to it then?” he said, and extended his hand towards the <i>off</i> button.</div>
<div class="p1">
She batted his arm down with such force that his hand hit the gearshift. “DON’T TURN IT OFF!” she screamed.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Ouch! You’re insane.”</div>
<div class="p1">
She clenched her teeth, muttered “I wish I was,” and said nothing for the rest of the trip.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3" style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div class="p3" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p4">
They finally arrived as dawn brought a fine band of pink and grey on the horizon. She’d made them take several detours and side roads, probably to try and confuse him. Ricky let her think it had worked, but he knew they were about 15.5 km northeast of Lac-Mégantic, near the US border. To the best of his knowledge, there was nothing out here.</div>
<div class="p4">
They took a dirt road and drove through a wrought-iron gate. Ricky looked for a sign, a name plaque, anything, but the property seemed anonymous, at least from this entrance. Then in the distance, over the trees, he saw a bell tower.</div>
<div class="p4">
“Taking me to church, lady?” he said. “Isn’t it a bit quick? I mean, I know how sexy I am, but maybe we ought to get to know each other a little.”</div>
<div class="p4">
A ghost of a smile played on her lips. Or maybe it was a smirk. “We’re here. Turn left.”</div>
<div class="p4">
They stopped in front of a grey stone building that looked more than a hundred years old. Morning mist still hung around a small courtyard with a statue of some saint in the centre. The light was a ghostly yellow, and Ricky wondered when was last time he’d been up this early.</div>
<div class="p4">
She took the car keys and they entered a small coat room. “Wait here,” she said, “I’m going to slip into something more comfortable”. Right before she left the room, she added, like an afterthought: “Oh, and if you were thinking of hotwiring the car, don’t do it. It would explode.”</div>
<div class="p4">
“You’re bluffing,” Ricky said.</div>
<div class="p4">
“Maybe I am,” she said, and left.</div>
<div class="p4">
Ricky stayed in the coatroom, which smelled of must and incense and something else that made his nose itchy, like a weird cleaning product or something. He peeked through a small window on his left and saw a man in the courtyard. He was dressed in overalls and climbing up a metal ladder. He carried some sort of contraption in his left hand, a long pole with some large copper cables coiled over it, and what looked like a big black light bulb on the end. Before he could wonder about this apparition, the lady walked back in.</div>
<div class="p4">
Except she was wearing a black and white nun habit.</div>
<div class="p4">
“Please follow me,” she said.</div>
<div class="p4">
“You looked better when I could see some legs,” Ricky said. “Why are you dressed as a nun?” </div>
<div class="p4">
She laughed. “Why do you think?”</div>
<div class="p4">
“Wait… you <i>are </i>a nun?”</div>
<div class="p4">
She nodded.</div>
<div class="p4">
“But you’re young.”</div>
<div class="p4">
“And you need to get laid but I can’t help you with that. However, if you will follow me, I will explain to you how not to die.”</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p4">
TO BE CONTINUED</div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-8580735661582352662012-11-23T09:41:00.000-05:002012-11-23T09:43:00.059-05:00Final Encryption - Part 1 <div style="text-align: justify;">
Good morning everyone,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today we're starting publication of a serial. I've always enjoyed reading and writing those. As a reader, there's the feeling of being taken on a long journey, and looking forward to the next leg of the trip every week. As a writer, there's the pressure of producing something regular and coherent over a long period. I always found the pressure kind of liberating (when you have to post a story in two hours, you have less time to worry about whether you have properly developed your main characters profound motives and all that).</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In any case, here's the first installment. Enjoy!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Custom cars lined the parking lot. Ricky leaned on the hood of his ’74 Mustang convertible and smoked. He’d found the piece, and paid a high price. Now so would his buyer. </div>
