tilly with the others: on hiatus this week

Since Tuesday Serial falls on Christmas Day this week, I'm putting Tilly with the Others on pause. Episodes will resume next week. I'm not much into Christmas myself, but since most people in the English-speaking world are, it doesn't make sense to post today.

If you are celebrating Christmas today, have a happy one.

fridayflash glow

"Do you know.... I think this is the first time I've ever seen a sunset that wasn't behind a pane of glass, or projected on a screen."

Jack turned sharply and tensed up, then wished he hadn't, because Pamela lifted her head from his shoulder and mouthed "sorry" at him.

"I'm the one who should be sorry," he said. "I keep forgetting you're not from the culture."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jack could hear the edge in Pamela's voice.

"Nothing against you or your parents," said Jack. "All I mean is, your parents love you and tried to take care of you, and I know they did a good job, because you're wonderful," adding the last part because Pamela's frown had deepened at the word "tried", "but... you know, because they were trying to work from empathy instead of direct experience... I just get surprised when you mention they overcompensated, played it a little too safe sometimes."

"How did your parents avoid overcompensating?" said Pamela.

Jack shrugged. "It's one of those weird situations where being the same way as your kids.... when you're like this, I mean.... winds up being a place of privilege. We stayed at that campground for people like us all summer. I saw sunsets sitting by the lake every evening when I was on summer vacation." He kissed her on the forehead, since he could see she had almost forgiven him, but not quite. "Come on, I don't want to spoil your first one. Let's have a cuddle, and you watch, but then we have to go as soon as the light starts to really fade because, unfortunately, this isn't that campground."

Pamela rested her head on his shoulder again and snuggled into him. He gave her a kiss on the top of the head and leaned his head on hers, brushing his arm lightly with his thumb. Even in the time it had taken for them to clear the air the sky had become a little more pink.

They watched the sun set, neither of them saying anything. Every once in a while Jack would hold his free hand up, glance down at it, and then let it lower again. After several repetitions of this, Pamela caught his hand and kissed the palm. Jack returned the kiss to her mouth, and they cuddled and kissed, eyes closed, oblivious to the world.

Pamela broke off first. "Jack, the sky..."

Jack kissed her forehead. "I know. Stay calm, but let's go now."

They pulled each other up and headed back towards the EV, holding hands. Somewhere in the forest that stood beyond the beach a branch snapped, and Jack gripped Pamela's hand in reassurance. Pamela broke into a light jog, and Jack did the same.

They were within sight of the EV, maybe four hundred metres away, when they heard the first shouts.

"Rads! Someone get a rifle! RADS!"

Jack broke into a run, Pamela trying to keep up but getting half-dragged along.

Their night vision was poorer than that of regular humans, but they could make out shadows now, converging on them and Jack's EV. The shouting all seemed to be voiced by young men.

They reached the EV, and Jack unlocked the doors with his remote. He and Pamela got in. Jack slammed his door shut, but someone outside caught Pamela's door and tried to force it open while she hung on to the inside handle, pulling it towards closed with all her weight and strength.

"Make sure you're completely inside!" said Jack, and pushed a button on the dashboard. There was a sizzling sound, some of the shouts outside changed to cries of pain, and Pamela was able to yank the door completely shut.

"What did you do?" she said.

"Electrified the skin," said Jack, getting the EV started and pulling on his seatbelt. "It drains the battery a lot, and it doesn't last, but it helps sometimes. Get your seatbelt on."

"But won't they give up now that we're in here?"

Jack adjusted the windshield viewer to compensate for his night vision. "When I was ten, my parents let my sister go on an overnight trip with the parents of one of her friends. People freaked out when they saw her at night, rolled the EV before they could get away, and smashed it open with baseball bats."

"Jack, that's horrible. I never knew you had a sister."

Jack grunted. "She died. Everyone in that EV was beaten to death. Now hang on." He floored the accelerator and headed straight for the exit to the highway, even though that's where most of the men had congregated after they had got in the EV.

The men stood their ground until it was clear Jack wasn't going to swerve, then jumped out of the way. Jack cut off another driver on the highway rather than slow down and wait for an opening in traffic. The other driver honked his horn and passed them, shouting something about Rads out the window as he zoomed by.

"You're a good driver," Pamela said, feeling dazed. She shook her head to clear it, tried to look out the window, but only saw her own luminescent reflection. Her and Jack's kind didn't usually go out at night. Their glowing skin made them targets for those who still believed those with the mutation were radioactive, like old-fashioned glowing watch faces.

"We'll be home in fifteen minutes," Jack said.

Pamela settled against the headrest. "I'm sorry, Jack. I thought it would be a nice, simple thing to do together."

"It was. Don't let the ending spoil it." He tapped her on the shoulder. "You got to see your sunset. Do me a favour and put something on the stereo?"

Pamela gave a ghost of a smile and cupped her hand over the controls on the dashboard, illuminating them with her glowing skin.

#fridayflash: time's arrow

And I don't care about this life,
they say there'll be another one
Defeatist attitude I know —
will you be sorry when I've gone?

— Felt, "Primitive Painters"

Daddy daddy, it's just like you said,
now that the living outnumber the dead

 —Laurie Anderson, "Speak My Language"

Brian was an historian.

He specialised in religious texts from the eighteenth century, with a particular interest in resurrection and reincarnation.

Karen was a physicist.

She was trying to prove that the theory time had no direction was true, and could be experienced at the macro level.

They lectured at the same university.

They were married.

They were both in the car when Karen was killed.

Brian had minor injuries, but walked away.

Several people told Brian about the different stages, how whatever they thought he was feeling was "normal", how he should seek counselling. In the end he chose to be in the anger phase, and threw them out of the apartment, all of them. It meant he had to clean up the hors d'oeuvres trays and the coffee-maker himself, but that was all right. It felt good to move around instead of chanting "thank you" every time someone said "I'm sorry".

The first week he couldn't handle being in the bed by himself, so he slept on the couch. The second week he lived life by going through the motions: wake up, shower, shave, e-mail the dean to say he didn't want to return to work yet, e-mail his grad students to tell them what to lecture the undergrads about.

The third week the set topic for lectures was a subject he could talk about in his sleep, and even though it felt like he would be doing that in a very literal sense, he decided to be on campus and deliver the lessons himself. The undergrads looked back at him with faces full of fear and sympathy. When the class ended he turned the lectern mic off, walked up to a grad student he trusted, and just said, "Was I intelligible?" The student nodded yes and started to say something else, but he turned and headed to his office without bothering to listen. He shut the door, locked it, and cried for half an hour, then threw the office chair against the door when he realised he didn't have any damn Kleenex on hand, and would have to be seen in the corridors with a mucky face until he could get to a washroom.

At the end of the third week, one of Karen's grad students knocked on his office door and asked if he could come over with some colleagues and review her notes. Brian told him they could come over Saturday afternoon. That night he went into Karen's office at home for the first time since the funeral and moved anything that had personal or sentimental value to his own office. He felt relieved to have got it done until he remembered he'd have to do the same thing with her office at work.

On Saturday the grad students showed up with a professor Karen had done a lot of work with. Even though they had all been to the apartment many times before, both for professional and social reasons, they all stood in the hallway like frightened cattle until he ushered them into her office. They kept saying they would try not to bother him. He noticed they had even brought their own coffee.

A couple of them made some comments about Karen's work as they shuffled down the hall into her office, but he waved them off. Brian liked geeks, but he wasn't one of them any more than any of them were artsies.

He didn't know what to do once he'd let them start their work, so he decided to go to his own office and at least pretend to get something done. Next to the box of Karen's personal effects was a courier package that had arrived from Scotland while he was off work. He figured he could manage opening the box, cataloguing the contents, and seeing if there was anything of immediate interest.

The box of books was a sealed lot from an estate sale that a colleague and friend of his had picked up and sent. Brian grimaced to realise the box of books had probably arrived on campus the day after Karen died. He pushed that thought out of his mind, pulled the exacto knife out of his desk drawer, and carefully opened the box.

The book on top was a collection of sermons that Brian already had a copy of. The next book was written for children, re-tellings of Bible stories with prayers and hymns mixed in, probably intended for Sunday school. The books were all remarkably well preserved, and some were of interest just for their printing and design, even if the contents were unlikely to shed any new light on anything. 

Brian paused and checked the outside of the box, cursing himself for not noticing sooner. It was an old soap box, probably from the 1920s. These books had been packed for a very long time. His friend had been lucky the box actually contained the sort of books the estate auctioneer claimed they would be. He sat back and wondered how many times this particular box had been shifted around without anyone bothering to open it.

About three-quarters of the way down he found a volume of sermons that he'd heard of, but never known of any copies to be extant. He pulled it out of the box and flipped it open, research possibilities rushing through his head.

A photograph was tucked in the flyleaf. Brian picked it up and glanced at it, then peered closer. It was definitely period, but the subject matter and framing were anachronistic.

The woman in the photo was wearing a shirtwaist. Her long hair was piled up on her head, and she was holding up a newspaper. She was pointing at the date on the front page.

Brian frowned and grabbed his magnifying glass from his desk. He could just make out the newspaper date. 3 August 1896.

Brian flipped the photo over. 

Dearest Brian:

I hope you like the book. It was hard to find, even now. I was right about time being directionless. You were right to pay attention to esoterica. I wish I could tell you more. I'll miss you.

