Apologies

My bad. I've been away for too long. My life accidentally went nuts, and writing kind of got pushed aside somewhat. Oh well. I will be going on hiatus officially on August 14th, when I will take a year of service with NET Ministries. After that, I hope to return and continue to write, but for better or worse, we don't know what the future will hold.

I desire to release at least one, and hopefully two or three more stories to you guys before then, including the wrap-up to my NET challenge a few months back. I did not, unfortunately, reach ten thousand dollars, but I did pass five thousand, which was the minimum goal. YAY! That means I still owe you guys at least one more good story. :)

If you're reading this, thanks for hanging in there! See you in a few.


-Sam

$4,000 Milestone Part One: Fan Store.

This is going to take some explaining.
Brandon Sanderson, one of my favorite authors, has a short story on his website called "I Hate Dragons." That story is composed entirely of dialogue. It's technically a writing exercise to try to see how well you can move a story through dialogue, but it works as a story by itself as well. Of Livestock and Mercenaries, a short story I posted here a few months ago, was grown out of one of those types of stories. (That one actually had a lot of stuff going on behind the scenes, I'll explain someday.)

This story is like that. It's purely dialogue, and slightly satirical on the customer service industry.
Hopefully it's enjoyable.

Thanks again for all the support!

__________________________________

Fan Store.

"Hello, welcome to Fans and More! Just tell me if you need any hel- assistance."

"Thanks... uh, you have more?"

"We used to, but after a small ice-cream truck plowed through the front and destroyed a whole wall of uninsured porcelain geckos, we stopped stocking them, but we haven't changed the na- updated our title."

"Why didn't you just  start insuring the geckos?"

We tri- attempted to do so, but the insurance guy wouldn't talk to us. Apparently as soon as we mentioned the geckos he screamed about everyone having the wrong company and hung up. We didn't try to call back."

"Um... ok then."

....

...

"Hey, can you tell me about this fan?"

"Sur- Absolutely! That is an 04' XPR0-1336 Master fan-on-a-stand. It comes wi- included is a working remote, seven different fan speeds, air freshener, and an extra long cord for those out-of-the-way outlets!"
"-'Fan on a stand?'"
"We like to give interesting names to our stu- products."
"Um, sure. How about this ceiling fan over here?"
"That's a rapid 350 degree oscillating Neutron 00115, complete with 364 day guarantee. You know, I might be able to hel- assist you more efficiently, if you told me what you are looking for?"
"Well, just browsing. I was thinking about getting something for my brother as a wedding present."
"Oh, Wonderful! When is the date, may I ask? Preparing for this lovely June weather?"
"Well, it would be more of a long term investment actually, he's four right now. I just don't want to have to end up grabbing something last minute."
"That sounds... wise."
"I don't like watching people throw their money out the window."
"Well I'm glad to see you here then, we don't have any windows! Ha-ha"
"ha....ha....
...
I was thinking I'd get a portable fan rather than a ceiling fan, since then he can put it wherever he wants and take it with him when he moves."
"That sounds like an excellent idea! But in that case, why don't you check out this backpack fan? Strap it on, and have the wind blowing past your ears on a jog, in the mall, or even just at home!"
"Um.. I meant like moving... houses. Like real estate and stuff."
"Oh, my mistake! I do apologize! (Hey, would you like a free coupon for this Poker Chip fan.)"
"Uh, don't mention it. No thanks, I don't really like Poker Chip fans."
"What's not to like?"
"They just... I just don't like them, ok?"
"Certainly sir! Whatever you say!"
"Alright, look, I'm just gonna get this one right here."
"The classic Verdana Type 90 degree oscillation model here? Excellent choice, it's a favorite among our customers. Let me go ring you up."
"How much?"
"It's going to be... (where's the bar code on this thing?) Ah, it's going to be thirty five dollars. Unless you are interested in buy- adding a three month guarantee, a seven month guarantee, or a three year, six week, and two day guarantee."
"Um-"
"A seven month guarantee is our most popular option, balancing reasonable price addition, at only fifteen more dollars, and a decent length of time to make sure you didn't get a lemon."
"This isn't going to be used for like ten years, remember?"
"Oh yes, you did mention that, my apologies.
I- uh, yes. Thirty five then- wait, sorry, forgot about sales tax. It's thirty six forty one."
"Here's forty."
"Out of forty, your change is three fifty nine. Can I interest you in anything else today?"
"Well..."

...

"Hey Dad."
"Hey Son."

"I got a fan for Joe's wedding today."
"Joe's getting married today?"
"No, I mean I got a fan today, for Joe's wedding in the future."
"Planning ahead?"
"Yea...
Hey, how was work?"
"It was good, I haven't lost my temper with the nuts who call in in over a week."
"That's great dad. Hey, just in case, don't get too upset about people thinking you're a different insurance company, it's better that they're calling you guys anyway, right?"
"Well... I suppose so."
"Good, look at it positively. By the way, I got you a backpack fan. You can take it on your jogs."
"That sounds pretty interesting."
"It's the latest thing. Seven month guarantee too."

4k!

I would like to proudly announce that I am within five hundred dollars of my base goal!

That's right, I've received over four thousand dollars in donations for my mission with NET this coming school year.

I would like to say that I've done a great job.
But truthfully, it wasn't me at all. Very little (if any at all) of that came from some sort of super convincing, charismatic performance by which I went out and conquered the world. I just kind of asked. I asked the right people I guess.
But it really isn't me. All I can say is props the Holy Spirit. NET likes to talk to us about putting it in God's hands, and being blessed by the results.
I have been truly blessed.
To me, donations are something of an investment in Good. I'm honored to be the vehicle of your investments in Good.

I'll go more in depth about the process after I meet goal, probably in a week or so. :D

But I owe you guys a story, don't I?

The truth is that the one I wrote, I am not satisfied with as a part of the Challenge. Also, I've contracted a drawing for it that hasn't arrived yet... (hint hint hint...)

So here's the deal. In exchange for waiting a bit longer for your $4,000 goalmark story, you will get a real story, not just some philosophical pondering on why peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth.

Also, you will get something a little bit different I've been working on a little bit as a goalmark for $5,000...
And I'll do a dramatic reading of Epic in Brico.
Fair enough?

-Sam

Lost Frog

Really sorry. I completely forgot about posting the next story. I had it and everything, I just had too much going on. :(
But don't shoot me, here it is now. If you're really disappointed about the 24 hour difference, leave a comment and I'll send you a draft of the next one early.
Yep.

But anyway. As promised, here is Lost Frog. It's a little different.... one of those freewriting projects that got out of hand. It was a story I wanted to tell anyway, but it kind of became a whole 'nother monster here.
Enjoy.

___________________________________

I'm not sure why I called this Lost Frog. I knew I was going to write a story about being lost, but I wasn't sure what I was going to call it, and my eyes wandered to the left of the computer screen, and there was this toy frog, so I called it Lost Frog. On second thought, that means I actually know exactly why this story is called Lost Frog, it's just a stupid reason.
Not changing it though.

But about being lost. That's one of my things. (You know, like being cool, having a bunk bed, exploiting open source software, getting lost...) If I take one wrong turn, it's a two hour delay. Two wrong turns and I end up in Sacramento California.

(If I wanted to end up in Sacramento, I end up in Tokyo, Japan. The car swims. I bet it could give Phelps a run for his money. Or a swim for his money I guess. We could be snoozlepack* and say an elephant ride for his money.)

I didn't realize that I didn't have a sense of direction at first, because I have a very good memory, except about doing laundry. I used to aimlessly ride my bicycle hither and yon, and the thing about a bike is that you can awkwardly pick it up and turn around at any given time. You can't exactly do that in a car. It's not as risk compensation-y. So of course, after I got my driver's license, I knew all of the very local neighborhoods perfectly, having done nothing for the past two or three summers but meander about them. Now when riding shotgun in a car, I didn't have to pay attention to directions. I usually would read a book, (and get carsick) or stare out side window and just watch stuff go by. Sometimes I would imagine what would happen if there was like a large ax attached to the side of the car and it just whacked through all of the telephone poles.
Yea, I don't know about me.

The one thing I didn't do was pay attention to where I was going.

