A couple of years ago, I wrote a relatively long short story called Crutch. I’ve reworked it a couple of times, but I also know that there’s a lot of information and a lot of back story that might make it more interesting. I also know that if I set a goal of posting a page or two here every week, then I’ll  have the impetus to polish it into something quite nice.

Getting off the front of the bus and mostly sober now, the young man doesn’t much heed the apology of the trench-coated woman who knocks his leg with her cane as they take different directions. He’s still in his head trying to recall the name of a song the DJ at the club recommended.

The late spring night is warm and moonless, but he can only see a few stars between the white light of the sodium lamps and the porch lights triggered by the motion sensors everyone seems to have bought in the last few years. He continues in the same direction the bus had been traveling while she in dark soft boots turns right at the corner. The sweat of a night spent almost entirely on the dance floor encrusts his tight black t-shirt and his short black hair no longer holds its gelled spikes. A well-worn denim jacket hangs limply from an elbow. He keeps to the lit parts of the pavement although he sees no one about regardless who would help should there be trouble.

He doesn’t notice the trench coated woman fall in step into the shadows behind him. He remembers the fire that took out three of the houses on the next corner, where his apartment building now stands. He remembers the hook and ladder and the heat and the permeating smell of kerosene.

Turning up his own block, his heart starts to pump harder than it had all night as if, he thought, someone had spiked his last whiskey with a great hit of niacin. He wonders if the boyfriend of that dreadlocked girl he’d talked up had slipped him one. Nearing the gate to his apartment complex, he gasps a last time, trying to wrap a fist around his heart, and falls in a quiet heap to the pavement.

No lights come on as the trench-coated woman hurries to the young man and examines the wound she’d given his leg. She sees a trickle of blood, but the wound is otherwise clear. Clicking a radio on her wrist, she says crisply, “Number 12 down, boss.”

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

I’ve not jumped in to NaNoWriMo this year – have some other writing-related opportunities on the radar, and trying to clean up some older material. below is the most recent exercise for my writing group. A friend posted the opening sentence to his blog feed with a link to a music article. The music article linked to a Wikipedia entry. I just loved the sentence so much I suggested it to the group. We all hated it as a fiction prompt because none of us write/have yet written science fiction to speak of. That said, I feel that what I came up with may lend itself to a future longer piece…

“It’s time for you to re-familiarize yourself with the suppressed decade known as 19A0 and the Phantom Time Hypothesis.”

Keren didn’t precisely hate her Fundamentals of Time Travel course. The whole first week had felt like a rehash of what they already knew. The entrance exams assumed knowledge of the hypotheses already. It was more that the entire degree program required her to learn a lot of theory that had nothing to do with building time machines. All she’d ever wanted to do was design and build Time Travel Devices since she could distinguish past from future. All her aspirations hung on the degree and all its theory. Legally, however, practice had to wait.

“When Wozniak patented the crashless engine in 1985…” The professor whose name Keren couldn’t manage to remember sensed confusion and stopped a moment. “1985 Original,” he continued, “what we’re now calling 19A5 to specify the fifth year of the first of the sealed decades. When Wozniak patented the crashless engine, he threw several industries into a panic. It wasn’t long before the people were baying for a crashless economy.”

“But sir,” a classmate piped up, “that was 234 years (objective) ago. We’ve only had crashless engines for sixty years.”

“Sixty-three, son. And this is why we talk of various time hypotheses. Who can name the seven time hypotheses?”

Keren already understood the basics of the seven theories on which most time travel scientists depended, and started talking before the professor pointed at her raised her hand. “Pseudo-Real, Real, Imaginary, Actual, Phantom, Uncertain, and Stratified, sir.”

“And under which hypothesis do we discuss a 234 year old crashless engine, young lady?”

“Keren Moss, sir. Under both Stratified and Actual. The sealed periods fall under Real, Pseudo-real and Phantom.”

“Good. But impertinent. Surely they’ve taught you to wait until called upon to speak.”