Karen

best 5 -- no, 6! -- reads of 2012

This is in response to John Wiswell's post about forming a list of the best reads of 2012. I was going to stick to a nice round list of five, but of course thought of another one at the last minute. I'm putting this on a page so I can write it now, on 12 December, and not wind up with it buried in the blog history by 26 December. Fiction first, then non-fiction.

Fiction

Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies

I've been a fan of publisher The Workhorsery ever since I met them at a small publisher's book fair. We had a hilarious discussion about how more people might read Canadian literature if it didn't... well, suck. Fortunately for Canada, there's some brilliant genre and alternative fiction out there, and Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies ably demonstrates it's not all canoes and angst in CanLit. This is a fast-paced, hilarious, touching story with zombies. I gave it a full review on Goodreads right after I read it.

The Night Circus

I was put off The Night Circus for a long time, because "protracted battle between two magicians" didn't sound that enticing. It turns out I was denying myself the chance to read an absolutely exquisite story — I almost couldn't bear for it to end. Each chapter is like a perfect little jewel, as finely shaped as any of the many extraordinary objects within the story itself. When all is said and done, the novel is actually not quite about a "protracted battle between two magicians" — in fact, the only negative reviews I've read of it are from those who complain they were cheated out of their protracted battle. It would be a spoiler to say any more about the plot, though.

The novel is a masterpiece of showing over telling, and the created world is so gorgeous and immersive that I'm not surprised in the least that people have used it as inspiration for their weddings. Now I'm starting to wonder if I could plan a birthday around it. It's five months until my next one...

Hybrids

I read the first book in Robert J. Sawyer's Hominids trilogy a couple of years ago, but had a rotten time finding the other two books in the series — they were always sold out when I went to get them at bookstores. I finally found them at Word on the Street, with the added bonus that the author was on hand to sign them (so I have the whole triology autographed!). All of Sawyer's work is another (very big) example of how great non-canoe Canadian fiction can be, but this trilogy is the favourite thing I've read by him so far. (Disclaimer: I've liked everything else too — just this is the set of stories I refer back to the most.)

The Hominids trilogy is a great "gateway" set of novels for people who think they wouldn't like science fiction. In fact, the first person I recommended them to was someone who only reads SF occasionally, but who reads a lot of romance novels. The characters are well-drawn, the plot has lots of action with strong logic to back it up, and the themes will have you thinking about everything from genetics to international relations to environmentalism to the history of technology. And yes, the central love story is both compelling and incredibly thought-provoking. It probably helps that Sawyer's acknowledgements and references section at the back of the book is longer than those for a lot of non-fiction books, yet the story never feels dry or overly didactic.

The premise is that in a parallel reality, Neanderthals have become the dominant hominid species on Earth, while Homo sapiens have become extinct. A pair of Neanderthal scientists have an experiment with a quantum computer go wrong... and the consequence is that they accidentally create a portal to our reality.

Never mind the premise. Just read them.

The Yiddish Policemen's Union

My friend Howard recommended this book to me years ago, and somehow I never got around to it until I was browsing my local Book City one day, and not only did the in-stock copy get noticed, but it sort of told me to buy it. So I did, and was pleasantly surprised.

If you are a writer as well as a reader, this is the book you read if you want to see the difference Voice makes to telling a story. Because there is Voice, a noticeable voice, one that almost makes you sad that it is fictional and that the city of Sitka cannot be visited except in text.

This is another science fiction pick, an alternative history murder mystery, almost a sort of anti-Blade Runner in that it's a noir set in a 1980s that never was, in a mostly-frozen city that never existed. It made me want to weep for what could have been, and weep more for the story-past that never was, yet in the end I can't say it's a "downer" book. Ultimately I believe it has a happy ending; just not an unproblematic one.

Non-Fiction

The Brendan Voyage

My brothers and I were the kind of nerdy kids who fought over our parents' subscription copy of National Geographic the second it came through the mailbox. When we were younger we would just look at the photos and read the captions; we started reading the full articles when we were old enough. Ironically, the National Geographic Society got me into a lot of my favourite fiction literature, from the Archy & Mehitabel poems by Don Marquis (from a science article that was probably called something like "Our Friend the Cockroach") to Charles Dickens.

One of my favourite all-time articles was about the voyage of a leather-hulled boat, which was sailed from Ireland to Newfoundland to prove that the mythical voyage of St. Brendan may be based on fact. One of St. Brendan's (and the modern Brendan voyage's) stops was in Iceland, and since I'm going there next September, it reminded me — what happened with that Brendan scientific voyage in the 1970s?

Amongst other things, the leader of the voyage, Tim Severin, wrote a book about it. It's an amazing story, and well-told. What's extra-interesting in these times of Mythbusters and Shark Week is how quiet a story it is. The weekend I read the book ('cos I couldn't put it down), I left the TV off, didn't listen to the stereo, stayed off the computer. I just let myself be carried back to the second half of the 1970s, and then in turn to the end of the first millennium AD. With the passage of time the book has become a double lesson; I couldn't help but wonder if the Brendan sailed today if it would encounter any pack ice at all, compared to the summer of 1977 when the ice was a major problem.

The Vegetarian Myth

Even if you're a happy vegetarian and have absolutely no interest in living any other way, you might want to check out this book. The author, Lierre Keith, was a vegan for decades. It would take a long time to explain why she stopped, but she goes into it in detail in the book.

I'm embarrassed to say that a lot of what Keith writes about in this book are things that I knew intuitively as a child growing up in a family of enthusiastic gardeners, but forgot when I went to university and met my first militant vegetarians. Things like: yes, animals eat plants, but plants also eat animals in turn. Or that factory monocrops of wheat, corn, or what-have-you are at least as terrible for the environment and the food we eat as factory feedlots. Or that humanity has destroyed a lot of wildlife habitat through the draining of swamps and the razing of forests in order to grow crops for ourselves.

Some vegetarians will read this and say, "Yes, uh huh, nothing new here, I knew that," and go on as before. Others... will get some nasty surprises, and might read things that send them into deep shock, anger, or denial. The same could be said for omnivores who support all forms of factory farming as necessary. Nevertheless, Keith's book is comprehensive, and for the most part well-argued (I admit the nutrition part dragged for me, but that may be because I'd already read the same points elsewhere.) I'm not saying everyone should read it and agree with every word. But if you care about food, humanity, and the future of the planet, you could do worse than to read this book and just use it as an opportunity to re-examine where you stand on things. I know I've changed some of my eating and grocery-buying habits since reading it.

#fridayflash: well-preserved

In a city of solid, wealthy architecture, this building didn't particularly stand out. The reporter was mildly surprised to find that the entranceway was modern instead of period. He supposed even three-hundred-year-old, super-secret gentlemen's clubs had to renovate occasionally.

The receptionist was dressed in an Edwardian-style suit, and looked old enough to have worked at the club since its inception. When the reporter gave his name as "Giles" per his instructions, the receptionist checked a (paper!) appointment book, then glanced up and down several times from Giles to the book.

"You looked like you were checking my face against my passport photo," said Giles.

"I was, sir," said the receptionist, closing the book.

Giles frowned. "But I never gave —"

"The club is very strict about security, sir," said the receptionist. "This way, please. I should warn you that there is an iron-clad silence rule in the sitting area."

Giles pursed his lips together as if to ziploc them shut. The receptionist led him through a large brass door, down a dark panelled corridor, and finally through the most quiet sitting room Giles had ever been in. There were armchairs of every colour, style, and historical period scattered throughout, each with a mismatched side-table, and almost all occupied. Most of the men were reading newspapers, but a few were scribbling into notebooks. All of the men were dressed in very expensive, conservative suits.

At the opposite end of the room was a door camouflaged to look like part of the wall's ornate panelling. The receptionist opened it with a touch and ushered Giles through. After the dark and heavy décor of the sitting room, the dining room was shockingly light and airy. The walls were papered with a silver design overlaying a robin's-egg-blue background, and the furniture and trim were pickled pine. The receptionist pulled out a chair and indicated Giles should sit in it, then left through the hidden door. Giles checked the table setting in front of him and noticed that the edging on the china matched the design of the wallpaper. When he verified this against the wall the door was in, he realised he couldn't make out where the hidden door was anymore.

A quick check of the usual places revealed no surveillance cameras. Giles pulled out his phone and was about to stand up and get some photos of the dining room when a second hidden door opened at the other end and his contact at the club walked through. He wagged a finger at Giles's phone and mimed putting it away.

"Glad you made it," the contact, Mr. F----- said, taking the opposite seat at the table. To Giles it sounded like he was referring more to making it through the sitting room than keeping their appointment. "Conversation is permitted in this room, the better to enjoy the meals, but since our soundproofing is a little less than state of the art, we do try to keep it down."

"It was like something out of a Sherlock Holmes story out there," said Giles. "I half-expected to see Mycroft fretting over the Bruce-Partington plans."

"He only comes in on Wednesdays since he retired," said Mr. F-----. Giles started to laugh, but stopped when his dining companion didn't join in.

He chose to change the subject. "So everything we're eating today is... old, is that it? Preserved?"

Mr. F----- shrugged. "Not everything... but the highlight of each course was first prepared at least five years ago. And then preserved, yes, or else it would be inedible." He reached for a bell at the centre of the table and rang it. Almost immediately a tuxedoed waiter walked in with a silver-domed tray.