I've gotten better after having driven more often, but I still am awful. I like to use the excuse that I don't have a compass, except that I do have a compass on my freaking key-chain so that's kind of a really dumb excuse.
I'm not actually sure how I would use that to find things anyway, but it was a funny joke, so I'm leaving it there.

Anyway, there is this one parish that's a little further away that I assist at occasionally, I have the way there down pat. I get it. I know when to turn, and then when to turn again, and then I just keep going until I'm driving by the  Church and stop the car stop the car dangit turn around.
So I kind of get it, it's not the worst. When I tried to get to a Men's rally, I ended up on my way to New York City.

I don't even live in New York.

But about that parish.
I can't ever ever ever get home the right way when I'm driving by myself. Everyone in my family magically knows exactly how to get there, (maybe because they go there more often than I do.) So when they're driving with me, sure I go the right way because they scream at me and poke me, which is a driving hazard, so risk compensation and the instincts of survival force me to go the right way.
But when I don't have that potentially dangerous situation, my brain goes into "oh, you needed to be home in fifteen minutes I'm so sorry" mode.
Did I mention that I live in the suburbs and the one wrong turn that I make every single time basically puts you into a meandering back road that forces you to drive through cornfields and around tractors for two and a half hours?
I don't even know what a tractor does.

The first time I made the mistake of attempting to drive home by myself, I took about an hour extra, which was even worse because I have an OCD thing about wasting gas.
Gasoline.
I really messed it up the second time though. There's this old thing that you've probably heard, goes like fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, or something like that, and this road has pulled it off way too many times. It doesn't even make logical sense. I should completely realize where I'm going by now, I've messed it up enough. You learn by making mistakes, right?
If I go down the road I'm supposed to, I just end up on the other one anyway. I'm sure that the gas stations purposefully move the roads around just to annoy me.
And make me buy gas.
Gasoline.
I went down the wrong road, and though as soon as I made the turn, I started to get that sinking feeling, it took me until I saw the Tractor Supply Co. to realize that I was lost, because I have never seen a Tractor Supply Co. in my area. The only one I ever saw was when I was on my way to Maryland for a scholarship competition, several hundred miles from my house.
I lost that competition by the way. Wasn't even a finalist. Maybe it was because I was asked to write an essay on theology, and instead I wrote one on chocolate chip cookies.
Okay, it was kind of about theology, but it was theology through cookies.
Oh well.
So I saw the Tractor place, and my first thought was, "hey, I heard that they sell really good boots there!" my second thought was "am I in Georgia?"
My third thought was to pull over, but I had already kind of gone past the side road by then.
There is this funny thing about Jersey. It's that you might live in the suburbs all your life, be exposed to a wee bit of farmland, but you don't realize how much of the state is still agriculture, until you are driving along a one step up from dirt road for fifty miles without a way to turn around without driving all over somebody's corn. 

By the time I had found a place to turn, I had no idea where I was, and I started feeling like I'd run out of gas and be stranded in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but what I had in my pockets to survive. I wasn't sure if I was ready for that just yet, I'm still working on the whole survival-kit-in-a-pocket thing. I might be turned into a movie though, if I got out alive. If not, at least the boy scouts would remember me at the campfire.
Does anyone want to hear the one about the new driver on the endless country roads?
Actually, even they wouldn't, because I hadn't been to boy scouts in forever. Possibly because of having gotten lost on the way there. Possibly because of bears eating the troop. I won't say one way or the other.

I eventually broke that most sacred tradition of the male race, which is "don't ask for directions."
I didn't even do that right, finding myself on the way to that city near me that we tend to avoid for reasons of not wanting to be murdered. I did figure out where I was, (kinda) and am now writing this in the relative comfort of my house, un-murdered, and not the subject of a ghost story.

I did take an extra two hours to get home though.
Maybe I should learn how to use that compass.


*One of Sam's evil plots is to subtly manipulate the english language into changing the word "Arbitrary" out for the word "snoozlepack." Please consider editing your vocabulary to assist this important cause.

Song of Solanum Tuberosum: A tribute to my graduation from Highschool

It's that time of year, finally, again. And possibly for the last time. Certainly for the last time in my home. I've just graduated from highschool. It's been an interesting twelve-ish years. I can almost definitively say that I got a better education being homeschooled than I would have in the regular public schools. At the same time, I wonder if some of my time could have been more productively spent.
Does it matter in the end? Maybe. Maybe not. I know that I certainly have had opportunities I would never have had otherwise been introduced to some really great literature, been able to learn to say the alphabet backwards, clap with one hand, utilize the free capacity of the internet, meet some really awesome people, and probably grow in my faith and in other ways that I never could have in a private or public school.

I don't know really how I would have turned out otherwise, and I don't think it really matters much. I've become who I've become. It'll do.
It's at times like this I guess I should say thanks for all the people who helped me along the way, but I have an aversion. Let me get out there and establish something, create a foundation I can link back to this day better than a piece of paper.
Maybe it's ego stroking, pride. I don't want it to be.
So I'll say thanks anyway. Even if I don't know if I've merited anything, it's worth giving a hand for the effort that has been invested in me, and I'm honored to be entrusted with it.

So in honor of those, I present a poem I wrote a little bit earlier. I think that it can accurately sum up most of my writing career up to this point. Other than that, don't go in with too much expectation, but I hope you perhaps find it edifying, enlightening, or interesting.

Song of Solanum Tuberosum. (A Haiku)

Deep Fry Potato.

Potato, Potato, Crunch.

Munch on Potato.

Banana Cartel- only Fifteen Hundred to Goal!

You see it.
I've had some incredibly generous people supporting me. (One guy in particular. I don't think he reads this, but thanks Mr. R!)
Thanks so, so, much.
I really feel like it wasn't any of my own talent or anything like that getting me to this point- it really has been the Holy Spirit all the way.
I woke up this morning with a bruise on my nose from I don't know where and a little bit of an oversleeping dizziness, but I really woke up when I looked at my report.
People can really be awesome.

Without Further ado:

Banana Cartel

You shoulda seen my buddy Will. Willy, well, Willy was one o' them with Big Al, back in tha day, back in Brooklyn. I thought it was Brooklyn, at any rate. Coulda been Chicago or Brooklyn, or possibly LA, I can't remember f' shore. Willy was a good guy, 'e just did what 'e had to do, you know?

See here, Willy, 'e wasn't one a dem big brute guys, who ya ran into in da back alleys and left wit three inches more metal in your gullet then ya came with. Willy, 'e was a smart guy, like me. Me and Willy, we went way back, all past da gold rush and everything, or was it da oil rush? At any rate, we went way back, Willy an' Me.
Willy was a deal fixer 'e was, one o' them higher ups with bowties and all that. Willy sometimes needed me along, ya know, just a little extra insurance, never hurt to have an extra six bullets and two arms and four switch-knives.

It was back in da thirties I think, or maybe da twenties, back before that one president wit no beard got all up in the White House down at Washington,  at any rate, a while back.
Willy, 'e shows up at my door, 'is face white as putty. Boy! That was sure something, cuz Willy, you see Willy, 'e had guts like a Ford Engine, oh they'd blow every few hundred miles, but you just patch em up, and they never would fall apart complete, not once!

But this day, Willy shows up, and Willy sez to me, 'e sez, "Hey Tommy, I gotta schedule a real big hit tonight, and I'm just 'bout scared stiff, they're real big boots over there, hey Tommy, sorry to wake you up so late, but buddy, I real gotta need ya on this one, do me a favor, will ya this time Tommy?"
Now Willy and I, we go way back, so 'course I ran back upstairs and grabbed a couple o' guns and a knife or three, nothing a gentleman wouldn't keep on 'is person o' course, just a little insurance, popped on a nice good suit, another gentlemanlee thing 'course, and I was ready to give poor Willy a hand, on account of us going way back 'course.

"Tommy," sez ol' Willy, "Tommy, I real owe ya one, Tommy, youse a real gennelman Toms." So 'course I tells him don't mention it and we's gennelmen 'course.

"Tommy," sez ol' Willy, "Tommy, I gotta tell ya somethin. It's da Bananas it is."

Now da Bananas, back in da Day, the Bananas was da real deal. They did all da stuff, and they did it best. Nobody could outdo them Bananas. You needed a threat, a knife, a bribe, you went to da Bananas, they alwas got it done they did.