On the nearby sunken highway, cars screamed by. Strings of multicoloured lights hung between lampposts and the giant, orange, spherical restaurant that overlooked the parking lot where classic car enthusiasts gathered every week. Ricky distractedly appreciated a ’68 Citroën DS idling by the fast-food counters as its owner, a redhead in expensive jeans and ridiculous red and gold high heels, ordered an amount of fries that no one with that figure should have been able to eat. He liked the car, and he liked the girl, but his mind was elsewhere. Trying to figure stuff out.<br /> Like, for example, what the hell had happened to Hans last night?<br /> He lit another cigarette and squinted in the blur of headlights as an ugly, grey, recent, fucking japanese car turned into the lot and headed towards him. It looked like a Tercel but it was hard to tell with all the rust.<br /> From it emerged a woman with straight, blond hair cut at the shoulders. She wore perfectly creased jeans and a white blouse that looked too big on her.<br /> “Are you Ricky?” she said.<br /> Ricky nodded, blowing smoke through the side of his mouth. Manners in front of a lady and all that.<br /> “Do you have what I asked for?” she went on.<br /> Ricky nodded again. “Do you have the money?”<br /> She gave a strange smile. Ricky had never seen that kind of smile. It contained an equal mix of contempt, pity, sadness and some sort of vindictive glee. It made him wary. And curious.<br /> “Of course,” she said, and produced a large reusable shopping bag that read <i>Magog Army Surplus</i>. <br /> Ricky checked it and counted. “All there,” he said, and went to the trunk of his Mustang. “I’ve got your thing right here. Genuine, original 1956 Ford radio antenna with vintage copper coil and couplings. Took me forever to find it.”<br /> “Thank you, mister Ricky, well done,” she said, putting the antenna in the trunk of her own, well, car.<br /> “I hope you’re not planning to waste it on this shitty box on wheels you’re driving,” he said.<br /> Her smile grew enigmatic. “I’m not,” she said.<br /> “Can I ask what you’re working on then?” he said. “I’m the best mechanic around. Maybe I could, you know, give you a hand.” Get her talking. Find stuff out.<br /> The smile disappeared, and she suddenly looked twice her age. “There are things that you’re better off not knowing.”<br /> Ricky lost what little patience he had. He took a step forward and loomed tall over the woman. <br />
“Alright, let’s cut the crap,” he said, “What happened to Hans? You know, don’t you?”<br /> She didn’t flinch, didn’t take a step back, just looked at him calmly, and again with that hint of pity. <br />
“Hans is your partner, isn’t he? You seemed to have a lot of affection for him when we first met. Is he alright?” she added, with what seemed like genuine concern.<br /> Ricky lost it. He often did. “No, he’s not alright! Last night, when we tested your goddamn antenna, he just… I don’t know… he disappeared!”<br /> She frowned. “Disappeared?” she said. “How?”<br /> “I don’t know, lady! It’s just like he was a pile of sand and some invisible wind blew him away or something.” Yeah, and he was ready for the nut house.<br /> The woman’s frown turned into a look of intense concern. “Get it the car,” she said in an anxious voice.<br /> “What?”<br /> “You’ve been compromised. Give me your phone.” With surprising speed, she reached into his jacket, grabbed his phone and threw it in a storm drain. “Now get in,” she said again, shoving him towards the Tercel. <br /> “Hey, my phone! You…” he stopped when he saw her pull a revolver from inside her baggy blouse and point it at him.<br /> “I’m sorry,” she said, “Get in the car. Please.”<br /> “But… my Mustang…”<br /> “We don’t have time. Get in now.”<br /> He got in.<br />Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-65517423323234240162012-11-07T20:44:00.002-05:002012-11-07T20:44:11.926-05:00HBM at Expozine 2012Hello everyone!<br />
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<a href="http://www.expozine.ca/wp_engine/wp-content/themes/expozine/images/expozine-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="72" src="http://www.expozine.ca/wp_engine/wp-content/themes/expozine/images/expozine-logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Here Be Monsters will be at Expozine this year. Last time we were there (2010), we were nominated for one of the independent press awards. We're excited to be a part of it again. For those that have not been, it's an amazing collection of independent and small press works from all over the place. The mix is very eclectic, from books like HBM to handmade unique art books to comic books -- It's an awesome experience and I'm looking forward to checking out all our fellow exhibitors.<br />
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It'll be held in Montreal on November 17 and 18. Our table will have the brand new issue, Tongues and Teeth, as well as some copies of the older books if you're looking to complete your collection :)<br />
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For more information, check out their site here: <a href="http://www.expozine.ca/">http://www.expozine.ca</a>Alexander Newcombehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04640511501736097790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-15625507141015475882012-10-04T16:57:00.001-04:002012-10-04T17:00:02.177-04:00Excerpt From "Brain Freeze", by Vincent Mackay<style>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 110%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> <span style="font-size: small;"> Last excerpt. Launch tomorrow. Can't wait!</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: small; line-height: 110%;"> Two
years ago, when Chief Hansen had come to Foster’s apartment to recruit him into