The appetizers were hundred-year-old eggs. The wine was bottled in 1947. There were pickles and pemmican, fruit cakes and aged cheeses. Mr. F----- introduced each course by pointing out how long the age of the "historical" dishes were, often remarking on how the world had changed since this or that food had been jarred, dried, tinned, or bottled.

Every time Giles reached for his phone to make a note or record some conversation, Mr. F----- would offer him some other morsel to try, or else another waiter would arrive with some other course. Giles despaired of getting good copy out of the experience, but the meal itself was remarkable. He noticed that the fresher items on the menu — the salads and vegetables, the bread and crackers — tasted all the fresher for being accompanied by the aged ones.

They finished the meal by enjoying a dram each of hundred-year-old whisky. Giles was embarrassed when he caught himself nodding off. Mr. F----- assured him that it was quite normal for people partaking of that particular menu for the first time. In point of fact, the club had rooms set up for post-prandial naps.

Mr. F----- led Giles to the hidden door opposite the one Giles had entered. Beyond it was another dark hallway, this one with doors every few metres. Mr. F----- paused in front of one that was open, and gestured for Giles to let himself in.

Inside was a small but impressively antique bed, a side-table, and a wing chair.

"Completely private," said Mr. F----- from the hallway. "There's a valet stand behind the side-table if you want to avoid creasing your trousers. Just follow the hall to the end when you wake up and you'll find yourself in the reception-area again. I hope your visit has been instructive."

Giles thanked him and gave the usual assurances about what he planned to write. Mr. F----- pulled the door shut. Giles pulled off his shoes and slacks, took off his shirt and jacket, and arranged his clothes on the valet stand. He barely got under the bedclothes before he fell unconscious.

Mr. F----- leaned out of the doorway to the reception area and cocked an eyebrow at the receptionist. The receptionist nodded and quickly crossed to the hall, carefully closing the door behind him.

"That's that one sorted out," said Mr. F-----. "Wait a few minutes, then get that horrible device he kept trying to use all the luncheon. Bring it to me — I want the satisfaction of smashing it myself."

"Perfectly understandable, sir," said the receptionist. "And the man himself?"

"He ate and drank everything I put in front of him," said Mr. F-----. "He won't wake up again. I expect everything will run as usual."

"Very good, sir."

"I hope so. Poor Mycroft could use a boost. He's been looking awfully peaked lately."

#fridayflash: ever after

This is the conclusion to a three-parter, although I did try to make them independent stories too.
Part One is "The Girl with the Golden Braid".
Part Two is "A Blue Dress and a High Tower".

Once upon a time a young woman lived all alone at the top of a tower in the middle of the forest. The tower had neither a door nor a stair. The only way in or out of it was to use magic, as the young woman did, or to climb up using a rope anchored to one of the its four windows.

The young woman's name was Rapunzel, and on market-days she could be found in the nearby town, selling fruit and vegetables from an enchanted garden she kept behind a small house. She stayed in the house the night before and the night after the market, and in the forest any other time. The garden was tended magically, Rapunzel was free to come and go as she pleased, and life was peaceful and quiet. She still missed her mentor and old "aunty", Rose, who had passed away two years previously, but the grief was less keen than it had once been.

One evening, when she was enjoying a sunset from her tower's west-facing window, a young prince came riding by. His breath was taken away by the sight of the maiden dressed in blue in the warm light, her long golden braids hanging much lower than the sill of the window and seeming to catch fire in the sunset's glow.

The prince left his horse to graze and stood under Rapunzel's window, reciting poetry and begging her to let him into the tower. Rapunzel explained the tower's unusual construction, at which the prince jumped to the conclusion that she was imprisoned.

Rapunzel grew annoyed at his eagerness to rescue her despite her reassurances that she did not need rescuing, and left the window, calling for him to meet her in the town on market-day if he was truly in love with her.

The prince swore he would be there, but on market-day he walked right by her in her work clothes without even giving her a second glance.

A few months later, Rapunzel was mending a stocking in the morning sun of the east window when another young prince happened by. Like his predecessor, he claimed to be instantly enamored of her, and begged her to let him in the tower. Again Rapunzel explained the tower had no door for her to open. The prince cried she must let down her hair, and he would use it as a rope to climb up to her.

"Don't be silly!" said Rapunzel. "No-one's hair is that long, and besides, you'd yank it all out and hurt me! And I don't have any real rope up here, so you can't use that either. Meet me in town on market-day if you want to talk to me."

But the young prince grew angry and called her horrible names, then rode away.

The south window let light into the tower's kitchen, and Rapunzel was standing in front of it one afternoon, peeling apples, when she heard a sound and glanced out to see a third young prince riding by.

This one was different. He was wearing sensible travel clothes instead of velvets and brocades, although his rank was given away by his horse and saddle. His face brightened when he spied her in the window, but he didn't get all gooey-eyed. And when he dismounted and halloaed up to her, his accent was most definitely foreign.

"Are you the lady of this castle?" he said.

"I'm no lady, but I'm the only one who lives here," answered Rapunzel.

The prince frowned. "You aren't the grand-daughter of Rose Red?"

Rapunzel dropped the apple she was peeling and leaned over the windowsill. "How do you know of her?" she said.

The prince doffed his cap and bowed. "I am Arthur," he said. "If you know Rose Red's name, then you must know of Snow White. I am her grandson. I came to see where my family are from, and your tower is all that's left of the castle, from the looks of it." He pointed to his saddle, where Rapunzel could just make out something furry hanging from the pommel. "I snared two rabbits about an hour ago. If you have some carrots and onions to spare, you could bring them down here and we could make a fine stew to share. I could tell you what I know and you could tell me how you are not my kin, but are so excited to find someone who knows of Rose Red."

Rapunzel decided it was a fair exchange, so she gathered some vegetables and joined Arthur in the clearing.

Arthur told her all about the two brothers who had married the two sisters, and how their father had divided the kingdom between them so they could both be kings, and how the portion belonging to Rose Red's husband had been invaded and overrun before his brother could send help. Rapunzel told him about the Rose Red she had known, the old woman with the garden and the market-stall. Arthur decided she must have disguised herself and hid before anyone had realised who she was.

"Snow White and Rose Red grew up in the forest a long way from here," he said. "She would have known how to hide and live in the woods. But how did you come to live with her?"

And Rapunzel told him how she had been given away as a child in payment for all the food her father had stolen from Rose's garden. She even told him about what her life had been like in her parent's old hut by the quarry. It was the first time she had spoken about it to anyone since she had become Rose's ward, and she was shocked at how strongly the memories flooded back.

Arthur told her about growing up in a castle, and showed her a few enchantments that she'd never even seen Rose use. They talked and talked, and it came as a surprise to both of them when they noticed the moon was high and the only light in the clearing came from their cooking-fire.

Rapunzel invited him to stay as a guest in the tower, and Arthur said he would be honoured. He stayed for a month, catching game and helping her at market, and when he asked her if she would return home with him, she readily agreed. He bought a horse for her to ride, and helped her put protection charms on the tower.

Rapunzel remembered how little she had brought with her from the quarry hut to Rose's house. This time she brought a few changes of clothes for the journey, her favourite cooking knife, her sewing kit, and the blue dress Rose had made her. She never wore it the entire journey until the day Arthur told her they would be home before nightfall.

Their arrival was greeted with much joy and wonder, and with more joy still when they declared their intent to marry. They were husband and wife before the start of winter, and in the spring Rapunzel gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Rose, of course.

And they all lived happily ever after.

fridayflash: a blue dress and a high tower

The story before this one is here.

Once upon a time a young woman sat in a market-stall with a very old woman. The young woman sold a chandler's wife half a dozen apples, emptying the sack which sat at her feet.

"Watch, Aunty Rose," she said to the old woman when no-one was close enough to hear. The old woman gave a barely perceptible nod and pretended to busy herself with a basket of carrots on her ground beside her.

The young woman shook out the now-empty sack, and stuck a hand inside. She waved her hand around, murmuring some strange words. As she slowly withdrew her hand, the sack filled with apples again.

The old woman laughed. "You are a better gardener than I ever was, Rapunzel!" she said. "I'm proud to have taught you."

Rapunzel blushed and smiled at the praise, and pushed one of her long golden braids out of the way as another customer reached their stall.

"What was that old witch cackling about?" said the butcher's boy from the stall next to them.

"Nothing," Rapunzel called out. "It's my birthday today, and Aunty Rose always gets me a surprise present. She's laughing because I can never guess what it is."

"Oh," said the boy. "I didn't mean... um, happy birthday."

When the crier rang his bell and declared the market closed for the week, Rapunzel and the crone put their baskets and sacks on a pull-cart and brought them back to the house. They only stayed at the house the evenings before and after market-day — most of the time they lived in the only standing tower of a ruined castle, deep in the middle of the forest.

"I'll make the stew, Aunty. You rest," said Rapunzel as they finished carrying the market leftovers to the kitchen. She heard the old woman pull herself up the stairs. To her surprise, she heard Rose coming down again only a few minutes later.

"You can finish the stew in a bit. Sit down with me first," said Rose. Rapunzel wiped her hands on her apron, then joined Rose at the kitchen table.