An they allus jus looked like any other fruit, but those Bananas, they were da real deal man, see me? No Bananas wanned you ta think they was part o' da mos' successful gang in that whole city.

But they were crazy ones, da Bananas was. Nobody, I mean Nobody, messed with them Bananas, not unless they wanted it coming to 'em real bad. I mean real bad. Nobody, Nobody wanned to get on thems bad side. An that was why ole Willy here was white as a hospital gown and shaky as a Mexican jumpin' bean.
So now I was gettin' a little on da nervous side too, it bein' da Bananas and all, them was mighty cruel, specially if you wasn't willin to pony up whatever they wanned. Now that wasn't no problem for Willy; da boss 'ad given 'im as much cash as any Banana'd jump at, but see ol' Willy he was scared because sometime and again them Bananas were mighty un-pre-dict-uh-bull, and that was when nobody, Nobody wanted to be round those parts.

So it weren't just Willy's knees knockin' when we turned da corner, but since we was both gennelmen, you didn't ditch yer buddy, we were knowin' how ya never ditched yer buddy, not ever.  So Willy an' me, we went right into that there supermarket at da corner of Tenth an' Eighth, or Seventh an' Eighth, or Fifteenth an' Roberts, I don't right remember for shore. At any rates, we went right in that store, teeth chatterin' an' fingers tremblin' but I swallered it an' bit inna my baccy, an' I think Willy did da same. We turned round to da fruit secshun, and boy, Will nearly up and was sick right then an' there, cuz there was a whole big han' of Bananas coolin right atween them apples an oranges.

Now those Bananas, they were lookin' jus like any odder fruit, but that's what they wanted ya ta think, see me? They'd catch ya wit yer guard down for sure, and then it'd all be 'istory, and you'd be just one more name in that book a names they up an kep somewhere in their hideout.

But Willy an' me, we manned up an' faced them there Bananas, and Willy, he sed to em,'
"Well, I'm all here Mr. Banana, I got the money an' everythin' so you jest say the word, an' I'mma be on my way."
Now those Bananas, they don't do a darn thing! They jus' sat there all cool like, an' Will, he mustered up the courage, dunno from where, an he said it again, almost a little sharp like,
"Now lissen 'ere yous Bananas: I ain't gonna say it agin. I got da money right ere, do you wants it er not?"

Those Bananas, they jus' up an sat there, chillin' on that shelf. A couple a fruit flies even buzzed by an' I think one may a landed on em, but those Bananas they jus sat there all cool like.

It was a real stare off, and Willy, ol Willy he up an snapped afore those Bananas did, he pulled 'is Colt, I think it were a Colt, though I can't remember fer certain, out right then an' there, an' he up an' screams:

"Now Listen Ere Yous BUH NAH NUHZ, I i'nt gonna let yous get ta me, so if'n ya don't gimme one blink, I'mma just up an blaze yer store ta bits."

Those Bananas, they was real cool-like too. They jus' sat there! All yellow, wi' just a little bit a green on some spots ere an there, and jus chilled, even when Willy blasted one a them apples right next to em, those Bananas sat there jus like any other fruit you might see in a store, but 'course we knew shore that them Bananas weren't no normal fruits, they was da most col'blooded killers in da 'hole city.

Willy, he quieted down a bit, an' I could see then n there that them Bananas had outlasted 'im, an' I knew why they was da most successful Gang in that there whole city, an' it was on account o' them nerves a steel they 'ad.

Willy, after that 'e din't talk no more, 'e jus' wen real quiet like, an e put da cash a foot or too in front o' 'em an then he walked out that door there, not a word outta 'is mouth at all, on account a knowin that them there Bananas 'ad bested im, an e was da worse man for that job, cuz 'e just din't ave what it took to beat them Bananas.

I follered im ome that night, on account a me bein' real concerned for my buddy, (I was a little shaken up meself, but I didn't ave to face them Bananas face ta face, just watched a little in da back) an I put im ta bed, an fed im some chicken soup, an 'e jus' sat there all pale like, color a wax, an after bout an hour or two, 'e says ta me, Willy says, "Eh, Tommy Boy, did ya never think 'bout raisin' tomatoes? I 'ear that tomatoes are right peaceful like to raise."

An that was da last I e'er 'eard a Willy, my man Willy, 'e went out to the counry somewhereabouts, an' 'e finished 'is days plantin' tomatoes or summat like that, an I'm a shore 'e did imself fine, being a good one a them farmers when e put 'is mind to it an all.

Now I'd tell ya all bout my buddy Cletus, an' is pet murderin' coffee mug, but it's bout time for you tah go to bed an I don't wanna confuse your 'ead any, on account of it bein' a little odd of a story.

______________________________________________________

I hope you enjoyed the story. It's a little bit different than usual. But since I jumped 2k since the last update, that means I need to post two stories, right?

I'll let you take a breather from this one for the night. :) 

Tomorrow: Lost Frog.

First Milestone MET! Story: Poorly timed Snack

Hey there. It's been a little bit too long since an update, my apologies. I meant to be a little bit more consistent. Anyways, I don't have an official number in yet, but I have enough people who have told me that they'll be donating to be able to confidently say that I have raised around a thousand dollars.
Awesome, right?
I'll update with the official number as soon as I can.
While I'm a little bit stingy and would usually wait until I get the numbers in, I'm thinking that you guys have been great enough to help me out, so I'll cut you a break. :)
Remember that even if you aren't physically donating, getting the word out there and praying are a pretty big help as well. Thanks for that.
(Not that I would mind the physical donations.)
Read the story, and if it makes you laugh, why not consider donating to help the cause?
This is one of my typical short stories: a quick first person narrative of food out to get me. (Hey, it's fun to write them. And true. Mostly.)
So without further ado.

Poorly Timed Snack.

It was delicious.

I forget what exactly it was, but it was delicious. Some kind of cornbread/cake thingy. It was really good, trust me.

So naturally I took some with me when I had to walk my sister to a neighbor's house. I grabbed a handful, since it was rather crumbly, tossed on a coat, and walked up the street, coolly ignoring the drivers who probably were not glancing out their windows and judging me for eating a sit down food standing up. (I still imagined that they were looking out of their windows and judging me, which is why I coolly ignored them.)

No seriously, eating any kind of comfort food while doing anything other than sitting on your rear and saying "Thankee kindly" is murdering the quintessential meaning of the food. Sausage gravy sheds tears just by being brought into New York city.

It was really crumbly. I think I got half on my face, half in my mouth, and half on my coat.
(The half on my coat was the same half as the one in my mouth.)
Also I got half on my sister. I'm not sure which half that was.
We eventually reached the neighbors house. It wasn't actually that far away, but I kept getting distracted. I have a tendency to get lost whenever I make a left turn, or a right turn, or go straight, or stand still.
More on that some other time.
We rang the doorbell like gentlefolk. We used the door knocker like civilized human beings We barbarically knocked on the door with cornbread smeared hands, and it was promptly answered by Mr. Neighbor. Sister disappeared inside to chill with friends(I hear that small children have now evolved past "playdate.") and left me to deal with Mr. Neighbor, who was very friendly, like a normal civilized human being.

I am usually also very friendly.
Well not very friendly. I am usually a tolerable human being, we'll put it that way. But I had a large amount of food on my face, and was therefore socially hampered.
I also have this bad habit people nowadays euphemistically call "being busy all the time."
That basically means that to the rest of the neighborhood, I'm Boo Radley even if my siblings have their noses in everybody's back yard. (Which they sometimes do.) Most of my ventures either involve me staying inside the house for long periods of time, or being away for long periods of time, so when I come out everybody thinks that a new kid moved in.
Then they remember that the denizens have an older brother and try to ask me the usual questions.
"Who How are you?"
"What Grade are you in?"
"Where are you going to college next year?"
These are totally legitimate questions probably, and I wouldn't be averse to answering them usually.

But today, as I have mentioned, I had cornbread on my face, and a stuffed stomach that told me to go lie down and take a nap.
So while the friendly neighbor asked about life, I furiously attempted to clear food from my face without making it look like I was playing peek-a-boo. This involved surreptitious nodding in such a way that would hopefully dislodge crumbs from the edge of my nose, and slightly larger smiles than I usually give for the same reason.