 * * *

 As the lecture hall emptied, Keren started chatting with a young man who was walking alone from building. “We already know the names of the hypotheses and the underpinnings of each one. In mnemonic order and in orders of importance. But at a certain point…”

“I know,” the boy replied, “All the hypotheses run together – the equations all look the same. I’m Shan. What’s your name?”

“I’m Keren. It’s not that bad. Show me one equation and I can usually tell you what hypo it goes with. But, come on, Strat and Actual are the only ones that really matter in practical TTD construction. Why do we have to get into it with all the others?”

“That may be so, but all the big firms want you to show you can analyse the lot within an inch of their propositions.”

That was Keren’s problem: All the program’s studies pointed to the dreaded Seven-Level Exam. They’d heard horror stories. The admissions packet even contained an FAQ to address these.

“Do we really have to take the exam naked?”

“No. Should you be invited to take the Seven-Level Exam at the end of your studies, you will arrive at the testing centre on the appointed day, at which point you will change from your street clothes into an examining jump-suit. All supplies you need to take the exam (pencils, pencil sharpener, and paper) are provided in the testing room.”

The student then had to prove each of the hypotheses to the extent known with no recourse to any calculating equipment. Full credit on at least five and nothing less than partial credit on the other two, or you could kiss goodbye any dreams you might have entertained of TTD design. Any time travel you wanted to do at that point, you had to pay for.

The mechanicals firms would look at your CV if you earned full credit on the right three. Less than that and you might as well resign yourself to being a retail time machine grease monkey. Passing the program’s entrance exam got you that far, though.

“Shan, I’ve been building limited TTDs since I was six years old. I outgrew the 12/100 law when I was 8. All I’ve wanted for thirteen years is to program and build the reals ones. For the love of Ford, I have more practical knowledge wasting out of my fingertips than 80% of the kids in that lecture hall combined.”

“You’re way ahead of me, Keren, and my mom’s a programmer for Muscis Temporis. If I’d been able to transport a hundred grams of anything twelve seconds into the future, much less twelve minutes, my family would have jumped for joy. The machines I was able to build, back when they let me, had to have fire-proofing. If I don’t make it through the exams, they might as well pack me off to Middle Ages. And mom probably will.

“Wait a minute, Shan. Your mom’s a Time Fly? She must have been top of her class. Which school did she go to? What year?”

The founders of Muscis Temporis thought they were very clever naming their firm with the Latin for Flies of Time. The puns got worse from there, though. Entry-level programmers were even called Maggots. At least it made sense once the promotions came around to be able to say you’d earned your wings. The hiring agents at Muscis Temporis, however, required a full Seven. No partial credit. This is one of the ways they became the premier manufacturer of Time Travel Devices – most students aspired to being Time Flies, no matter what their actual proficiency.

“Oh great,” Shan groaned. “Another fan-girl.”

“I’m sorry, Shan. It must be hard on you.” She wanted to be sympathetic, but couldn’t help continuing, “That said, I’d donate major organs to be a Time Fly.”

“Keren, my parents would donate my organs for me to be a Time Fly. I’ll be happy to get out of the program alive. Heck, I’d be happy flipping burgers for Genghis Khan. TTD design is my mom’s dream, not mine”

“Wow, I’m really sorry to hear that. If you don’t mind my asking, did they pull strings to get you into the program? Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”

“No, that’s okay, Keren. I figure we’ll be in this together for a while. You may as well know where I’m coming from. They did not pull strings, but I took an extra year off after finishing my undergrad. My parents got me private tutors and all I did was TTD maths and TTD history for the year leading up to the entrance exams. I lived and breathed TTD for that entire time.” He stopped as though stung by the memory.

“I walked out of it knowing I’d passed. Well enough to get in here? That I don’t know.”

Keren understood that too. She didn’t receive a test result, per se, but a list of schools that would accept her based on the exam results. Westmore was listed in green at the top of her list, meaning the school she was now attending would take her with an application. Blue, black, yellow, and red followed based on likelihood of acceptance. “What colour was Westmore on your results card?”