Rose stroked the top of a muslin-wrapped bundle placed on the table in front of her. "It's ten years today since you came to live here," she said, "and I know it must have been very hard for you, but you have been a better helper and a better apprentice than I could ever have hoped to have. If I had gone looking particularly for a little girl to help me, I could not have done better than to find you."

Rapunzel put her hands on the table and stared at them. Rose usually only gave praise to sweeten a criticism that was coming next, although she had become more complimentary over the years. Rapunzel had learned it was better to be humble than to let her pride bring her to a fall.

"When I was young, they called me Rose Red," said the old woman. "My sister was fair and blonde, like you. People called her Snow White. Our mother always dressed me in red and her in blue. We hated the monotony, and used to try on each other's dresses when we were getting ready for bed. But the truth was, Mother was right — blue really did suit Snow better, and I suppose the red made me look less pale. Which is a very long way of saying... I hope you like blue." She pushed the muslin-wrapped bundle to Rapunzel.

Rapunzel pulled the bundle close to her. "You never told me your sister's name before. What happened to her?"

The crone bit her lip. "She got married, and everyone said she lived happily every after. She seemed to be, at the wedding, but her husband came from a land very far away. Then I married, and moved even farther away."

"Did you live here, in the house?"

"We lived in a castle." Rose shook herself and nodded at the bundle. "Go on, open it."

Rapunzel carefully loosened the ribbons holding the bundle together. Inside the muslin was a blue dress, a little old-fashioned in its style but exquisitely made.

"It's beautiful!" Rapunzel cried. "Where-ever did you find it?"

Rose smiled. "I made it. Did you really think I could take that many naps after every single market day? I'm not that faded yet, dearie. Try it on for me?"

"Not until I'm done cooking. I don't want to ruin it! You're too good to me." Rapunzel carefully re-wrapped the dress and rose to finish making the stew.

"Then I think I will take that nap," said Rose, and she left the kitchen.

Rapunzel heard her crossing the hall, climbing the stairs... there was a thud and a thump, then silence. "Aunty Rose?" she called, and listened, but no answer came. "Aunty Rose?" She stopped chopping vegetables a second time, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the hall to see what was the matter.

Rose lay at the foot of the stairs, her legs twisted under her and her sharp blue eyes staring without seeing. Rapunzel shrieked and ran to her, but it was obvious there was nothing to be done.

Rapunzel lay the old woman's body out in the parlour that night, wrapped in a winding-sheet made from Rose's bedclothes. She kept vigil until dawn, thinking of all the things she had learned since she came to live with Rose as a child. When dawn came she put Rose's body on the pull-cart and hid it under the baskets and sacks of vegetables, then left town before anyone was out and about who could ask her why she was alone. She took the road to the forest, and the forest track to the secret clearing, and arranged the special rocks just so. In a blink she was in front of the tower, their home. Her home.

The tower had neither a door nor stairs, only a large, airy set of rooms at the top with a window facing each of the four directions. Rapunzel built a fire and offered Roses's ashes to the earth, saying the prayers from Rose's battered old book of incantations and offerings.

Ever after, when people asked about Rose at the market, Rapunzel told them she was too feeble to work anymore.

And the first day home in the tower after every market-day, Rapunzel would bathe herself in water scented with rose-oil, put on her pretty blue dress, and sing the praises of her mentor and friend from each window, to each of the four winds.

To be continued...

fridayflash: the girl with the golden braid

Once upon a time a stone-mason and his wife lived in a hut at the edge of a quarry. Times were hard, and the mason had a hard time finding enough work to put food on the table. His wife tried to start a garden and raise chickens, but all of the land around their hut was but bare gravel, and nothing would grow there.

One evening, coming home from a job that provided too little pay, the mason passed by a beautiful walled garden and spied a tree heavily laden with fruit. He looked up and down the street, but not a soul was in sight, and since the house in front of the garden seemed empty as well, he clambered over the wall, and took as much fruit and vegetables as he could carry. When he got home and gave his wife the food, he told her it was part of the payment for his labours that day. His wife was overjoyed, and set about making them a fine meal.

From then on, whenever the mason was short on coins and happened to be near the garden, he would climb the wall and take whatever he could carry. He decided that in such a bountiful garden, a few carrots and cabbages would never be missed. Surely no-one counted the apples on the trees.

He never saw a soul in the garden, which made his surprise all the greater when one day he was confronted by an old woman brandishing a crooked but very stout walking-stick in his direction.

"Caught you!" she cried, "and red-handed too!"

The local penalty for theft was to have one hand chopped off and the other one branded. The mason dropped the stolen food where he stood, fell on his knees, and begged for the crone's mercy.

The crone listened. Slowly she lowered her stick to the ground. When the man finished speaking, he stayed on his knees, blubbering like a schoolboy and terrified of her response.

"All right," the crone said. "You may help yourself as you already have been these long months, but you must make payment somehow. Everyone is short of gold these days, so I won't ask for money. As you can see, I am old, and as much as I hate to admit it, I am growing feeble. Have you any children to come help me?"

The man shook his head no. "My son is not yet one...." he began.

The crone waved her stick at the vegetables the man had dropped. "All that food for a married couple and a toddler? Come now, do you think me a fool just because I am merciful? Shall I call the sheriff after all?"

"No! No, please!" said the man. "I have another child, but a daughter. She is not quite six."

The crone snorted. "A woman can keep a garden," she said. "After all, I've tended this one by myself for years, and you had no trouble deciding I had food to spare." She swept the stolen vegetables towards her with her stick. "Come back here with your daughter before nightfall, and I will give you this food and let you have more, by our bargain. If you don't, the limestone dust on your clothes tells me I should tell the sheriff to find you near the quarry."

The man got off his knees, ran to the wall, and clambered over it. He ran home as fast as he could, and told his wife what had happened.

The mason's wife was devastated to learn the man had traded away their daughter, but the man pointed out that their son would learn his trade and take care of them in their old age, whereas a daughter was only good for a dowry. He bundled up his daughter's spare clothes, put her cloak on, and took her back to the crone.

The little girl cried when she was presented to the old woman and clung to her father, but the crone took her hand and firmly pulled her into the house while the stone-mason gathered the vegetables he had dropped before and went home to the quarry.

The crone guided the girl to the kitchen, sat her on a chair, and put a mug of apple-cider in front of her. "It is a cruel thing that has been done to you," she said, "and you are right to be sad.  I will not say that you will forget your mama and papa, because that would be a lie. But I will promise to be kind to you, and that while you will have to work, I will teach you how to make that work pleasant and rewarding."

Then she left the little girl to her tears, checked the windows and doors were all bolted and locked, and went to the parlour to sit in front of the fire.

Some time later the girl crept into the room. The crone paused in her spinning and glanced up at her, and the girl froze.

"Did you drink your cider?" the old woman asked.

The girl nodded.

"Good," said the crone. "Now it's late, and it's time for us to go to bed. The bedrooms are up in the attic, on either side of the chimney. Follow me and bring your things. You need to get your sleep, because tomorrow we both have lots to do."

To be continued...

#fridayflash: a brief whimper

It started with... actually, it's hard to say what it started with, because what it started with was so banal. Fender benders. Printers needing repairs. Buttons coming off shirts, and flies splitting open just before the hot date arrived.

The first thing that was given notice by the mass media was when a house collapsed in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. It wasn't an old house, or a decrepit one. It was in the midst of being renovated, and one of the walls the architect assured the construction workers was not weight-bearing... was. Everyone who was inside at the time saw the walls sway and buckle. Fortunately, they all got out before the roof fell in on them.

The next thing was all the major web sites going down at once. Supposedly that one was from Facebook failing to apply a patch to their servers, but no-one ever fully understood how that affected the rest of the internet-connected servers.

The internet stopped mattering within a day or two, because even if the servers had been up no-one without backbone access would have been able to access it. The cable networks went down first, in patches, and always for the same reason “a tree root broke through the wiring underground.” That reason was given in the parts of Arizona, where there were no trees, as consistently as it was given in Quebec, where at least it was plausible. The copper-wire “land line” telephone networks followed within hours — so DSL access went down with the phones. The mobile phone towers lasted the longest, until they all started experiencing electrical shorts and signal loss.

And still the little things were piling up, but in such sizable piles that people noticed. The pen that crunched when it should have clicked, forever doomed to retract when the slightest pressure was applied to the nib. Plastic knitting needles snapped; metal ones bent beyond usefulness. Kettles refused to boil water. Microwaves caused either ashes or tepidity.

Office computer networks, the ones that were still intact, paralysed themselves with contradictory security policies and refused to allow their administrators access so they could open a way for staff to get work done.

By the end of the week the economies of most First World countries were in freefall. Political leaders held emergency caucuses to discuss what to do if the hospitals ran out of usable medical equipment, or if the traffic light systems in all urban centres stopped working. (As it happens, both of these remained unaffected.)

It was a technical support analyst who found the solution. Fed up with being told to fix the unfixable, she left a note on her desk saying she was taking sick days for all of the following week, and that she planned to spend her waking hours in bed, reading books. She strongly suggested everyone else do the same.

The rest of her team lasted one day and then followed suit. One of them was the neighbour of a radio announcer (the only mass medium still working), and he told everyone in broadcast range about it next time he was on the air.

By midweek anyone in North or South America who didn’t work in emergency services was staying in bed. Children read picture books; teenagers read novels and caught up on homework for the first time since kindergarten. Grown-ups made headway into the stacks of books they’d always meant to get around to.