It kind of worked, I mean he didn't give me any funny looks, or any funny looks that I noticed, but I was a little bit busy to notice funny looks in the first place, seeing as I was attempting to save my dignity and reputation. (Not that I really have much of either. I swapped them out for an extra finger once. I don't know what I did with that finger.)

I think I managed to somehow answer the questions and not look like a total idiot. I may have though. They don't teach you in school how to deal with that kind of situation. I bet if somebody wrote a book on what to do when you've gotten to a fancy dinner and realize you have spinach in your teeth and can't go somewhere to remove it, that guy would make a whole lot of money. Make it a little bit more universally applicable and he'd conquer the world.
Not that people would follow the advice, they'd just read the book and share it with their friends and realize that they'd just eaten horseradish and their friends were now looking at them like hypocrites. Oh well.

*    *    *

Awesome? Talk to me about it. And get ready for the next milestone story, something a little bit different:

The Banana Crime Lords.

The NET challenge: Ten Thousand Dollars, Twelve Short Stories, and Three Months

It's not often that you find yourself writing a story about a cult of evil bananas in order to try to bring people closer to God.

But that, ironically, may be just what I'm doing over the next three months, because I'm raising ten thousand dollars.

This coming school year, I've been invited to serve with NET Ministries.
After an intensive five week training program, NET sends 150 young adults in teams of 8-12 across the country to give retreats and share their faith with youth, offering them something better than what they might find in broken homes, unsupportive schools and peers, and cultural pessimism.
In a word, Evangelization. (A big word, but still just a word.) In case you don't know that word, it basically means to spread Christ's love, especially through actions and how you live. (In this context.)

I hate to wake up and hear somebody talking about how this kid just committed suicide, or that guy came into school with a gun. It stinks to live in a culture where we just seem to accept insane divorce rates, teenage depression, substance abuse, and twelve year olds addicted to drugs and pornography. 

I think you hate it too.

But if we don't have anything better to offer, we can't fix the problem at its root.

We do.

My name is Samuel Wong, and I'm going to go travel the country, sing, perform skits, carry furniture, subsist on parish charity(apparently something called "eggbake" is particularly common), and generally make a fool of myself to attack that problem. The problem of people not even knowing who Christ is, not realizing that someone really does love them. I want to share the good news. I want to share how God has worked in my own life.

And you can help.

NET asks us to raise five thousand dollars to cover the costs of lugging someone around the country for nine months. That's about a hundred retreats, and seven thousand young people reached- -by one single NET team.

Over seventy thousand young people are going to be able to experience a NET retreat this year, and you can help, with any kind of donation, be it money, sharing this with a friend, and especially, prayers.

We aren't just gonna leave it like that: we're gonna have some fun.
I pledge to you, the reader, that for every thousand dollars raised, I'll write an epic short story- if you need an example, check out Death of the Flies.
If you need another example, check out The Worst Decision.
If you need another example go donate so I can post more stories.

When we hit ten thousand dollars, I'll post an awesome semi-anthology thingy with all ten of those short stories, plus:
Two bonus stories by me.
Two bonus ones by guest authors.
Cool bonus artwork by the Unleavened Ministries' Olaf.

I think that we can totally do ten thousand dollars.
Don't just sit there. Click here to donate. (Takes just three quick steps!)

Then share this opportunity with someone else who cares. Because that's what it's about.

Thanks for your time,
Sam Wong

EDIT:

$1,000 Milestone! - Poorly Timed Snack. This is one of my typical stories, I eat food and it horribly backfires, (metaphorically in this case) and it's pretty much a true story.

$2,000 Milestone! - Banana Cartel. This is something a little bit different. I enjoy a whole lot of O. Henry and early twentieth century short stories, so I kind of messed around with something along the lines of that style, but different at the same time. Just a warning, very Deadpan.

$3,000 MILESTONE! -  Lost Frog WOW. More than half way there. This is truly awesome. This story, even it's name, is one of my freewriting projects/story I have wanted to tell for a while. I do have a tendency to get lost in ridiculous ways, and I did write this kind of without thinking. Freewriting is like that. Take a subject, write write write. It's not my best work, but it is a great example of what happens when I freewrite.

P.S. If you have any questions, feel free to leave a comment or contact me directly at my email, astoolamongchairs@gmail.com ( I read anything and everything you guys send!)

Vegetarians, I don't hate you.

For some reason half of the stories I write here turn into making jokes at the expense of the poor people who actually try to eat healthily. It's a complete accident, I promise.

It's not like I get up in the morning with a food hangover from the fried chicken sandwiches the day before and say: "Today, I'm going to make myself feel better by picking on people who make better choices than me."
Or if I do, it's the subconscious.

It gets to be troubling, because it isn't just stories, but also how I react to situations. I have in the past made fun of nice people who eat raw broccoli because it is healthy and probably damaged their reputations. There is unfortunately not much of a control unit between Mr. Brain and Mr. Boca.
(Boca means mouth in Spanish. I have a bad habit of populating my sentences with spanish frases, pero no puedes anything about it.)
Or Spanglish phrases at any rate. (Why does Spanglish sound like some disgusting pseudo-Italian dish?)

I've attempted to add some kind of dam in the thought-to-word flow, but my capitalistic brain decided to charge tolls.
Oh well. At least I have EZ-Pass.

That's a stupid analogy because they don't charge tolls on dams.
But don't give them any ideas.

It's especially a problem since I've frequented mostly homeschooler circles over the course of my young life, and (homeschooler fun fact for those of you who don't know much about us) about every third homeschooler you meet has some kind of weird hippie-food thing.
I just did it again. We'll rephrase that. Some kind of responsible I-will-take-care-of-my-body-thing. So they get natural peanut butter and don't eat dairy and all that stuff. Coolio. When people talk about how in depth their health regimes are, I just kind of stare and say stuff like:
"Well... I brush my teeth regularly..."
"I make sure to read the sides of the cereal boxes so I know what I'm eating..."
and the best:
"Yea, I exercised once. It was nice." (Awkward silence after this one.)

I think it's ironic, because culturally speaking, the stereotype is that girls and women are the ones who care about their health, and guys are just like,
"BACON!"

And it's unfortunately too true, but for some reason we of the male race seem to think that lifting weights for five minutes burns off all of the garbage we just imbibed for the previous six hours.
I assume it works kind of like burning random trash. The worst stuff just stays there amidst the ashes of everything else.
If that's true, my body is made up by about seventy percent of metaphorical melted plastic and clocks.

What, you don't set your clocks on fire?
You should.

Sometimes I legitimately try to follow the example of healthy people.

Sam reads a blog on burpees.
"I can do that." Sam thinks.
Sam does three burpees, cries, brain goes into a fuzz and he wakes up six hours later eating icecream out of a mixing bowl.

I do have an on-off relationship with exercise, but she hasn't been returning my calls.

Poetry+ Wrap Up for side projects+ plans for Freeflighting

On the Eating of Fudge:

I’d eat the fudge if I knew where it was-

But I don’t. So I won’t. 

-Me
(^This is an amazing poem I wrote once, by the way. Now you know what homeschoolers really spend their time doing.)



Hey all. That was an odd sort of in between. I did some fun stuff, wrote some odd stuff, wrote some really odd stuff. All good. I did put a lot of effort into Of Livestock. (And Mercenaries), probably more than it deserved, being a silly story that took a rather psychological twist in the second half. Not the best way of telling a story, surprising a reader like that. Oh well. Gotta just start writing somewhere, as they say on Writing Excuses.
Plus that means I probably won't do that kind of thing again.

Probably.

But on to the future.
Freeflighting will be returning soonish. I have sixish chapters of the second draft written, which means that once I hit ten I'll start on draft three, which will be published for all the world to see. It's gotten a lot different. A lot better in my opinion. (This whole system of doing it seems so confusing if you aren't in my head. I apologize.)
I'll be juggling format and stuff, moving things around, so don't be concerned if half of the posts disappear over the course of the next month or so. You might get some cool short stories, but all depends on if I can find the time. After school is over, I promise to get at least two funny stories out....

And there will be some extra special things going on this coming year. What kind of things?

More on that quite soon.

But not yet.