the squad, Foster had just finished a series of conferences around the seven
flying cities. He’d given his <i>Poetry and
Synapses</i> lecture to the usual audiences of five frog-eyed academics and two
weirdoes, in the standard ultra-light, ultra-polymer, ultra-hideous college
auditoriums. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: small; line-height: 110%;"> He was drinking a well-deserved glass of wine
at the oak table that was his only piece of furniture, wishing he had a view of
the open sky from his place, when the doorbell rang. A man stood there, looking
out of place in his black fatigues. A blunt form of energy emanated from him,
like that of a pitbull, or a boulder rolling down a hill.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: small; line-height: 110%;"> “Chief Ule Hansen, head of the New Montreal
Bomb Squad,” the man had said, extending a calloused hand.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: small; line-height: 110%;"> Foster was confused. Why was this boulder in
his doorway? He shook the proffered hand. “Hi. Gerald Foster. I’m more of a
pine tree than a boulder. Please come in.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: small; line-height: 110%;"> Chief Hansen frowned. “Yeah, they warned me you
were strange,” he said, and accepted the invitation nonetheless.</span></div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-90748498920782306782012-10-04T02:09:00.001-04:002012-10-04T02:09:34.363-04:00Excerpt From "Cobbled", by Tarquin Steiner Alright, so this is almost our last excerpt. This one is what I think of as our geeky piece. For those of you who played those old games on BBSs, waaaaay back before the real internet, this will bring back fond memories.<br />
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Cobbled Road<br /><br />It is night. Dim gas lanterns light the street.<br /><br />To the east is the cobbler's shop. In the upper window are two bright candles.<br /><br />The ocean breeze chills your neck.<br /><br />> that's the signal!<br /><br />You had better get moving.<br /><br />> run to the door<br /><br />You burst into the cobbler's shop. The young woman behind the counter starts. "Sir? Is everything alright?"<br /><br />Cobbler's Shop<br /><br />It is night. The room is lit well with several lamps.<br /><br />A few tools are hanging on the wall. Piles of shoes and unsorted papers have collected in every corner.<br /><br />The west door out is closed.<br /><br />> ask about cobbler<br /><br />(to the girl)<br /><br />"He's upstairs. You must be Stevens. May I take your coat?"<br /><br />> climb stairs<br /><br />You leave the woman at the counter and track dirt up the stairs.<br /><br />Cobbler's Shop---Upper Corridor<br /><br />Three doors and a stairway down.<br /><br />> knock on the doors<br /><br />You proceed down the hall, knocking on each door in turn. From the second, an old voice echoes.<br /><br />Cobbled Road<br /><br />It is night. Dim gas lanterns light the street.Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-66255537787176990312012-10-02T21:43:00.004-04:002012-10-02T21:43:44.128-04:00Excerpt From "Strings", by Richard LarsonThis story stood out to me because it is set in a futuristic, dystopian version of Africa, which is something I had never encoutered before. It's also a murder mystery, a genre that holds a special place in my heart, from my first Agatha Christie novel to Fred Vargas' quirky, Paris whodunnits. Please enjoy.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“So you
are not the killer.” The investigator rolls the Coke can across his baked black
forehead. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nuru’s
fingers drum on the table. “No,” he says.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The
investigator crooks his head and a fat policeman shuffles forward, thumps an
old solar laptop down between them. The investigator tracks his finger across
the dirty screen and Nuru watches the murder play out in pixels.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here
is you, here is your hands on his neck. Your hairs—everywhere.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
yes, you know this means nothing.” Nuru’s fingers drum harder, angry.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
investigator flicks his tongue against the cold can like a lizard. “So why is
your boss dead, you puppet son-of-a-whore?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think it has to do with Kataryna,” Nuru says, and his organs feel suddenly damp
and heavy in his gut. The investigator whirls away, showing off his
exasperation. He curses in French, too fast to follow, but Nuru hears the word
for Christian and recognizes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guignol </i>as
well. He spins the laptop around and clacks something in.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
white bitch?” he demands. “The European?” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The laptop
faces Nuru again, showing a headshot. Her skin is bleached ghostly. The