And then, because Africa, Europe, Asia, and the Antipodes only heard about it once ships could communicate the news via radio, they all stayed in bed for the following week too, everyone in the world who didn’t work for a hospital, a fire hall, or a police station.

Then they stayed in bed one week more, just to make sure.

The grocery stores opened back up first, simply because people were running out of food at home, then the restaurants. And then the tech support analyst who had come up with the idea in the first place casually checked the time on her mobile phone one day, and noticed there was a signal on it for the first time in almost a month, and wi-fi too.

"Time to get back to work," she announced to no-one in particular.

"Shhh, I just got to the good part," her husband murmured over his book.

"Mommy, we’re out of peanut butter," her eight-year-old announced.

"Okay, honey," the analyst said to the doorway her eight-year-old had disappeared from already, and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek. "You better finish that today," she said. "It’s time."

#fridayflash: a long trip

 "How much longer?" Ethan went limp-limbed against his mother in the manner of all tired children.

Grace peered up the line, then craned her neck to check behind them. "We're over halfway now, honey."

"My feet hurt. Daddy, can you carry me? Just for a little bit?"

"Ethan, we told you, Mommy and Daddy have to pull the suitcases. You're a big boy now. Big boys stand in queues all by themselves."

Ethan pouted, but straightened up and placed himself between Grace and Frank as they shuffled forward a few more steps. He reached up to take their hands. Frank manoeuvred the suitcase to his left hand so he could hold on to Ethan's hand with his right.

The next time they moved forward, Ethan went limp, still clutching their hands. Grace and Frank hauled him back to his feet. Their eyes met over Ethan's head, and they let go at the same time.

"But I'm tired!" Ethan was starting to sound snivelly.

"Gran has lots of cushy chairs at her house," said Grace. "It'll be dinner-time when we get to England, and she'll sit you down on one of her dining room chairs with a big pillow on the seat so you can reach the table-top. She said she's making macaroni casserole just for you." The rest of us get roast, she mouthed to Frank over Ethan's head.

Ethan perked up a little when his favourite dish was mentioned, then he sagged again as they moved forward a few more steps. "We just had breakfast before we came to the telly port. It's gonna take us until dinner to get there?"

"No, we'll be there in about half an hour. Remember Mommy told you about time zones this morning when we were having breakfast? When we step on the teleport, it will be just before lunch-time, but when we zap to England, it will be almost dinner-time there. Then we go to the local teleportation queue, and then we'll be just four houses from Gran's."

"Why did we have to come here first?"

"It's the way they regulate it Ethan, you have to go through security and passport control first, and then you can go. Remember last summer we went to Vancouver? Anything more than one time zone you have to go through the checks. Look," Frank said, pointing to a gigantic black and white photo that decorated a section of one wall. "See that? That's the airport we're in now, thirty years ago. Those things sticking out are... are access bridges, that people used to walk on to go to travel. See those pointy machines with the wings sticking out? Those are airplanes. That's how Gran and Gramps came to Canada when they lived here, when I was little. Three hundred people used to get in one of those to travel all together."

"Airplanes," said Ethan. He stared at the photo. "So everyone got on, and then they all telly ported together?"

"There wasn't any teleportation yet. They flew through the air. It took them five or six hours to get to England from here."

"Wow," said Ethan. "That's really slow." Grace took his hand and gently pulled him forward when he didn't notice the people ahead had moved up again.

"See?" said Frank. "We've only been in line for about twenty minutes, and we've got only ten or fifteen minutes more until we're at Heathrow. That's not so bad, is it?"

Ethan was silent for a few shuffles, staring at the photo until they were too far ahead to see it anymore. Grace still had his hand, and she swung his arm back and forth in big arcs to distract him. Ethan giggled, and chanted a rhyme:

Gina Saunders
Sticks and bones
Ground her up
Far from home
When the police
Came out to play
Her head got up
And rolled away
The nerds tried
To make her better
But they’re too late
She’s gone forever!

"That's awful!" said Grace. "Where did you hear that from?"

"School," said Ethan. "Gerald and Charles and Anthony were saying it. Who's Gina Saunders?"

"Someone from a long time ago," said Grace. "She was a thief, and she got a bad scientist to help her get away. But then it turned out the bad scientist was even worse than she was."

"Why?"

Grace flinched. Gina Saunders was the reason the old travel regulations had been reinstated.

"He complained about standing in line," said Frank, coming to her rescue. Ethan scowled up at him, knowing he was being teased but unsure what to do about it.

"Look," said Grace. "There's only three people left in front of us. And then they'll scan our passports and check our luggage, and then we'll step on the pads and zap! we'll be there. It'll be night-time already, and Daddy will call Gran to say we're on our way, and then we'll get in another queue, but a short one, and zap! we'll be on Gran's and Gramp's street."

The person at the front of the queue put their suitcase on the baggage scanner and stepped into the body scanner. The queue shuffled forward.

if you or someone you love might be a zombie...

Welcome to the second stop of the Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies Hallowe'en blog tour! Today's entry is a public service announcement brought to you courtesy of Victoria Dunn, The Workshorsery, and Odyssey International. Don't forget to enter the contest listed at the end of this post!

Welcome to Zombiehood!

Stage 1: Infection

Life is a joy filled with tasty surprises.

Zombie movies, TV shows, and popular books all say that zombies lead short, brutal lives obsessed with chewing through people’s craniums. Not true! With proper medical care and a positive attitude, people of decomposition can now look forward to years of slow-paced, anxiety-free living.

You wouldn’t even know you were infected, if not for the dizziness, confusion, and the open bite wound. Don’t worry, it’s not going to hurt for long!

Stage 2: Borderline Zombism

Let the zombies wrap you in their love.

You’ve fainted, and woken up scared. Don’t be alarmed, low blood pressure is common at this stage and that’s why you passed out. It’s important to remain level-headed, as the virus and oxygen deprivation damage your brain tissues. Once again, remain calm. Remember, high IQs never made anyone happy.

If you become obsessed with daily routines and repetitive phrases, feel free to indulge yourself. You’re worth it! However, engaging in stereotypical zombie behaviour, such as home renovation while droning “brains, brains, brains...,” can alienate your friends and family.

You’re virally-abled now, which means you can infect other people with your bodily fluids. Therefore, it is vitally important to practice safe sex.

Stage 3: Zombism

I am a putrefied blessing to the world.

Subtle clues such as increased gaseous emissions, bloating, and generalized rotting indicate that you’re a full-fledged zombie now! Soft tissues are especially vulnerable to damage or even detachment during this stage, but don’t despair. Five fingers per hand is an extravagance in this modern age of touch screens. Think of decomposing as extreme composting, and congratulate yourself for your wholehearted dedication to going green.

If there is a body part you feel especially attached to, duct tape is an excellent adhesive which does not damage delicate zombie skin (unlike staples). In cases of permanent loss, you’re just as much of a man, woman, or transgendered person as you’ve always been regardless of how many reproductive organs you’ve retained.

Stage 4: Mummification

I am at the perfect level of decay for me.

Putrefying doesn’t last forever, so ignore your neighbour’s complaints. Eventually, your remaining tissue will dry out. As your digestive system has slowed to almost nil, sports drinks are not a reliable solution. Instead, get a friend to help you apply vitamin E and aloe enriched body lotions. Also, stay clear of museums, as an afternoon’s nap could result in you being put on permanent display on the Egyptology floor.

Zombies frequently report heartbreaking hazing and cruel discrimination during Stages 3 and 4. Just because you’re differently-living, doesn’t mean you’re not human! Therefore, the U.N.’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights still protects your access to employment, voting, and a public trial should you foolishly fall in with a bad crowd. Local law enforcement officers, especially small town sheriffs, do not have the legal right to shoot you in the head. Not even once, let alone twice.

Stage 5: Death

I release all my decaying body parts and allow life to find me.

Unfortunately, until there is a cure, zombies will sadly suffer from shortened life expectancies. Severe decay, hostile populations, and traffic lights that change too quickly all take their toll. However, you’re not dead yet. In fact, you’re UNdead! So embrace the many unexpected blessings of your viral years. No more flu shots, no more diets, and best of all, no more noisy neighbours.

And if you’re feeling down because your neighbours have all fled or been consumed, just repeat any one of the helpful zombie affirmations quoted throughout this brochure. Mental health is as important as physical health, even if you don’t have much left of either.

Zombism is good. I am at peace. Brains. Brains. Brains.

For the DVD, Welcome to Zombiehood, including closed captioning for zombies lacking ears, send $18.99 to Ken, Mailroom Chief c/o Odyssey International, Head Office, Indefinable Void Between Universes, Z0Z 0Z0.

---

Dragging yourself through your workday?

Wish your fellow employees would stop fleeing from you in terror?

Odyssey International has job openings for people of decomposition!

Work with your fellow zombies and pursue zombie hobbies in complete safety.

Speak to Dave,
Head of Mailroom Recruitment today!

No time wasters, please.

Learn more about zombie rights and employment, including the heroic efforts of one brave zombie to pilot a plane, in Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies by Victoria Dunn.

Enter the Zombie Rights Contest!

It's easy! Just answer the question "should zombies have human rights?" and send your response to the e-mail or Twitter addresses provided below. If your answer is selected as the winner, you'll receive a special Workhorsery prize pack including:

• autographed copies of all three of our novels (Victoria Dunn's Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies; Derek Winkler's Pitouie; and Jocelyne Allen's You and the Pirates)!
  