(Cue Evil Laughter.)

-Sam

Of Livestock. (And Mercenaries) Part Two of Two

Author's Note: This is part 2. Part one is unfortunately rather different in tempo and dynamic, so I won't blame you too much if you skip it. I'll still be kind of angry.
Read it first here.

Of Livestock. (And Mercenaries)

Part Two of Two

Of Priests and New Horizons.

Father Gregory seemed not fazed in the slightest when three wanted criminals burst in the door (the largest one dressed in nothing but bright red woolen long-underwear) and all three almost crashing into the high ladder upon which he perched, attempting to clean a window.

"Arnold!" said he. "I'm glad to see you again."

Gem made a strangled noise of disbelief at the introduction.

Dobs ignored him.
Dobs was not surprised that Father Gregory had recognized him after fifteen years of avoiding the place. The man's memory had been legendary. When Bobby Doughy had erased every single e-file of the school's demerits, Father Gregory had accurately reconstructed the entire thing from memory. 
The priest shimmied down from the ladder with a dexterity that no slightly round sixty-five year old should be allowed to have, and surveyed his delinquents.
The husky mercenary tried to catch his breath. Man, was he out of shape. He hadn't been chased by a horde of law enforcement officers in years. He drew in a huge breath and was rewarded with a big whiff of unscented ammonia. Father Gregory looked apologetic and closed the cap on his window cleaner bottle as Dobs gagged and coughed. 
"Could we borrow your Lower Subway passkey?" Dobs asked in his meekest voice upon recovery.
“Whatever for?” replied the priest innocently.
Gem opened his mouth to tell a great big whopping fib.
Dobs elbowed him in the ribs cheerily.
“We blew something up and need to get out of town.”
“Well. Let's start," Father Gregory said, "by getting you some clothes."

He dabbed at a spot on the window, and disappeared into the back of the church. Dobs wasn't sure they should follow or wait for him to come back.
"Your name is Arnold? I always thought you were a 'Butch' or 'Igor' said Gem unnecessarily and unhelpfully.

Dobs ignored him again. He seemed to do that a lot nowadays.
The Cathedral was the same as it had always been- he wasn't sure how Father Gregory had managed to keep the many stained glass windows from breaking over the years, or the statues from chipping and the paint wearing away. Somehow the diminutive man had maintained the place as caretaker for probably twenty years.
Dobs was suspicious that Galaxial had only chosen not to shut the place down -along with the rest of the various religious centers in the area- because of the high population of Catholics who would have gotten too riotous. Instead, they'd cut any funding and aid, and made sure that just one guy was assigned to taking care of the place, so it would die on the vine.
It hadn't yet.
Dobs figured as long as Father Gregory lived, it would stay that way, and when he finally worked himself to death, his ghost would keep the place tidy, providing God let him stay around.
Father Gregory resurfaced with a giant Christmas sweater and a pair of jeans. He smiled cheerily.
"Second, we sit down and have a nice cup of tea."
"I'mprettysurethatwedon'thavetimeforthatuhsir," broke in Gem uncomfortably.
"Nonsense! This is the last place that the authorities would think of looking for a couple of depraved lunatic vandals."
He seems to know a lot of the situation. Does he get real time news streamed to his com? thought Dobs.
Dobs again tried to seize the conversation. "They've been trying to find a way to shut this place down for years. This is the first place they would look."
Father Gregory thought for a moment. "Second."
"One and a half?" hazarded Gem.
"Can we just please get going?"
The priest sighed. "Put these on and follow me." He turned to the wall, casually opened a door that Dobs hadn't noticed, and trotted down a flight of suspicious looking stairs. The twins glanced at Dobs.
He started donning the jeans.

Fifteen, twenty, a hundred steps into the semi darkness, intermittently lit with protesting LEDs. Even as they rounded the bend at a hundred and fifty steps, Dobs still caught vague smells of septic, though he was sure that they had gone deeper than even the most embedded sewer.
"One seventy three," murmured Gem as they reached a door. It was as round as a manhole, fabricated from solid platewall, and firmly anchored into the bedrock around it. This was the entrance into the Lower Subway, locked away from the general populace. Galaxial had pulled off the incredible feat of making the doors completely inaccessible to anyone without a passkey, then followed it up with the blunder of giving passkeys to every single government employee.
The only thing even more remarkable was the fact that a single rule had pervaded the Lower Subway: Down there, you never got into any kind of trouble. It was the best way to get in and out of anywhere, provided you knew what you were doing, and no one wanted to lose that privilege. Gem claimed that Galaxial helped by leaking a passivity gas into the ventilation ducts, but Dobs had always dismissed the rumor.
Galaxial let the criminal elements stay around, and the criminals avoided directly messing with important parts of the government.
Or at least the more vengeful parts of Galaxial.
Usually.
Father Gregory casually swiped his passkey through the code locker, and the door slid open silently. On the other side, the lighting was a little bit better, but it smelled badly of motor oil and rust. The trio began to carefully make their way down.
Dobs felt Father Gregory's hand on his shoulder.
"Go on ahead," he said to the twins quietly. "I'll catch up in a minute."
Gem nodded and they vanished around a twist in the tunnel.
"Arnold, why now?" asked Father Gregory.
Dobs stared down the tunnel.
"I've been meaning to come back... for a while. It was my fault, everything was, to be honest. I guess I just didn't want to accept it. Why... why are you even helping?"
Father Gregory turned a laugh into a cough.
"Because I am a Father too, you know. Everyone calls me that, at least."
Something about the wording in that statement made a chill run up Dobs' spine.
"Do you know-"
"Just because you never came back doesn't mean that she never visited."
"So you do know."
"I hear things. I try to help out as I can."
Dobs took off down the tunnel, teeth clenched.
"Thanks," he called back over his shoulder.


Dobs caught up with the other two. They were about halfway down the tunnel, and the hewn rock slowly gave way to modern platewall and lighting fixtures.
They traveled the way down in silence.
Dobs had only been in the Lower Subway twice. He remained as unimpressed as before.
It was shabby, dirty, and unsafe.
The platform was so wide and ancient that Dobs felt crumbling concrete grind beneath his boots, instead of modern plateflooring, and the trains came through and completely random intervals. Galaxial may have appropriated it and restricted personnel at the entrances, but other than that, it still seemed to be one of those few things left over from a time before the Galaxial Union. Gem carefully stepped around a blackened chunk of the floor and over to a waiting bench.
Some kind soul had once placed them there so that the commuters would not have to stand while waiting for a ride out of the city. No kind soul, however, had kept them in good shape, and Gem fell through the rotten wood with an awkward thud.
Dobs ignored his complaints and slowly walked right up to the edge of the waiting platform. Lighting was poor, but good enough that he could make out the dusty words on the board nailed to the wall. After several minutes of trying to decipher the next time a train would come through, Dobs gave up and thwacked the board, which cheerily broke into a thousand pieces. Gem came up behind him, tenderly rubbing his injured behind.
"You broke it."
"So did you."
"Deserved it."
A train slid up silently beside them. The first sign something was wrong. Trains in the lower subway screeched like ninth grade girls at their celebrity crush concerts. Dobs turned and faced several armored men carrying what looked suspiciously like dangerous and illegal weaponry.

"You will come with us," one pleasantly informed them.
 Another jerked a finger towards the train. He didn't remove his other hand from the weapon.
As soon as he stepped into the train, Dobs lost consciousness.

They hadn't been separated. That was good. He tried to stand up. He could. He wasn't restrained in any way. That was good. The room was fairly nice. It had a large fireplace in one wall, several comfortable chairs, one of which he had been sitting in, and a large painting of St. Francis with a throng of animals.
Something rankled him about that picture.
Gem started, hopping up out of his chair and orienting himself. Beside him, Gemma began to do the same.
"Well," said Gem. "Kinda thought Galaxial would have waited till we were in the Asteroid Fields before letting us wake up."
That picture. Suddenly half of the puzzle fitted into place.
"They would have." Dobs replied quietly. "Galaxial didn't get us."
A door beside the fireplace slid open and a tall man in a white business suit and a black crew cut entered. Embroidered neatly in red over his shirt pocket were the letters E and S.
"Arnold Dobson, Gemini Petras, and Gemma Petras," he said briskly.
"The Committee of Ethically-minded Sentients will now see you.  Do not waste my time."
"What does E.S. want? We satisfied their goals." Dobs said.
In reply, the man merely gestured towards the door.
Oh well. Dobs thought. Why not confront the Committee?