exposure was not meant for white skin, but the camera-man didn’t know better.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,”
Nuru says, and his fingers die one by one on the plastic. “Her.”</span></div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-76095708746472462662012-10-02T01:45:00.003-04:002012-10-02T01:45:56.496-04:00Excerpt From "If Not the Moon, Then the Exquisite Sun", by Carl RoloffToday's excerpt. My name for it is poetic sci-fi. It has real beauty, as well as the end of the world.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">All the flowers open at once, and suddenly we're surrounded by
the scents of a thousand blossoms that won't live out sunrise. We had called
them the Dawn Callers, by their strange quirk of opening about an hour before
the sun began to swell. Shimmering dark purple, the kind only a full moon can
really bring out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You need to make up your
mind soon,” she says, her head pillowed on my stomach and me spread-eagle on
the ground like one awaiting crucifixion. “We could still go together, save
ourselves.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was the end of all
things. Our sun was to betray us, but we had found an escape of sorts. We had
discovered that everyone's dreams, everyone's hopes, hates and loves could be
distilled, reduced down by some arcane process into a lattice of purest
crystal. We would abstract ourselves into gauzy glimmering structures, lazy
cobwebs of colour that refract the light into mad patterns and sudden pits of
darkness. A human, translated into a chip of eternity. Then, the flight from
our doomed planet: convoys of carnelian, emerald and garnet sailing out into
the deepest reaches of space. We would go with the hope that being an
unthinking piece of beauty was better than being a cinder.</span></div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-31937087733821781262012-09-30T18:00:00.000-04:002012-09-30T18:00:09.598-04:00Excerpt From "Children of the Device", by Camille Alexa
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;">Today's excerpt is classic sci-fi, from a very cool story. Read, and be hooked.</span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;">1:1<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;">According to the
ship's chronometers, it's a brand new year, and in some archaic tradition
carried from Earth by our forebearers along with the tablets, we are urged to
make a <i>resolution</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm not
entirely sure what this entails, but have resolved to begin keeping this diary,
this weekly log of thoughts, observations--maybe even jokes if I can think of
any not too unfunny even to record them in this digijournal, where they'll
never be seen or read or even suspected by anyone else ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We'll see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's the first Saturday of a new year, and I, Hannah, of the
fifth generation of the first and last of Earth's colony ships, <i>The Elkanah</i>,
resolve to keep as true and faithful an account of myself as I can.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;">*</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;">1:2</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it
possible a whole week flew past?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unbelievable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between one Saturday
and the next seems a long endless trek from one quadrant of this hulking ship
to another and back again and back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The <i>Elk </i>escaped collapsing Earth with its colonist complement
numbering in the thousands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's
not always easy to decipher our earliest recordings, but shipboard outbreaks of
various plagues have a way of making everything else--captain's logs, medical
records--seem less important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
we fifth-gens have had our share of outbreaks, viral strains like the one that
killed my parents mutating in unanticipated ways under the intense radiations
of deep space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guess those who
shot us into the void as the last bombs wiped out Earth anticipated a lot of
things, but not that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter
how long they'd had to prepare, they might not have been able to safeguard
against that first plague, or the subsequent mutations, or the sterilizing
effect on the majority of the survivors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And they certainly couldn't have known how few survivors there would be.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;">But some few hundred
of us are still hanging on, along with the thirty thousand embryos in cold
stasis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wish I were one of the
lucky ones, like Penny, who can have children. Children to love her, talk to
her, help her with her portions of the lichen field harvest and the repairs to