• a genuine zombie crochet doll, possibly from the book trailer itself, definitely specially-crafted by the author(s) herself/themselves!
  
• some other secret stuff related to the novel that we're keeping top secret!
  
• a hand-made, super-limited addition Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies Workhorsery tote bag to carry it all in!

Contest entries should be sent via email to: read@theworkhorsery.ca
or via Twitter to: twitter.com/theworkhorsery.

The winner will be selected at 11:59pm on 7 November!

Follow the Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies Hallowe'en Blog Tour!

Previous stop: Books Under Skin
Next stop: Open Book Toronto (direct link will be added when the article posts!)

#fridayflash: sunshine

This is the closest I feel like getting to a spooky story right now.

---

Everything I remember, I remember in sunshine. Pretty ironic, because I always have an umbrella with me now. And besides, some of the stuff I remember couldn't possibly have happened in sunshine.

Like the time I was out clubbing with Sara and Jamie, the middle of February and snow for three days straight. It was minus ten that night, plus wind chill, and we didn't wear coats 'cos we didn't want the hassle of the coat check.

We got in ahead of the line 'cos the doorman thought Sara was pretty, and just after we got in this guy walks up to me and says, "Do you realise how beautiful you are?", kisses me right on the lips, and walks away. Just like that, in a corridor painted black with red lights, and outside was dark with sparkling snow flying around, hard little crystals because of the cold.

But even though I know all those details, in my mind's eye it's in sunshine, the line and the entrance and the guy kissing me, even though it's all at night too. It's how it works.

The cold I can recall perfectly.

I remember walking home one night. It was raining hard, and I had my umbrella up even though it was pretty much useless. All my clothes were soaking wet. There was so much rain the streetlamps weren't as bright as they usually were. I remember my feet were soaked through because the water was running deep enough through the streets that it came up over the tops of my shoes.

Probably there were headlights, but I remember everything in sunshine now. What I see in my head are the streetlamps and the street and the grey-black water falling from the sky and running all over.

I remember the screeching sound. Nothing else.

I always liked this part of the neighbourhood. The local business association hangs baskets of geraniums or petunias from the lamp-posts in the summer, and volunteers come by and water them in the early morning.

I have to be careful because it's easy for them to see me in the half-light, and they get upset. I think I look like... from just before... but probably I'm not very solid-looking.

Probably my clothes are looking out-of-date too.

I saw Jamie the other day. He was holding hands with a woman about the same age as him. I think he's maybe fifty now. He was telling her about how he used to live in the neighbourhood, and how he still gets a shiver when he crosses the intersection. He didn't mention Sara at all.

There's been a change recently. About a block from the intersection, at the foot of the park, there's a white light. It's not like sunlight, or streetlamps, or headlights. It's just a white light.

It's nice. I went up to it when it first showed up, and it was warm. Just a little bit. Nothing's felt warm since before.

I wonder if you could realise how beautiful it is.

book review: Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies

I wrote a review for The Workhorsery's Alice Hearts Welsh Zombies and put it on Goodreads. Here's the direct link:

Link to my review

The book has its own page here.

#fridayflash: driven

Her mother warned it looked like rain, which just made Pijika more determined to go. As she set off from the old dock at the end of the garden, the lake was smooth and undisturbed, a polished emerald mirror despite the heavy grey sky it lay under.

Pijika always rowed a figure eight shape, at first moving a little to the east, then crossing over the widest part of the lake, rowing right through its green heart. Then she'd cross behind the garden of her best friend Lailit's house and row through the lake's centre again to get home. The route meant that both of her arms would get an equal amount of exercise, and gave her some navigation practice for the school races.

The first two legs of her journey went well, although halfway across the lake the wind picked up and the water got uncomfortably choppy. Pijika rowed on. Every time she pulled the oars, she reminded herself that this too was part of practice.

The rowboat tipped more than she had prepared for when she turned it to cross back to home, and some water slopped into the boat before she could right it and continue rowing. Pijika told herself she didn't mind — after all, the rain was now heavy enough that her feet were already in an ankle-deep puddle.

When she reached the centre of the lake again, the waves were so high and choppy she couldn't row across them. Pijika shipped the oars, and concentrated on shifting her body weight with the rhythm of the waves to keep the boat upright. Storms never lasted long, she reminded herself. The lake wasn't so big that she couldn't let herself drift through the storm and then row home when the worst of the winds had passed.

Her inner ear noticed the tight circles the boat was turning in first. Her eyes confirmed that the rowboat was listing only to its port side, tracing a clockwise spiral stern-first. Pijika clenched the sides of the boat and reminded herself that a true whirlpool on something as small as a lake was impossible, then found herself having to hold the oars to the bottom of the boat with her feet seconds later, when the angle of the list threatened to lift them out. She reassured herself that the centrifugal force of a real whirlpool would have stuck the oars against the bottom.

The motion of the boat in the water seemed to be calming, and she ventured a glance towards the shore. To her horror, she had to look down to see where her house was as the boat slid by that part of the lake.

It wasn't a whirlpool. It was a waterspout.

But the lake's too small! And we don't get storms this bad here, not like this — Pijika clutched harder at the sides of the boat and tried to figure out how to make sure it stayed upright.

So long as she landed over water again, she'd be all right. She tried not to think about what would happen if the storm dropped her on land.

She was so high in the air now that her boat wasn't on water anymore. The waterspout was topped by a spiral of air, spinning her and everything else in it around and around, but travelling too. She was getting dizzy.

The muscles in her arms and shoulders were screaming with tension, but Pijika forced herself to hang on. Whenever the boat tried to shift out of an upright orientation, she would tilt her body the other way to counterbalance.

It seemed to go on forever. Pijika didn't let herself try to determine how long it had been. She just focused on keeping hold of the boat and keeping herself in a safe position.

The drop was sudden, but the direction was not entirely "down". It was as if a giant hand had flung her and the boat towards the horizon, but not so forcefully as to defy gravity. The boat hit the ground hard, sending Pijika headlong into the bow. At the last moment she wrapped her arms around her head, banging her forearms hard against the bow bench.

The boat skidded forward a few metres before coming completely to rest. Pijika tried to right herself, but the pain in her arms made it impossible to move them for a few seconds, and she couldn't rise without bracing herself. She let herself sob out the pain until it subsided a little.

When she did sit upright, the first thing she saw was the cyclone that had carried her away, twisting off into the distance. It took the storm with it. By the time Pijika was able to determine that her arms were only badly bruised, not broken, she was sitting in a sodden boat under a sky full of heavy, but not raining, clouds.

For the first time she took stock of where she was. The lake and any other feature she could recognise were gone. Her little boat sat in the middle of the biggest expanse of long grass Pijika had ever seen. It was pale gold in colour, being blown by the wind chasing the storm into waves that reminded her of the ocean on a blustery day. The land was gently rolling, but disturbingly empty of anything but the dead grass. Never had Pijika seen a landscape without a single tree visible.

She turned to look behind her. At the crest of the next hill, almost at the horizon, she could make out two grey buildings. The smaller one had a chimney, and Pijika could just make out some white smoke coming from it against the grey sky. The larger one stood some ways from the small building, but they seemed so of a piece that Pijika thought they must go together. The buildings seemed the only place she was likely to find any help.

Gingerly she let herself out of the boat, wincing as new bruises and scrapes became apparent. The clouds cracked open to reveal blue sky and a few rays of sunlight. Pijika turned a slow circle, wondering at the place she had landed in.

Her father was a prominent minister in the government. She had been the length and breadth of every province in her country, and knew it like she knew her own back garden.

She definitely wasn't in Oz anymore.

fridayflash: for real

About three days ago I was driving home from work. I'd spent all day working on a computer with "documents" which are formatted for print but will never be printed out. I spent more time talking to people on chat than I did face to face.

During the drive I adjusted the environment controls in the car because the weather was changing, all the while listening to music on my car radio. But the music wasn't coming from a radio station — it was from my phone, which has a low-wattage FM transmitter. And while my phone can be used as a phone, most weeks it spends more time acting as a low-wattage, miniature FM station with a robot DJ that plays this list I made up.

By the time I was three-quarters of the way home, I was starting to feel hungry, and I had a lot of chores to do, so I decided to stop at a restaurant near my house and eat there to save time. The restaurant claims to be a sports bar, but the two sports channels on the six TV screens were just showing crash reels. One station was showing a guy accidentally throwing his golf club instead of hitting the ball. The other one was showing race cars on a track, all crashing into each other because they were trying to avoid a kangaroo that had wandered out onto the racetrack.

And even though the restaurant was making an attempt to be a sports bar by tuning in to these sport stations (that weren't playing any sports), the place was full of mothers with kids. The mothers and kids seemed to be having nice meals out, but none of them were watching the TV screens.

I ordered nachos, which tasted like... restaurant nachos. The chips were green and white. The cheese was plasticky — I couldn't even tell you what kind of cheese it was supposed to be. The salsa didn't look like salsa, so I stuck with the sour cream and the guacamole.

The server left me the bill and a handful of after-dinner mints, which were sweetened with artificial sweeteners and flavoured with artificial flavours. As I waited for the debit card machine to complete the transaction to pay the bill, I looked around the restaurant. There was a little girl glancing from her plate to her mother, saying, "But Mommy, what is it?" From where I was sitting, I couldn't tell either.

