If I ever start a story with the line “My sister and I…”, buckle up. We have some strange adventures. For example, last weekend my sister and I went shopping for an anvil and came home with two armloads of old books. That story is coming in a future newsletter.
But let’s jump into this story.
My sister and I were on a road trip, driving close to the edge of the Earth. We hadn’t seen a house for 5 miles. We hadn’t even seen a cow for 5 miles. The only living things in sight were two antelopes racing across a far hill.
Not to worry. We weren’t bored; we were talking. Then I looked down at the speedometer. I was driving 80 mph.
“Oh, man,” I said and immediately lifted. Lifted is a racing term I learned from my husband. I don’t race. Except maybe when driving at the edge of the Earth.
As I lifted, we flew past a crossroad with a state patrolman sitting at the stop sign.
He pulled me over. He walked up to my window. “Do you know why I stopped you?”
“I was going too fast,” I said, and he nodded. “How fast did you catch me at?” I wondered if I had managed to slow down at all before he clocked me.
“Eighty.”
“Yeah,” I said.
He took the usual stack of paperwork back to his car. When he handed it back to me, he leaned down and looked into the car. I don’t think my sister waved at him, but, knowing her, she might have. Then he said, “Use your cruise control after this.”
He walked back to his car and pulled away. No ticket. No warning ticket.
My sister and I both took a deep breath as he drove over the next hill.
I owe that nameless patrolman big time.
And that’s why I have given my sister permission to nag me about the cruise control.
Meet Ryven Ashcroft who fixes gas masks in a world where the air can kill you. Today, he gets a break. His biggest problem is a chess-playing drone.
*****
The chess set looked like it had escaped the teeth of a wood chipper. Barely.
Outside, the toxic Murk swirled yellow against the windows.
Ryven sat beside a small table and scratched his head. “Which bottle cap is my queen?” If he was going to play, he planned to win.
“The green one,” Edl said, not looking up from his remote.
“There are three green ones.”
Edl had to look. “Gyro oil. Hang on. Jinks isn’t ready.” A small drone that resembled a spider hovered over the chess pieces.
Jinks has opinions about chess. Not all of them are legal.
Ryven ignored him and slid the oil cap to a cracked square in the center of the board. Had he just moved a knight? Or a pawn? “Your turn.”
“Jinks’ turn, you mean.” Edl slid his thumb over the remote and then squeezed his eyes to focus on the chess board.
“Well, make your move,” Ryven said.
“He’s thinking.”
They both watched Jinks dip down and knock over a skinny can of seal compound. The can clattered onto the floor and rolled under a chair.
“What kind of play was that?”
“E7,” Edl said.
“In whose world?” Ryven grabbed a coolant lid and set it on a square. “That is E7.”
“Vintage rules. Jinks uses modern rules.” Edl slid his thumb on the remote again. Jinks beeped and then hovered again. It darted to the board and grabbed a fork.
“Is that your rook?” Ryven said. “What mastermind takes his own piece?” Switching from vintage rules to modern ones took some concentration that he didn’t intend to give.
Edl leaned close to Jinks. “Drop it.” The fork clattered onto the board, scattering pieces like a mini explosion.
They both stared at the cleared board.
Then Edl raised his free hand in the air. “Good job, Jinks! Check mate!”
******
Jinks is just getting warmed up. So is Ryven. Sign up here.
In a world far, far away, in a time nearly forgotten, my college roommate, Phyllis, and I buckled on skis to ride a T-bar lift.
T-bar lifts are extinct today. (That’s not accurate. See the footnote if you care.)
Back then, T-bars ferried skiers to the top of the mountain while weeding out the unworthy.
You’ll have to decide that part.
A T-bar requires two skiers to step into the loading area, grab a vertical pole attached to overhead cables, and stand as the crossbar hits your thighs.
Here are the rules:
Rule #1: Don’t sit on the bar.
Rule #2: Keep your skis pointed straight forward at all times.
Rule #3: Keep your balance while the terrain bucks like ocean waves under your feet.
Rule #4: Choose the right person for the trip up the mountain.
We stepped into the loading area and up we went. I slid up the incline, my skis holding straight.
Phyllis’ skis, on the other hand, began making giant S-curves on the slope. “Whoooooaaaaa,” she yelled.
I clung to the center pole until the T-bar bucked, twisting to the side, and dumping me onto the snow. The heel of my ski caught on the crossbar , dragging me up the mountain on my back.
After some frantic kicking, I broke free of the t-bar and rolled to the side through deep powder to escape the next pair of skiers.
I lost track of Phyllis.
I finally shoved through the trees and stood at the edge of the wide slope.
As I was resettling my goggles, which were resting more on my ear than my nose, Phyllis skied to a stop beside me.