the urine stills in our quadrant of the ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children to carry on, find another world and get right all
the shit we pitiful humans messed up on the last planet.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-no-proof: yes;">Yes, Penny's one of
the lucky ones.</span></div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-57354439996387093572012-09-29T22:18:00.001-04:002012-09-29T22:18:19.569-04:00Excerpt From "Sterrennacht", by Cat McDonald
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Continuing with excerpts from issue 7. This one involves a woman with a very special ability many have dreamed they could have. Only for her, this time, it's more of a nightmare.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Dana changed her mind as
soon as the canvas they’d wheeled into her office stood revealed to the buzzing
fluorescent lights.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Get someone else.”</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
Starry Night.</span></i><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Van Gogh’s view from his sanitarium window
after he’d been committed. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Michael sat on her desk,
his spine rounded forward, his sunken eyes staring at her floor. He didn’t say
anything, just stared at the old gray-blue carpet, looking up to trade serious
glances with the guard who’d come, in uniform, from the Museum of Modern Art
with the painting. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Dan,” Michael began. So
he’d chosen to start this with first names. He felt sentimental, apparently, if
a little behind the times.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Dana.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’re the only diver I
can find.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Mitch.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Vacation.” Finally, he
turned his head to look at her, his face worn and sullen. Not a good day to
force him to issue an actual order; something had got to him. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The painting’s central
swirl of white sneered at her somehow behind that brush-streaked cypress
silhouette, blackly luminous in Van Gogh’s world of brilliant light and color.
She could see, even from outside the painting, the twisted knots of oil paint that
made up that blue landscape. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t do
post-impressionism.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Michael’s eyebrows
didn’t drop, so she had some time before Captain Michael Czerniak straightened
his back and informed her that she would, in fact, do post-impressionism. Maybe
time to find another diver in the area, someone who could fearlessly slide
between the brushstrokes and navigate the maze of colors that looked, from the
top, like a night-time landscape.</span></div>
Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-53782889292440358032012-09-28T22:18:00.002-04:002012-09-30T14:11:40.182-04:00Excerpt From "Private Transit", by Amy Bright<br />
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The launch is in a week. An excerpt a day until then. Enjoy!<br />
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The first time I saw him, he had a black eye.<br />
“What a shiner.”<br />
He looked around, the old, hey, you talking to me, but who else would I be talking to through the smoke cloud. I disarmed him with my finger guns, one of them pointed right in line with his bruised melon. His swollen socket.<br />
He put his free hand up to his face. The other hand was holding a guitar case, slick and new.<br />
“I don’t even remember it happening,” he said.<br />
“That,” I said, “is not the end of the world.”<br />
I pulled down my sweater and showed him the bruise on my arm. I wore it proudly, tank tops, shoulders bare. Doesn’t everyone want to show that they are loved so hard that there is someone out there who will not let them go, not even for a second?<br />
“You got his fingerprints on there?” the guy asked me.<br />
I pinched my skin and revolved it around my arm, taking a closer look.<br />
“They are there,” I told him. “In case a crime is committed.”<br />
He raised his eyebrows and I lowered my sleeve and we went back to not talking. If I am alone outside of the bar, I hold my breath very tightly in my chest and count out easy numbers in my head. My specialty is reaching thirty exactly every single time. When I am finished counting, I open the door and go back inside.<br />
Tonight I am breathing. In, out, in, out. It’s heavy humid, Florida-style. We rode the roller coaster at Disney World, me and my sister, when we were family-vacationing on a high school Spring Break. Our hair was wet where it touched our scalps and the ends went curly like it never happens anywhere else in the world. We fell out of the sky and dropped very quickly, safe inside our safety harness, our extra-strength plastic seatbelts.<br />
“I’m Tom,” he said, offering that spare hand. “Tommy.”<br />