Then what happened? Nothing. I drove home, got on my personal computer, did the stuff I had to do.

And then stayed up all night, trying to remember the last time I did something that didn't involve looking through glass — window or screen — or accepting someone else's idea of a comfortable environment.

Can you?

#fridayflash: animal lovers

Brent first spotted her at a café in the west end. She was ordering a latte, but a skinny one, and somehow it just emphasised everything that was so perfect about her — her thin, tanned arms, her long blonde hair, the way her teeth flashed when she laughed. It turned out the buddy he was with used to work at the same company as the girlfriend she was with, so they all sat down together to sip their coffees. An hour later he had her phone number.

Her name was Charlie, and she was the sort of woman who could show up for a date in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and still look like a million bucks. She worked as the book-keeper for a small construction company. As far as Brent was concerned, she could quit that tomorrow and get a job as a model for Victoria's Secret, no problem.

He took her out for dinner and a movie a couple of times, and learned that the jeans-and-suede-boots look wasn't something she had learned out of a magazine. Charlie came from the country, and had grown up helping her parents raise horses. She still had one back on her parents' ranch that was hers, and she showed Brent pictures of it on her cell phone the way that other dates had shown him pictures of their nieces and nephews.

By pure dumb luck, her horse turned out to be a breed he recognised and knew a little about. Charlie gushed more horse trivia at him, and didn't pull away when Brent touched her hand.

"You should come over for dinner," she said. "Next time we get together, I'll fix dinner. Steak and baked potatoes sound good?"

He agreed it did, and they decided on a date and time together.

Brent showed up at precisely five minutes to the appointed hour, with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of red wine in hand. Charlie opened the door to her apartment wearing a black sheath dress, fishnet stockings, and pink terry bunny slippers. With another woman Brent would have been disappointed at the lack of attention to detail, but on her it just looked adorable. She led him to the living room and indicated he should sit on the couch.

One of Charlie's sweaters was on the seat, and Brent glanced down to pick it up and fold it over the back of the couch. When he was seated and looking up again, he found himself eye to eye with the biggest Great Dane he had ever seen.

"That's Mr. Ed," said Charlie. "Are you okay with dogs?"

"Me?" said Brent. "Oh yeah, yeah, we had a black Lab when I was a kid. Mr. Ed — sort of like Mr. T or something?" He craned around the dog's massive skull and tried to estimate how tall the animal would be if it stood on its hind legs.

"He's named after a horse in this old TV show my dad liked to watch when he was a kid," said Charlie. "The horse could talk, but he only talked to this one guy, so the guy could never tell anyone about how he had a talking horse. They have clips on YouTube. It's funnier than it sounds."

"Ah." Brent flashed what he hoped was a winning smile at Charlie, who excused herself to the kitchen. When Brent turned around again, he was staring into the ice-grey eyes of Mr. Ed.

Odd. He'd thought that only huskies and wolves had eyes that colour.

Mr. Ed turned in a very deliberate half-circle and sat down on top of Brent's feet.

"Good doggy," said Brent, scratching him behind the ears. The dog's shoulders extended a good ten centimetres past the top of Brent's lap, and Brent had to reach up slightly to pat him on the head.

Charlie entered the room, carrying two glasses of wine. "Oh look, Mr. Ed likes you," she said, setting the glasses on the coffee table. "So you really are a dog person! I'll just leave you two to get acquainted while I finish the salad." She gave Brent a wink and left again.

Brent tried to shift forward to reach the glass of wine waiting in front of him on the table, but his hamstrings gave out before he made it much past the Great Dane's nose. He flopped back and stared at the paintings of horses Charlie had decorated her living room with. His feet were starting to go numb already.

He tried pulling his feet out from under Mr. Ed, but they wouldn't move. He wiggled his toes, just to make sure he could. The dog turned to stare at him with its frozen-coloured eyes.

"You're massaging my balls when you do that, you know," the dog said.

"What?" The voice had definitely been male, and Mr. Ed's mouth had moved in synch with the words. But a talking dog...

"'What?' is rude. You're supposed to say 'pardon'," said Mr. Ed. "Did you think Charlie's father just named me randomly when he gave me to her?"

"I, ah, um...."

"Everything all right in there?" Charlie called from the kitchen.

"Um, sure, just getting to know Mr. Ed," said Brent. To the dog he hissed, "Why didn't she just put you in the circus or something?"

Mr. Ed licked his nose with his enormous pink tongue. "She doesn't know. I only talk to guys I need to scare off."

"Scare off? Look, I really like Charlie, she's — " Brent stopped as Mr. Ed yawned in his face. With his jaws fully open, it looked like the dog could bite off Brent's face in one chomp.

"Dinner's ready!" At the sound of Charlie's voice, Mr. Ed woofed and launched himself off of Brent's shins. Brent stood up, and then found that he was having a hard time walking. There was no sensation left in his feet at all. He gingerly picked up the wine glasses and shuffled to the dining room.

Ninety minutes later, Charlie skidded her pink terry bunny slippers through the motions of tidying the kitchen. "Oh Ed, why do they always scare off after I have them over for dinner? I get too serious too fast, don't I?" She shut the dishwasher door and bent down to give the Great Dane a hug.

Mr. Ed gave a soft, intentionally ambiguous woof.

location, location: #200

This is my 200th blog post! Quite frankly, I never thought I would stick with the idea for so long.

The Eyrea had a previous incarnation on LiveJournal back in the day, but I wound up deleting it after a few months. My needleworking friends complained I wrote too much about writing and film, and my storytelling friends complained I wrote too much about knitting. So on 1 April 2008, I launched DIY-eyrea for all the posts about knitting, cooking, beadwork, and experimenting with fixing up my apartment. This blog launched on the same day for everything else.

I've been thinking a lot about setting lately, both temporal and spatial. The Beach, my neighbourhood, is a bit of a jumble: most of the buildings are from the 1920s, when this was a place to rent or buy a summer apartment to get away from the downtown core. The Fox Theatre has been a cinema since about 1919 (I've heard conflicting dates, but it's at least 80 years old). But there's also an 18th-century farmhouse and loads of more modern buildings. Tourists still ask after the amusement park that was dismantled by 1930 (no, I don't know where they get their info either).

The Beach has shown up as a setting in a few novels. The most famous location is probably the R.C. Harris water treatment plant  that Michael Ondaatje used for the climax of In the Skin of a Lion.

So blog post #200 is about the Beach:

Usually the first thing people ask when they get here is, "Where's the beach?". Kew Gardens is a good place to start. It has a path that leads directly from Queen St. to the beach proper.

Queen St. is hiding behind those trees at the top of the path. The corner of the building on the right is the public library — one of the circa-1920s buildings, although it had a major renovation a few years ago.

The most famous "Beach" local landmark is the Leuty lighthouse. I deliberately took this shot from the opposite of the angle almost all the calendars, flags, paintings, pins, cards, etc. etc. favour. The fence in front demarcates where the off-leash dog run is.

The western edge of the dog run and the lake.

The nigh-constantly morphing stone sculpture. This time the stones are laid out as a labyrinth, but more often they are piled into little towers and other shapes. Some people have told me in very serious tones that it's an ongoing project by a local artist, and that anyone with any respect for creativity would never touch or alter it. Other people have told me it's sort of a communal hobby of the local teenagers. Either way, I like walking along the boardwalk every few weeks and checking what shape it's in this time. I love how the seagulls added themselves as accessories to the stones in the above photo. They were just hanging out like that, not moving much.

Probably what I like best about the above photo is that if someone were to stand on that spot on the boardwalk and make a quarter-turn to the west, they could see the downtown skyline with the CN tower and all the banking skyscrapers, only about ten kilometres away. The Beach is like living in a small resort town, except the city is all around it.

Even the new houses have laneways and garages at the back. You only see the houses and lanes set up like this in old Toronto neighbourhoods, although I have read the layout is becoming more popular in the suburbs too.

This neighbourhood has lots of oak trees in it, and they're still planting them. The tree bearing these acorns is in front of a house less than fifteen years old.

#fridayflash: malfunction

"Did it arrive?" Jeff set the tablet down on the floor and set it to holographic speakerphone. He watched Grace's head turn towards where the arrival pad must be.

She had her poker face on. That meant he was still trapped.

"Um, the arrival pad received something, yes," said Grace. "So that's better than half an hour ago."

"What do you mean, 'something'?"

"I don't know what you tried to send. Don't bite my head off."

Jeff swore and smacked his fist against the nearest wall. The wall was made of steel three centimetres thick, and it hurt like hell. "It was a sock. Grace, I need to teleport the hell out of here before I lose it."

"The departure pad is sending data now. Things are progressing. Worst comes to worst, they'll send in a rescue team for you. The arrival pad still works, after all. It's not like we can't get supplies to you."

"It will take the team weeks to get here."

"Better than nothing. What the hell did Askworth do to the departure pad, anyhow?"

"He shot it."

"Shot it?"

"With a revolver. You know, a gun. He was aiming at me and I hit the floor before he could pull the trigger."

"Where the hell did he find bullets? Those things haven't been made for decades."

"They're metal. They keep."

The hologram of Grace's head tilted to one side and frowned.

"Take a picture of the bullet damage for me."