“Black. They weren’t going to offer me a scholarship, but they were happy to take me on as a full paying customer. And mom didn’t’ blink when it was time to write the first check.”

The two students had walked the length of the small campus from the lecture buildings to the residences. Outside the dining hall they stopped in front of the menu board. The sun was setting and Shan offered, “Given that the folks are covering tuition and expenses, can I buy you a tray of, um.” He waved at the list, “Um, some of that stuff?”

As noted, in my writing group one peson comes up with a prompt and everyone in the group produces something based on the prompt. A few months ago, the prompt was a random page from Coriolanus (the end of Act I, Scene 1 as it turns out) and the suggestion to pick a bit of it and create some fiction. I chose the following lines and came up with the bit below.

‘Half all Cominius’ honours are to Marcius.
Though Marcius earned them not, and all his faults
To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed
In aught he merit not.’

-=-=-=

Connor was lying on his stomach on the top bunk of the bed he shared with his brother Mark. The room was less of a mess than it could sometimes get because every afternoon Connor put his brother’s stuff away to keep anyone from tripping on it. Occasionally a toy car or a discarded sweatshirt would trip him in the middle of the night. How did his little brother manage to sleep through when he always had to get up and tiptoe to the bathroom? The house they lived in with their father and his new girlfriend was small enough that they had to share a room. They never had to share a room when they lived with mom and dad together, but now in this two bedroom house on the south side, they had to take every care. The house itself was clapboard and creaked enough in the wind that it was a wonder anyone could sleep an autumn night through in there. But the others managed to.

So Connor grabbed a quiet afternoon moment while Mark was at baseball practice and dad and his girlfriend were out shopping to read on the top bunk. He liked having the top bunk – it was warmer there when it got cold and closer to the rattling ceiling fan when it wasn’t. Good thing Mark didn’t mind the bottom bunk, Connor guessed. He’d hate to have to fight his little brother for the thing, especially because hours of batting practiced gave his brother a mean punch.

While it was quiet in the house, Connor could just sink into the comic books – especially if the toys were off the floor and all the clothes hung back on their rack. It didn’t matter whose clothes were on the floor, if dad’s girlfriend saw even one article or one toy out of place in their room, Connor got the blame. So before he could relax with a comic book, he had to make the room neat. He didn’t mind so much, except when there was blame to hand out.

“Like last week,” he told one of his friends, “All of my things were neat as a fucking pin. My books were all neat on their shelves, my socks were rolled tight, and the top bunk, where I’ve slept since we moved in to that place, was made.” Connor really knew better than to swear out loud, but he had to. He couldn’t spit out any anger at home at anything or he’d be lucky not to be sent to stand at attention in the back yard until dad or the girlfriend let him back in to the house. “Honestly, I’m supposed to make both beds now? What is wrong with him that he can’t make his own bed?”

“I don’t know, Conn, but you’re too close to home to be talking like that.” Connor and his buddy Brad were at the other end of the block and across the street, but close enough that if dad was sitting on the front porch looking at his paperwork, he might catch a word or two if the wind was right. That had happened, too. “Best get home. You know I always look forward to tales of your house, but if you don’t get to your homework, you might not have one to talk about.”

That was another thing. No matter how much he cleaned, how well he did on his tests, how hard he tried to keep out of everyone’s way, there was always the threat that they’d boot him out. The girlfriend, when she was upset (and when was she not?), always said something like “We can always just send you back to your mother. Oh right. She’s not really anywhere she can take care of you. Best fly right then, young man.” As if Connor needed any reminder that his mom had taken the fall for them. “Yes, ma’am,” was really all he could say. Any third word and she’d go off on another tear. And he didn’t dare look at his father in those moments. Dad was so ashamed of what would happen that when the subject of his ex-wife came up, his cheeks would burn and he wouldn’t look anybody in the eye until something innocuous came into the conversation. A minute’s silence might be enough that he could turn to Mark and talk about sports.