Woah there, buddy, I wanted to tell him, hang onto your name. Don’t you read fantasy books.Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-27212804237580763262012-09-27T14:27:00.001-04:002012-09-27T14:27:23.901-04:00Excerpt From "The Airlock Scene", by Karl JohansonContinuing with our series of excerpts from our upcoming issue. <br />
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Captain Winston did his best to look heroic as he stood at the exit to the airlock of his spacecraft, looking over the surface of Mars. The bulging pack on the back of his form-fitting vacuum suit made moving around in the airlock awkward. The other five crewmen in the airlock made it sextuply so. He looked at the terrain below him, held out one arm and said, “Looking out at the new world, the six intrepid men set out from their brave craft, with its numerous shades of orange and red.”<br /> “Hang on a minute,” the life sciences officer said from further back in the<br />crowded airlock. “The space ship isn’t red and orange.”Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-59939889955721311772012-09-26T17:19:00.001-04:002012-09-26T17:23:48.963-04:00Excerpt From "Numbered", by Duane BurryDuane has once more produced an awesome story, with a concept that will surprise you out of your socks. If your species wears socks, of course.<br />
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“What is your greatest achievement?” asked specimen 326-7.<br />
“That is too vague. More precision is required. Please,” answered specimen 46-1.<br />
“Technologically,” 326-7 added.<br />
“Hmmm... we have astro-engineered a Dyson sphere. I believe this to be our greatest achievement. It is quite possibly,” spoke 46-1, no more than a voice.<br />
“Where?” probed 326-7<br />
YOUR QUESTION MAY NOT BE TRANSMITTED. It was the intelligence within the Device that spoke. Perhaps intelligence was an overstatement. It was hard to tell.<br />
“A great achievement. To what end?” 326-7 continued to ask questions.<br />
“As usual, are you still concerned that our intentions are to make war?”<br />
“I’m simply curious. We know the Devices inhibit any information that can be used to determine user locations. What will you do with that much energy, harnessed through a Dyson sphere?”<br />
“True. But if we found you another way, or perhaps if we have already cracked these Devices decades ago or perhaps centuries... anyway, it is not our intention. 46s are peaceful. Again, we reassure you that we are. We have no intention of war-waging. We will, however, be better able to defend if required. The energy collected from the Dyson sphere will enable this and much more. Indeed.”<br />
“46-1, you are one of the earlier civilizations to locate a Device on your planet. Are you close to determining the builders’ identities? Any idea of the purpose?”<br />
TRANSMISSION BLOCKED.<br />
The Device’s reaction was clear. Specimen 326-7 felt rattling vibrations though its crystalline form, every lattice-worked piece of its being trembled. The 326s tried repeatedly to find out from the other civilizations in connection with the Devices where they came from. Why plant these Devices across star systems and how? 46-1, it deduced, was from a much older civilization. They had had the Device for much longer; they knew more.<br />
Also of concern was the fact that so many species were missing. 326-7 assumed it was not likely the Device skipped numbers. And yet, both numbers neighbouring 46 were absent. No 45. No 47. The 46s lived seemingly forever, because only the original 46 was in direct contact with the Device, whereas 326 was the seventh of its kind to be elected guardian.<br />
46-1 slid its gelatinous membrane from the Device. It interpreted the pause from 326-7 as an attempt to breech the built-in protocol and filters. The builders were opposed to such tampering. Experience with neighbouring civilizations suggested that the builders were most likely dangerous.Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6721577929560958569.post-37690062120195246062012-09-25T21:07:00.001-04:002012-09-26T21:50:02.189-04:00Excerpt from "The Ministry of Sacred Affairs", by Claude LalumièreAnother excerpt from our upcoming issue. You'll never see goblins the same way again.<br />
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Just as Leo was preparing to go to open the grocery store after breakfast, the doorbell rang. Rosa called out anxiously. Leo emerged from the kitchen to see his wife standing next to an officer from the Ministry of Sacred Affairs, in full official regalia. He asked if he could come in. Rosa offered him tea, but he declined. The Ministry man suggested that both of them should sit down. The officer, towering over the sitting couple, spoke in cold, rehearsed tones: “Last night, your son, Shane, defied curfew and was killed by a pack of goblins. Although the demons didn’t leave enough of a body for a funeral, we were able to identify him by the contents of his wallet. I’m sorry for your loss.” The officer left a card on the table. “Please call me when you’re ready to make arrangements.” He left without another word.Vincent Mackayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274909676897159276noreply@blogger.com0