Jeff turned off the hologram, picked up the tablet, and took a photo of the departure pad. The bullet had gone right through the shield glass, and swirl of random energy frequencies formed a warped spectrum over the floor, even when the departure pad wasn't active, like now. Jeff wouldn't have stepped into it if his life depended on it.

Grace gave a low whistle. "Yeah, that's going to be easier to just replace and then diagnose back at a shop."

"Can't you just send me the pieces of a new one, tell me how to assemble the thing? I've got time to kill."

"What, you were a mechanic before you were an Interpol agent?"

"Well, no."

"Look, your boss still wants the report about what happened and what the status is."

"At least that will give me something to do." Jeff sat on the floor and glanced over at Askworth's corpse. The blood on and around it had mostly dried, which was something. "Do they want the body, or could I try and send Askworth over to you?"

"Um, maybe put him in the freezer or something?"

"Thanks." Jeff cut the connection.

Askworth's lab had two freezers. One was for his experiments, and one was for food. Neither of them was near big enough to hold a human body.

Jeff tossed a lab coat over Askworth's face, and wondered how he was going to make it through the next few weeks with his sanity intact. He punched up the report writer on his tablet and started figuring out what to make official.

#fridayflash: morning

The alarm woke Andy when it always did, way too goddamn early. A quick glance through the sheer bedroom curtains found the blue-black sky of pre-dawn staring back at him. For the thousandth time he grieved that beds were always at their warmest and most comfortable just when you had to leave them, then slowly eased out from under the covers. Michelle muttered and rolled over on her side of the bed, but didn't wake up.

Andy quickly pulled on his uniform coveralls and a thick pair of cotton socks, then grabbed his tablet off the nightstand and stumbled to the washroom. There was the usual text from Donna, confirming she was on her way to the hub. Good, because he was running a little late. He propped the tablet up against the vanity mirror and glanced over the local weather and news while he shaved and brushed his teeth. When he saw how cold it was, he slipped back into the bedroom and found his favourite pair of thin wool socks by feel.

Socks and tablet in hand, he made his way to the front hall, checking in on the kids as he passed by their bedrooms. They were both fast asleep. He hoped for Michelle's sake they would stay that way until she had a chance to get ready for work and wake them up.

He pulled the wool socks over his cotton ones. His work boots were a bit tight with the extra layer, but not painfully so. He shrugged into his fall coat, checked his tuque, gloves, and wallet were stuffed into the pockets he remembered putting them in, and headed out.

By the time he walked to the hub, the sky had turned the dark grey of pre-dawn, and he could see a lighter streak in the east, just above the stands of pine trees that surrounded the town. Andy palmed the entrance lock and let himself into the break room.

The only person in the room so far was Donna. They nodded a greeting to each other, and Donna cocked her head to point out she had already left his first coffee on the nearest table. Andy picked it up and, between sips, helped her lay out the boxes of doughnuts and yogurt cups on the counter. Donna had already put the bread beside the toasters and started the big coffee maker. His and Donna's brew came from a small maker with a schedule feature that she always prepped at the end of every shift.

The rest of the crew arrived in twos and threes, checking if the coffee was ready and helping themselves to breakfast. Walter sat with Andy in their usual spots, watching Andy use his tablet to run an RFID scan on his toolbox.

"You always check it before you go home," said Walter. "Why do you check it again in the morning?"

Andy shrugged. "Shit happens." He glanced up and saw a pale sunbeam filter through the nearest window.

The entire crew was now sitting at tables, drinking coffee and sharing news with each other over their tablets. There were a few conversations, but mostly people watched holograms together and made comments.

"Okay, but did you see the speech she gave two days ago? Here..."

"No shit, eh?"

"If that asshole gets red-carded one more time this season..."

"Flip that to me, will ya? I'm gonna send it to Trudy. That's hilarious."

Andy's tablet flashed red. "Schedule's here." He swiped his way down it. "Sonuvabitch."

"What?" said Walter. His own tablet had just flashed.

"Frank's got us going to Saskatoon and Orlando this morning, and then Phoenix and Montreal this afternoon."

Walter snorted. "Want to call him up?"

"Better." Andy tapped a few spots on the tablet. Frank's head appeared as a hologram above it.

"Hey guys," said Frank. "The schedules are just getting distributed now."

"We know," said Andy. "Any way we can rearrange ours? Do the warm-weather places in the morning, then the cold ones this afternoon? Or the other way around?"

"Sec." Walter and Andy watched Frank's head glance down at an unseen display. "Like that, you mean?" Their tablets flashed red again.

Walter checked his screen and nodded at Andy.

"Thanks boss," said Andy, and cut the signal.

"So now it's Orlando/Phoenix, and then Montreal/Saskatoon," said Walter.

Andy grunted. "That'll make the walk home less harsh."

The two men drained their coffees and put the cups in the dishwasher on the way out. The locker room was noisier since it was awkward for the crew members to work a tablet and put on their weather gear at the same time.

Andy and Walter pulled their toolboxes to the departure pad.

"Got the map?"

"Closest working pad is two blocks south."

"Two blocks? Doesn't sound like a nice neighbourhood."

They took turns holding their tablets up to the departure scanner and teleporting.

Walter shook his head as they got their bearings and started walking to the broken pad stop. "Look at the cracks in the pavement. You'd think if they weren't going to use it for driving anymore, they'd put paving stones or gravel or something on top."

Andy spotted a row of mangy-looking palm trees in the distance, highlighted by the brilliant blue of the morning sky. They were walking by rows of old hotels, now converted to low-income housing. Since teleportation had become the norm, most families just teleported straight to Disney World in the morning and went home in the evening. Only the diehards who wanted to go to more than one park stayed overnight, usually right at the Disney resort.

"Some places are adjusting better than others. I just hope this isn't another vandalism."

Walter shrugged. "Ours is not to wonder why."

i am my own librarian

I got into a brief but very interesting Twitter conversation with John Wiswell and Helen Howell the other night. John started it by mentioning the conflict of liking a specific book which may belong to a genre one generally dislikes (here's what he actually tweeted). It got me thinking though: hence this blog post.

Underneath the kitchen sink in my small apartment is a blue plastic recycling bin that is, by some counts, not a recycling bin at all. It's a stackable box I picked up for about $5 in the IKEA children's section. I just got it because I needed a recycling bin that fit under my sink, and it's the right colour and shape so visitors can tell what it's for.

Has this particular type of bin ever been marketed for recycling in small apartments? No.

Has this particular type of bin ever been advertised as being something adults may find useful even if they don't have any children? No.

But it's my recycling bin now, and it's been that for fifteen years. It works great.

That's okay at IKEA, because they even hack their own stuff, never mind having customers do their own hacks. But then there's the time that I bought a large-faced, longer-strapped Swatch watch. As a tall, big woman, it made sense to buy a watch more in proportion, with, well, me.

After I'd paid, the saleslady said, "Um, you do realise that's a man's watch, right?"

"It's mine now," I said, and that was that. I wore that watch for ten years, and the saleslady was the very last person ever to comment on its supposedly inherent masculinity.

And so it goes for a lot of things. On the director's commentary of the Star Trek DVD, J.J. Abrams said he included the Kirk birth scene at the beginning to draw women into the story, yet female Trek fans are famous as their own SF subculture. Why attempt to "draw" women to something they're already predisposed to like? Oh right, because marketers say that women don't like action films or SF films on their own — they have to be dragged to them by their boyfriends/husbands.

Robert J. Sawyer wrote a brilliant trilogy about a parallel universe where Neanderthals are the surviving hominid species, and had at its heart a wonderful romance plot. Audrey Niffenegger wrote a brilliant time travel novel about a married couple. Somehow, at least in the bookshops I've been to in person and on-line, Sawyer's work gets put in Science Fiction & Fantasy, while Niffenegger's is put in Romance. Yet they're both science fiction works that effectively use a romance between two major characters to move the plot. Having read both the entire Hominids trilogy and the Niffenegger novel, and having loved both about equally, all I can think is that it comes down to marketing. I suppose one could argue that the initiating action on Sawyer's work is from an invention, whereas the initiating action in Niffenegger's is a biological reaction, but that's a bit of hair-splitting. Substitute in The Chrysalids for the Hominids trilogy if it really bothers you.

The point is, it seems we are expected to swallow the marketing, the spin on something, as much as the something that the marketing is supposed to persuade us to buy. And it gets ugly, very quickly. "That toy's for girls." "Those are men's socks." "Harry Potter is for kids, not adults who read real literature." "Americans like that much sugar in their soda."

It's bizarre, because if the product was pushed ahead of the demographic, they might sell more of the things. I remember that my best friend in high school wanted to have a McDonald's birthday party for her eighteenth birthday as a sort of "farewell to childhood" gag event. All of her friends were into it, and she successfully organised the event with the local McDonald's — until we showed up for the party. The restaurant manager was furious with us, even when we offered to forego some of the extra service usually offered because the attendees were typically small children. How dare we buy something outside of our demographic?

If we can legally buy it, what the hell would anyone care if they're selling it? They're still making money from us.

As consumers, we're warned that businesses will try to make money from us any way they can. The demographic segmentation of products and services — including products and services which are nominally interchangeable before the marketing labels get slapped on them — makes me suspect otherwise.

I don't think there's an actual conspiracy going on. I just think certain people don't like having their apple carts upset by people making their own choices.