The hallway was long, low, and smelled of wax.
They reached the Committee room.
They entered. Fifteen seats were situated around the outside in a U shape, five on each side. The inhabitants of each chair made no noise, simply staring at the trio. Dobs walked into the middle of the room, and instantly regretted it, since he could face no more than one row at a time. Gem and Gemma followed. Gem tried burning holes into the Committee's souls with his eyes, but unfortunately did not have superpowers.
"Well?" said Dobs. He was tired. It had been a long day, and he was about ready to just let it all out. He was getting tired of the games. That's what they were. Games. Games between Galaxial and the E.S.
The doors closed softly behind them.
A man at the corner of the table directly in front of Dobs coughed nasally. "You left something at the scene. Something incriminating."
The worksuit.
He could have cursed himself for being so clumsy. The glue glove had taken all of his tools, his com, and the suit. There was enough evidence in that to incriminate everyone to his third cousins. And with that realization came another one.
 He really did stink. He just wasn't up to this kind of work anymore.
"We, through a few contacts within Galaxial, managed to disable use of the evidence," continued the nasal man.
Probably had been cleverly tossed into an incinerator.
"While your objective was completed, the inefficiency will be counted against your record, not to mention that reptiles were released rather than the projected animals. We do not expect to require your services again for field engagements."
"Is that everything?" asked Gemma quickly, before Gem or Dobs could screw the situation up further.
"Yes. You are dismissed."
And they dismissed themselves. Back down the hallway, and into another room. The crew cut guard informed them that they would be notified shortly about transportation. Sure, why not.
The security guard left and Dobs sank down into his chair with a sigh. E.S. had been annoyed enough to make it clear they wouldn't get any more work in that sector. And with them out of the picture, there wasn't really any group that had massed enough capital and enemies to require his line of work. Plainly put, he was out of a job. 

Gem had clammed up and sulked after the ultimatum, but suddenly started violently.
"Your name is Arnold?"
"It means, 'strong as an eagle.'"
"Arnold."
"Gemini."
Silence.
"Arnold."
That wasn't Gem's voice.
"Father Gregory?" said Dobs with a small amount of incredulity. A few days before, perhaps he would have been shocked, but now he just didn't have the energy to be surprised.
The priest appeared in the entryway and joined them with all the energy of a trebuchet and all the speed of a snail. He dropped one of his smiles. Dobs just sighed. He might have guessed that the E.S. was full of Catholics. The picture on the wall in the other room, their whole social justice claims, how the disagreed with Galaxial on anything and everything. That, and that Father Gregory was openly wearing his cassock.
They were setting themselves up to take down Galaxial, one way or another. E.S. was a front for a religious confrontation with the government.
"What do you want?"
"Your soul. As usual in my line of work."
"Is that this?" asked Dobs sarcastically waving an arm around at the room. "Some kind of chaplain for an activist group that thinks it's a rebellion?"
"I actually am not religiously affiliated with the E.S. I do a little bit of financial work for them on the side. It is nice that they're at the heart a religious institution, though most people pretend to ignore it. In the mission statement and everything."
"Financial work," said Gem in a voice so flat you couldn't see it if it turned sideways.
"Budgeting, waste reduction, that kind of thing. I spent some time in the business world before seminary."
"Is it the financial world or the religious one you want my soul for?"
"A question quite worthy of an answer. I know as well as you do that you need a fresh start."
A fresh start.
 After she had died and Galaxial had taken over, something in him had just... left. He was no longer emotionally invested or completely lucid on a job. It was his own lack of enthusiasm and interest that had put him off guard, gotten Gem all nervous, and gotten them caught in the whole stupid business in the first place.
The idea just sort of sauntered in and smacked Dobs upside the head.
He hadn't really thought about it, but it was entirely possible that he was going through a midlife crisis. And after today, he didn't know if he would ever have the energy to go do that kind of thing again.
"Continue," said Dobs quietly, after a pause.
"Every summer since you were seven or eight, you would go out into the country and work on that farm for a month and a half with your cousins, correct?"
"Yes... where are you going with this?"
"A fresh start. The E.S. has a prodigious amount of land out of the urban centers. That is where their power really lies, not in the cities like Galaxial. They have plenty of room to do what they want, and people pay a premium for humanely and organically raised food.
You have plenty of experience working with this kind of thing. The pay would be enough to satisfy your needs, you'd be out of the way from any unpleasant colleagues, and you get to do something that probably won't get you killed or indefinitely incarcerated in the next two years."
Thoughts spun in Dobs' head. What was the cost? What was the catch?
He asked.
"The cost is you stop running and start caring for your family. Room and board on location is included in the job description, and there's enough for both of you."
Dobs opened his mouth and closed it again.
"Yes, your wife has passed, but you have a daughter. You spend all of your time avoiding the present because of painful memories, but you don't have that luxury. What are you doing here? Why aren't you spending time with her? A part of you understands that there's a problem, otherwise you would have never come back to me."
Father Gregory sighed, and then turned to leave. He half looked back over his shoulder with a glance at the twins. "You two," he said, "I can also keep out of trouble. Drop me a line if you want."
He tossed three small plastic business cards into Dobs' lap and left.
"It's past time to grow up, Arnold."

Brian Pearson rubbed his substantial stomach section. Those peppers the night before had definitely been a little bit more... expired than he'd believed at the time. Maybe he'd drink some seltzer water when he had a chance to get away from the front desk.
Real estate was a pain in the foot, ears, and everything in between. But as long as people continued to be willing to rent out those crummy apartments, he'd still be in business.
He finished up some paperwork regarding the eviction of one of his earlier tenants. It'd been a bit of a dicey situation, that one, but it had worked out as well as could be hoped.
The bell on the office door tinkled as the husky tenant at 17 entered. "Pearson," he announced. "I'm having a change in employment, and so must regretfully inform you that I will be vacating at the end of the month."
Pearson sighed and rubbed his stomach again. "Third one this week," he murmured to himself sadly. He'd have to start fixing the air conditioning units maybe. "Where are you headed, if I may ask?" he said to the man. (What was his name again?)
"Out west. I'm going to be working with livestock. Seems like a pretty good gig."

So I'm a bad person.

I have, in the past month or so, gone through the worst period of writing block that I've had in a long time. It's awful. I think part of the problem was that I actually wanted to finish one writing project (Of Livestock and Mercenaries) before hopping into a new one. I just can't seem to write under that kind of rule, which stinks, because if I only write what I feel like, you readers will get a bunch of half finished stories and no closure. On a side note, my pleasure reading has also not been at it's all time high, and reading is part of what makes me want to write. It's a lot easier to get in a writing mood after having read an exciting adventure story than it is after having read Federalists and AntiFederalists. (Which I will one day burn in effigy. Seriously, it may have governmental value, but just the way they write is so... yea.)

Because of this, I've decided to force myself to finish up Of Livestock and Mercenaries. I've read a few psychological type articles that say you can get galvanized into finishing something by creating a risk or a theoretical punishment. (E.G. Nicholas finishes the latest draft of Nicholas Thornton’s Treatise on every conceivable way to set a table when one is serving fish, because his uncle threatens to throw him out of the house at the end of the month if he doesn't see a book deal or an unrelated job.)

I'm not sure if that's a good idea. So we will scientifically try it out. Yay! Science! I will have the final draft for Of Livestock and Mercenaries live on this site at the end of the month or else, um... not sure... what do I really not like? Oh, I know. I'll post all two chapters of Serving Fish, a terrible story I wrote a long time ago. And I won't explain it, so that everyone who reads that story when they first unwittingly fall into this site will receive a bad impression of me and never return.

Sound fair?

This is a Shout-out.

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014, hundreds of thousands of people every age, size, race, religion, and worldview, witnessed to the belief that the human person is endowed with rights and equality from the moment of fertilization to natural death. 

I wanted to be there. Snow got in the way. A lot of snow. :( 

So I figured I'd do a double shout-out instead(not quite as impressive, but hey.) First, a shout-out to the March for Life. (As it is called.) 