I hate sports,” Connor told Brad later. “Do you think that’s why she hates me? I don’t care about hoops or batting averages or which lineman ended up in intensive care this week. Is it wrong that I just want to read and do decently enough in school that I can get out of here?”

“Do you think,” his buddy always replied when Connor talked like this, “that it might be that you have ambitions to get out?”

“Ambitions. Big word that, my friend. I don’t think I’m allowed to use such big words. Shows I think above my station. Or something. The only one they think should be able to get out from under their roof is Mark. I swear, everything I do right, they give him credit for, and every god damn thing he does wrong they blame on me. Can you explain that too me, Brad? Can you find any reason they might not give me credit for any single thing I do. I study hard and do well on my history test – highest grade in the class on that one. Highest. Grade. In. The. Class. And they find something to praise Mark for. As if praise has to be meted out but they cannot bear to expend the efforts of their tongues to my benefit. So he doesn’t get credit for my grade, but they praise him for something.”

“I can’t explain it any better this week than I could last, Conn. I count my blessings when I split for my own home, though. My mom always wishes we could adopt you when I tell her about that harpie.”

Once again they were close to Connor’s house and he had to hush his friend. “Don’t let my dad hear you talk like that. I’ll never get free of the house again.”

“Sorry, mate. I’ll watch it too. Take care.

So while Connor was lying on his stomach on the top bunk reading his comics, a howl came from downstairs.

“Connor August Reynolds, get yourself down here right now.” It was the girlfriend. As he stretched himself out, Connor asked himself what he could have missed. The dishes were done, the dog’s water bowl was full, he’d vacuumed the living room. “I’m in the kitchen, Connor. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way, ma’am.” Dad’s girlfriend had never been married and was maybe 35, but Connor had never figured out a better way to address her. Her given name would never have done. He could imagine getting one of those whithering praying mantis looks she gave his father sometimes if he ever called her Caroline. Or Miss Harvey. So ma’am it was.

“There were two packages of cherry tomatoes in here I was going to use for dinner. What have you done with them? Did you snack on them in your room? I tell you over and over again not to eat in your room.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. I didn’t touch them. I don’t eat in my room.”

“Don’t talk back to me. You might be able to get away with that with your father, but not under my roof you won’t. Not with me, young man. Where are my tomatoes?”

That was the crux of it. The house was hers. No matter how cramped it might be with four of them living under that roof, it was paid for with her hard-earned money, and they were an inconvenience at best. So anything they did, any word they uttered was really at her sufferance. What could Connor do?

“I’m sorry ma’am. I didn’t touch the tomatoes. You know I always ask before I eat anything.” That was a risk, Connor, he thought to himself. Sean would give him the what for too for letting his tongue slip like thatTelling her what she should know. There was no getting out of it, now that he’d let the words slip out. No getting away from Caroline Harvey’s punishment.

The reasoning always varied. This week, missing tomatoes might be one thing everything else depended on, next week it would be leaving clothes in the dryer more than five minutes after the drum stopped spinning. But at least once a week he got it. “You know, Sean, it’s not even as though she administers it. She tells me where she wants me to stand and then tells my father I’ve done something horrible. Like eat a tomato. What am I supposed to do.

“Go to the corner, Connor. I’ll have your father deal with you when he gets home. Is it too much to ask that you have even half the grace the good lord gave your brother.” Connor always tried to turn away before she started talking about Mark. She got this faraway look in her face whenever she mentioned him, and sometimes when he was right across from her at the table. “It creeps me out and I don’t want to think about why.” “I have a good idea why, mate, and I don’t want to think about it either. So Connor and his mate Sean had a pact not to talk about why Caroline Harvey’s faraway looks creeped them out..

Connor was 13 and a half and his brother Mark was twelve, but a big twelve. Some uncle was built of bricks and Mark got all those genes. Even though Connor was older, he was slim and couldn’t put on a muscle to win a bet.