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January 28, 2008
Dave: On His Majesty's Secret Service
Her mission was near complete. She'd managed to get to the little town in time for the pirate raid, allowing herself to be captured. Now she was queued for the auction block, their eyes hot upon her, though only one pair interested her. She'd been well briefed on what he liked -- her make-up, her auburn-dyed locks, her dress ... she knew he'd outbid them all for her.
She fingered the knife in her sleeve. When she brought his head back to London, they'd pay her a pretty penny.
"We wants the red head!" She smiled as they chanted. "We wants the red head! ..."
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January 31, 2008
Dave: Perfection
It had been a long time coming. Carefully, each day, she'd crafted it -- considering, rejecting, analyzing, mulling, and finally coming up with one small addition to the overall structure, one precisely delivered gem or twisted wire to the whole that would be her masterpiece.
She knew the others had given up on her. They rushed-rushed-rushed, churning out "product." Her's, though, would be exquisite, fabulous, the stuff of legends. And it was nearly complete.
After a few, prayerful moments, eye closed, breathing deeply, she typed at last, "thundrous."
She counted once more. One hundred days. One hundred words.
She clicked "Save."
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February 1, 2008
Dave: A full house
The voice over the phone was muffled, distorted. "The topic," it -- she? -- said. "It's been sitting there since Friday."
"What --?"
"The topic has been waiting for you. You're the the only one left."
"So?"
"We know where you live. You don't want us to visit."
I was quiet for several long moments. "What do you want?"
"Your response to the topic." A chuckle. "Some say if everyone responds, it will bring about the Last Days."
"Are you sure?"
"No. But you can be sure of the consequences if you do nothing."
I sighed. "I'll post right away."
"I look forward to it. Good night."
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February 4, 2008
Dave: Words of Wisdom
Socrates was without a doubt the most philosophically profound of all the ancients of Greece, his thoughts and arguments were by his associates, Xenophon, Plato, Aristotle, Aristophanes, and Shœkes. Shœkes, known as "Sheckie" to his friends, passed down to posterity the midnight teachings of Socrates, which the philosopher passed on to his audiences, standing before them at small theaters whilst they sipped their ouzo and retsina. He appeared there many nights, sometimes all week, telling his subtle mythological parables, the most famous of which always led off his talks: A centaur, a satyr, and a sphinx walk into a bar ...
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February 5, 2008
Dave: November Surprise
The Democratic ticket had, of course, the support of Big Labor, the liberal media, the puppet-waving activists, the minorities and disenfranchised and lazy, the French, and the whining and dining Hollywood celebrities.
The Republican ticket, naturally, had the support of Big Business, the conservative media, the Bible-thumpers, the homophobes and xenophobes, the Saudis, and the gun nuts.
Polls showed both sides neck-and-neck right down to Election Day. Nobody realized, though, the power of a casual catch phrase. Nor did anyone predict how many people actually would vote the independent ticket of Fred Early and Cecilia Often.
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February 6, 2008
Dave: On the Way to a Mystery
Roger saw the windshield shatter before the sound of the gunshot reached them. He highly respected his wife's speed, but his reflexes were honed in the war, his reaction was nearly without thought. "Cover!" he shouted, tackling Chrys down to the gravelly dirt of the road, behind the car.
"Ow," glared Chrys.
"Blame them for getting your dress dirty, not me," Roger said. Another window shattered, followed by another crack. "Sniper rifle, big caliber," he commented, head cocked. "Not US Army. Not Krauts, either."
"Why," asked Chrys, "would ghosts use guns?"
"Better yet, how are we going avoid becoming ghosts ourselves?"
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March 3, 2008
Dave: Keeping the Home Fires Burning
"My 'husband.' Rutting about all day and night. Just simply disgustiing," Hera muttered, shaking her head.
The other goddesses gathered about nodded, making little agreement noises.
"Rolling around with mortals -- as a swan, a bull, a shower of gold, other more outlandish garbs."
Tongues clucked disapproval and disdain.
"While I remain an emblem of the home and hearth, thus forced to be chaste."
Murmurs of sympathy, support, and
"Why, I hear he even lies with some of you, my sister gods, to boost the pantheon's numbers. Can you believe it?"
Silence, punctuated only by a few nervous titters. A cough. A sigh.
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March 4, 2008
Dave: Round and Round They Go
I opened the front door to the polite knock. The creature there was fair of visage, softly glowing in the afternoon light, luminescent of skin and shimmering of hair. Also, frowning of face.
"Yes?" I asked of the elf.
He nodded. "I am Elenthel, son of Almithrien of Gildarion. My comrades and I --"
I looked past him. Along the sidewalk was a small party on foot and ahorse, similarly with the glowy and shimmer. I waved. They looked gravely back.
"-- well, we were wondering. We've been walking, sailing, processing into the West, for ages untold."
"Yes?"
"Well -- are we there yet?"
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March 26, 2008
Dave: Sing, O Muse
"I wrote you a love song."
She glanced up from her book in surprise. "You did?"
"Yeah, it's not very good." He stood up, cleared his throat, and croaked out a few lines. His voice wasn't strong, his pitch wavered, his sense of rhythm was occasional, and the lyrics were -- well, there weren't any poets laureate out there worrying.
He trailed off, looking at her, watching her face. "It, um, it's not very good, I guess. Maybe if I could play guitar or something --"
She smiled at him, got up, and took his hands. "Enough with the love singing. Let's start with the love dancing."
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March 27, 2008
Dave: Mission Statement
"Earth? Never heard of it."
"Queer little world in Sector 47. Dihydrox-carbon biology, main tool users have recently discovered atomic theory and how to send out crude robot probes, though they're socio-politically a mess."
"No wonder I've never heard of it."
"Your race is lucky. They've been polluting certain wave-bands something awful the last twelve rotations, and it's your job to do something about it."
"Any suggestions?"
"Well, either give them a tech boost so that they use the sub-bands, or telepathy, or advance beyond mass broadcast culture. Either that, or extinct them."
"Swell. Anything else?"
"Don't drink the water. You'll explode."
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