Surprisingly or unsurprisingly, mainstream media coverage is pretty much nonexistent. Pro-life activism, despite the amount of support and people who have endorsed it, still seems to be considered a fringe right-wing activity. 

Oh well. 

I don't want to get into slamming, whether it is warranted or not, because one of the most problematic part of this to me is the fact that in the pro-life movement, there are hundreds of resources for people considering abortion, as well as post-abortive healing for both women and men.

That means that it's just that much harder to show people that there are other options, and people and organizations dedicated to helping them when they are in a bind of that sort. And that can be isolating. 

I'm not going to get into arguments about abortion here. I won't say that I never will, but this specific post isn't about that. I will say that if there is a choice about something, why are the majority of non-abortion options obscured? 

The March for Life is one of many ways people are saying "Hey look. This is a problem. We need to talk." 

Right now, not many seem to be listening. A lot of people don't even know. Perhaps this rally is news to you, and you're interested in the pro-life movement. Maybe you'll consider joining us next year, if need be. (And yes, we have a west coast one if you are closer to that side of the country.)

The other shout-out is in a similar vein. Check out this awesome pro-life picture by Olaf Tollefsen in Arabic Calligraphy. I've mentioned a few times that Olaf has been the awesome person behind the quirky and funny illustrations on some of the stories, and Unleavened Ministries is where he and a few other cool people put their talents to good use. 

I've tried to help some by writing, he by writing and drawing, and many people by simply marching. You don't need to be any special kind of person to be pro-life. Helping a cause can mean putting your particular talents to use.

How can you help those around you?

Of Livestock. (And Mercenaries)

Of Livestock. (And Mercenaries)

Part One of Two

Of Explosives and Used Cars

"This is not going to work."

"You mean the donkeys or the gunpowder?"

"I mean both. There is no way that we can pull this off. It'd be pretty bad if we mess up. We'd have to leave the Galaxial Union and hightail it to the asteroid fields, and that's assuming that the cops are the only ones who find out it was us behind it."

Dobs glanced around warily. While Gem tended to think things out long-term like being exiled to the Asteroid Colonies, he would forget about what was going on right now. Which, incidentally, was that they were standing in front of a giant pile of gunpowder flakes, about to blow a hole in the wall of an official Galaxial livestock food development facility.

It made him jumpy. He was being jumpy right now.

Dobs carefully placed his drill against the wall, according to the diagram, ignoring Gem's jumpiness.

The facility loomed over them, and over much of the city. The donkeys could be kept anywhere in such a monster of a building, but fortunately, Gem had managed to snag a copy of the layout. 

And someone had placed a livestock pen right up against the outer wall.

They crouched at the end of the narrow alleyway, its sole inhabitants. The featureless grey platewall lining either side of the alley did pose a bit of a problem. The sound of the explosion might reverberate across the metallic walls back to the road. 
Couldn't be helped though. At least there weren't many passers-by at five in the morning.

Seriously, this is the twenty-fifth century. Why don't we have some kind of silencing bubble or something. On second thought, we probably do, and Galaxial just doesn't want anyone to be able to use it. 

"And if we nail one of those donkeys by accident, E.S. will have our heads, which is even worse." Gem added.

"We don't have much of a choice. Let's hope that this works out somewhat O.K."

Dobs carefully finished drilling another hole in the platewall.

Gem started nervously again, glancing around. Times were tight, and trained mercenaries took whatever jobs they could, especially since the non-violence crackdown of '78. Even if it was working for the E.S. Gem probably thought that E.S. jobs were more dangerous than any pre-peace era assignments had ever been.

At least E.S. jobs paid well.

Dobs completed the pattern of holes. According to the diagram, this would weaken the platewall enough to blow a sizable chunk, but not enough to turn any donkeys into Thanksgiving dinner. He wasn't a hundred percent sure. The hefty mercenary sighed. He remembered the times when you could pick up some plastic explosive or super-acid to get a predictable result. Now they were reduced to using cannibalized toy noisemakers.

It had taken a lot of covert purchasing of pop rocks to get this much gunpowder.

That clerk at the fireworks store definitely didn't believe the story about a surprise birthday party for the niece.

Gem seemed intent on making himself as unnoticeable as possible, though Dobs couldn't fathom why. There was no reason anyone would come down the alley. It was just one of those many pointless dead-end roads that bureaucrats had subsidized into existence.

 Dobs wiped a single bead of sweat from his forehead. The only thing worse than having to use gunpowder cannibalized from noisemakers was the "borrowed" maintenance man jumpsuit he had forced himself into. Once-size-fits-all doesn't work on both a broad six foot four frame and a skinny four foot six frame, no matter how many times the manufacturers guaranteed the "patented elasticity."  They had opted for being able to suit up the shorter guys.

He had already burst three stitches, and had no idea what held the rest of the stupid get-up together.

Dobs scraped away the rough metal filings.

"Done," he said. Looks like supply in the donkey steak market is gonna take a serious cut. 

Gem shot out of the alley like a cannonball as soon as he heard Dobs' announcement- or would have if the bigger mercenary hadn't grabbed the back of his collar and stopped him. Fortunately, Gem didn't fit into his suit as badly, and the fabric held firm despite his legs pounding rapidly in one direction, and Dobs firmly anchoring him the in other.

"Don't lose it!" Dobs whispered fiercely. "Anybody seeing you bolt outta here 'll know somethin's up real quick. Focus!"

Gem had been like that for months now. Something had completely broken his cool under stress. It hadn't had any serious effects yet on the jobs-like getting them killed- but it was getting worse and worse. At least he did always snap out of it.

His partner shook himself once, and began to breath normally again. His heartbeat probably went from jackrabbit to near-normal human.

Dobs released his hold on Gem, and pulled out the matchbox, just the faintest sour aroma of sulfur escaping into the air.

Both slowly moved about halfway down the alley. They came to a stop where the fuse ended. It was just a faint trail of gunpowder leading up to the big pile.

Dobs remembered when he had been able to input a voice pattern into his com and release a series of flares to ignite an explosion. A powder fuse seemed so crude in comparison.

But you took what you could get.

"Gem," he said quietly. "Send the Panic."

"The Donkey Whistle?"

Dobs sighed. The guy was so intent on using his own terminology.

"Yes. The Donkey Whistle."

Gem pulled out his com and tapped in the sequence. You couldn't trigger explosives anymore, not with Galaxial proxies in place.

But you could still play a ringtone.

And if you knew the right sound engineers, you could synthesize something that would be undetectable by human ears.

And very, very, annoying to certain animals.

One of the holes that Dobs had drilled into the wall went all the way through to the enclosure on the other side. While the others were angled to affect the stability of the wall, that one was just to let their soundwave in.

Gem played the ringtone.

Faint sounds of distressed animals quickly echoed back towards them. It didn't seem exactly what Dobs had expected an annoyed donkey to sound like, but he had honestly not spent all that much time around animals.

Dobs lit the fuse.

Flames sputtered and hissed, dancing through the trail of powder towards the pile right next to the platewall.

Both men backed away and ducked behind a trash can, a safe distance from the blast.

Or what would have been a safe distance, a lifetime ago when explosives had been predictable.

The roar was unexpected.

The huge jet of flame was unexpected.

The torrent of metal chunks flying towards them was quite unexpected.

Dobs dove, bringing Gem to the ground.

They put stuff with this kind of power into party noisemakers?!

He stared in disbelief. A massive hole, ten feet across gaped where the wall had been. Dense smoke obscured the inside of the building. Everything smelled of molten metal and burned... something. Almost like an aquarium for some odd reason.

"Gem. Gem," he whispered urgently, shaking his friend. "You OK?"

Gem bobbed his head. A couple of cuts oozed. It looked nasty, but they had both gone through worse. He'd survive.

 Gem grinned feebly. "Good to go."

First aid was second priority right now.

"Time for part two."

Part two was the other ringtone. Dobs wasn't exactly sure what that one did. Either the donkeys would get really, really angry, or decide that the mercenaries were their pals, but the end result was the same. They would stampede back towards the mercenaries, and into freedom.

Well, freedom of an ES type.

It was better than the alternative at least. The ES didn't believe in donkey-loaf. They didn't actually eat donkeys at all.