She gave me a once-over. “What happened to you?” She had righted the T-bar after it dumped me and made it to the top of the slope. Now she looked like a sleek skier while I looked like a snowball.
I could have pointed out that she broke Rule #2 and #3. I could have complained about snow dribbling off my stocking cap.
But I had broken Rule #4. And that might have been the most important one.
Footnote: Today, out of approximately 2,400 ski lifts in the USA, only 88 are T-bars. They’re cheaper to install and operate. But they have more rules.
Things started when I received a patch from Dan Daetz after I backed his Kickstarter for The Hole Man. It had vivid gold letters, a striking jet image, and the words “Sci Fi Jet Pilot.” This could not stay in my desk drawer.
I snagged an Air Force colonel’s jacket from an estate sale and reached out to my sister, who sewed on the emblem with her machine.
Then a badge arrived from another author friend, A.J. Eliot, for her Kickstarter book, Windrider. I knew this patch needed to go on the uniform, too, plus I had a deadline.
I wanted to wear the blazer to a writers’ conference where I’d see A.J. I procrastinated but finally reached into my sewing box. It consisted of four microscopic spools of thread and a tomato pin cushion with all the pins driven to their necks.
And one needle that was already threaded. My miracle needle. Trying to push a thread the size of a hair through a hole the size of two hairs is a great way to spend your evening.
I didn’t have to do that, so I sewed. The strand got shorter and shorter. When I tried to knot the thread, I found out there wasn’t enough left.
I tossed the blazer over a chair. The patch stayed in place so I was set.
I flew to the writer’s conference and got many comments on the jacket and emblems.
During a session, I hung the coat over my chair and a writer sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “Do you know that you have a needle hanging on the inside of your jacket?”
That forgotten needle. I shoved the point into thicker fabric.
I had already gone through security and flown about 1000 miles crammed in a tight seat with this needle dangling inside my jacket. I had to shed my belt, my watch, and a necklace to get through the security gate, but the needle didn’t trigger a single alarm.
My trip home included the same airport security and the same 1000 miles. The needle never registered an alert.
It hasn’t poked me once, so I haven’t tackled the next step yet.
We’re starting to become buddies. I am honoring two authors and a miracle needle at the same time.
A friend of mine recently told me how she hates to run, but does it anyway.
This friend is a kindred spirit. She’s slow. Me, too. She hates treadmills. Me, too. Running is boring. Yep.
But she’s been running circuits in her backyard, and I thought I ought to offer her the 5K experience for a change of pace. Pun intended.
Climbing Mount Everest
If you haven’t run a 5K, you might think it’s like climbing Mount Everest.
You’d be right.
When I started, I found an app called Couch to 5K, which promised to have me ready for my first 5K in eight weeks. It worked, and I ran a 5K two months later.
The People You Meet
So I plan to tell my friend about the app and also about the interesting people you can meet. For example, at one 5K, the first runner across the finish line then ran the race backwards, then ran it again forward.
Which meant I got lapped twice.
Yeah. Interesting.
In the off-season, the high school cross-country team might even join us. There’s nothing more exciting than watching a 16-year-old sprint the 5K as fast as I can run a mile.
If We Run Anyway
I use the term run lightly. It’s more like “getting double-lapped” running.
If I convince my friend to join the 5K experience, we’d get fresh air, strong lungs, muscular legs.
When you think of the sounds of Christmas, you may think of the gentle guitar tones of “Silent Night” or the wistful notes of “Silver Bells.”
I have young kids rushing through my house regularly so I get to hear other sounds. Like Big Mouth Billy Bass, for example.
I had hoped yet again this Christmas to find out how rich Christmas could be without this rubber fish flopping on a wooden plaque while emitting holiday songs.
It was not meant to be.
The Ghost of Christmas Gifts Past
A seven-year-old boy uncovered Big Mouth Billy Bass in a box of hidden Christmas ornaments. You haven’t lived ’til you have seen a fake fish sing “Jingle Bells” with his tail flipping in time. Punctuated by “YeeHaw.” I blame my sister for Billy being in my garage.
The seven-year-old wanted to know how Billy worked and why I didn’t have this fish mounted front and center already.
The Fatal Mistake
One of my character flaws is not being able to think of a misdirection quickly enough.
I told him Billy was a nuisance. That didn’t deter him. I said it was goofy. He didn’t care. So I added, “It doesn’t work because it needs batteries.”
I know, I know. That was not a smart answer. But this thing was so old that I assumed I didn’t have the right batteries in the house.
The Encore
I was wrong. He found four fresh C batteries in the back of the junk drawer.
Billy Bass rejoined the world of the living.
When it comes to Christmas animals, one time is never enough. Kids push the red button so Billy sings over and over and over until the adults smash the gadget to smithereens. Theoretically.
Christmas is always a memorable time of the year. Especially with children around.
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