"Dobs. Problem."

The big mercenary tore his eyes from the aftermath of the blast and glanced at Gem's problem. The com had been smashed in two by the combined weight of the two grown men dog-piling it. Wasn't going to play anymore tunes for a while.

"At least I backed up all the data onto the cloud. Knew I shoulda invested in the protective sleeve."

"Focus Gem. We still got plan C."

"Oh yes. Plan C. This is gonna be... fun."

Fun. Dobs shook his head ruefully.

Gem carefully drew three small plastic tubes out of his jacket. One was cracked, but fortunately the orange powder hadn't leaked out. "Now was it green and orange, or the blue and orange?"

"We don't have time Gem."

Gem made an executive decision, and smashed all three on the ground together. The resulting flare easily eclipsed the first. Fortunately, it was just light. Not heat and shockwaves of death blowing them to bits.

"Gem."

"Yeah?"

"Next time, we have time."

"Gotcha."

The smoke began to clear, and Dobs peered into the hole. Something moved inside.

"That is not a donkey."

The creatures that began to crawl into the open were small, round, and green.

The first one blinked a couple of times against the smoke, and noticed the duo.

The tortoise made a coughing sound, and began waddling towards them, quickly followed by its brethren. Some of the others were considerably larger.

"Somebody put the reptiles in the mammal section." Gem muttered.

"Turtles work. We just needed some kind of animal, right?"

"I don't remember. You're the one who pays attention at the debriefings. And those are tortoises, for the record."

"I don't care if they're kangaroos Gem."

Dobs began to back away slowly. They had just combined several chemicals that released a smell donkeys would chase after like carrots on sticks.

Apparently, tortoises liked that smell even better.

And the chemical now completely saturated their clothes.

"Time to go."

From the entry to the alleyway the two darted forth, followed by the cavalcade of rampaging tortoises, even as delayed alarms began to wail.

"This way!"

Fortunately, Dobs' com was still working, and he had the GPS route running. It was a winding and elongated trek through various circular streets and dead ends, but that was the city's fault. They just couldn't build straight roads. Politics.

Helicopters began to circle overhead, and something cold touched Dobs' back. He knew that feeling well. Glue gloves, called so for their hand-like shapes, had been implemented as a response to the violence crackdown. They had no harmful side effects, technically. They just stuck to you for several hours and rapidly sucked in compressed air until they effectively anchored you to the ground with the weight. Law enforcement liked the fact that they were compact enough that you could toss them from anywhere.

When you managed to blow something very important up, they would just try to immobilize everybody nearby for interrogation, so they hadn't necessarily blown their cover yet.

Fortunately, when they hit clothing instead of skin, you could twist really quickly...

With a snapping noise, the weight of the glove disappeared, and Dobs didn't stop to look around. Feeling free already, he doubled his pace. Gem had either avoided getting hit, or covered his suit in cooking spray beforehand, as he often claimed that it was an effective method of circumventing gloves. Dobs would have to grill him on that later.

Dobs pulled his flare-gun out of its holster. Or what would have been a flare-gun, a long time ago. This was a glorified flashlight.

Flare-guns wouldn't be that difficult to scrap together, but the comparative fifty years incarceration wasn't worth the trouble if you got caught. Just like a lot of stuff. That, and how most homemade ones blew up in your face.

Dobs clicked the flashlight on and off at the sky a few times.

Should work.

"Let's hope your sister hasn't gotten fed up with you and left for good this time," he muttered back to Gem.

The smaller mercenary just humphed and sprinted ahead.

Who knew tortoises could run so fast?

Lungs heaving and hearts pounding, the two made another left... left... right.... straight for a few blocks-

Dobs skittered to a stop fifteen feet away from creaming himself against a cargo van.

The thing was old. Old enough that it consisted of rusted steel and duct tape instead of platewall and still ran on some derivative of gasoline.

It was also their ultimate getaway vehicle.

Gem scooted past him and flung open the side door. Or he would have, except that one of the few extra bits that still worked on the van was the power door. So he just pulled on the handle and waited for it to work. He hopped up and down a bit as it groaned and slid open. As soon as the entrance was wide enough for him, Gem jumped inside.

"C'mon Dobs, we gotta go!"

Dobs hesitated for just a second as he glanced at the person sitting in the driver's seat. Then he glanced back behind him and remembered where he was.

Dobs jumped in the back seat also and started shutting the door. The driver didn't care to wait for it to shut. As soon as Dobs was inside the vehicle, it lurched forward with a sickly groan. The alarm for "door ajar began to whine."

"Don't worry." Gem assured him. "Takes a bit to get going, but once you're up to speed, we're home free."

"Yea," muttered Dobs.

"Also, I call shotgun." Gem casually crawled into the front seat, banging his head against the glovebox as they went over a bump.

Gem adjusted himself, unfazed, and turned towards the driver. "Thanks sis."

"You idiots," she snapped back. "Thought that it was donkeys this time?"

"It was supposed to be, but-"

"You can't tell the difference between a donkey and a tortoise?"

"Gemma, that's not-"

"Know what Gemini? Just shut it. I don't even want to know."

The engine coughed and spluttered in agreement.

Gem clammed up and sulked. He did that when you called him by his full name.

"Dobs," said Gemma presently. "Why are ya in your long-johns?"

Dobs looked down, and saw that he indeed was wearing nothing over the long wool underwear he had put on that morning... So that was what that ripping sound had been. In the heat of the moment, he had completely missed that the glue glove had kept the jumpsuit, even if it had lost the Dobs.

Dobs muttered vulgar idioms under his breath.

"What did you just say, in my car?"

"'Said 'Good riddance, that suit was crushin' the life outta me anyway."

"Vehicle Glue Glove," Gem added thoughtfully.

The mentioned object anchored itself to the car, and with a horrible sucking noise, began dragging them to a halt.

Dobs winced as the van seemed to sink into the ground from the rapidly increasing weight. Gemma managed to turn one corner into a side road before the motor sputtered one last time and the back tires popped.

"How dare they," she muttered, staring at the sky darkly. "This is an antique!"

"Come on sis," said Gem, popping out his side of the door after quickly looking up to make sure no more glue gloves were headed in their direction.

The power doors were now completely shot, so Dobs had to scramble through the driver side after Gemma had exited.

Gem surveyed the damage. Even a Vehicle Glue Glove wouldn't have been able to get heavy enough to crush a modern platestrut framed vehicle, but the van was not a modern platestrut framed vehicle. The entire rear was nearly flattened, both wheels squashed, and the whole thing much too heavy for the ancient engine to haul two feet.

"Was fun while it lasted," Gem sighed.

"I don't even have an insurance policy that covers that," fumed Gemma.

"We're still on the run, remember?"

"Oh yes. Pardon me, I forgot. A plan, Dobs?"

"Well, no, not really-"

Dobs cut himself off as he noticed the street sign. No way. 

But it was the same street.

Is it even still there?

"One shot. A long shot."

Helicopters hummed ominously overhead.

"We'll take it."

A left, straight for a block... he remembered despite a fifteen year absence. That kind of thing happened when you walked somewhere every day for a decade.

It's still there. And the lights are on. He always did get up early to polish everything up. He’s still here.

"In there," Dobs said, almost whispering.

"That," said Gem flatly, "is a church."

"A Cathedral actually."

“You gone religious in your old age?"

"An old friend."

"You were friends with God once?"

"Ack. Not what I was trying to say. I have an old friend in there, probably." Dobs grunted and started opening the door. It was locked. Side entrance, on the left. Forgot about that. 

Moving across the steps, Dobs grasped the handle of the smaller door that he had always used before. The hinges squeaked with rust that hadn't been there fifteen years ago, but it still opened.

"Don't they bring like, the inquisition down on you if you go inside without asking?" Gem was still avoiding the door.

Dobs sighed. "Just trust me."

Gem opened his mouth again, but a glue glove landed next to his shoe, and he darted into the building. Gemma moved up against the building and away from the open street, raising an eyebrow at Dobs.

He ignored the unspoken question and walked inside. She followed cautiously. 

Dobs wrinkled his forehead as he entered. It even smelled the same.

He probably won’t kick us back onto the street.

Probably.

End of Part One

Read part two!