As you know, Jeri and I are participating in a round-robin story game. I am now up again in the final round, one slot early. So here goes. Part 28 is here, by the way.

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As Blink, Sophie, and Not-Sophie communed, the room lit with an odd, flashing light. “What’s that?” said Sophie, frightened by yet another sudden, odd change in surroundings.

“It is I.” a voice rumbled.

“I?” said Blink, peeved rather than frightened.

“I am that which is. I am the power over all telling. And I have a need to communicate with you three.”

“Well, we can hardly simply call you ‘I’,” growled Not-Sophie, as she began scanning through the dreadnought sensors Blink had returned to her bidding, “that’s going to get confusing, isn’t it? Don’t you have a proper name of some sort?” Not-Sophie looked around for the source of the light. “And just where the hell are you, anyway?”

“I am here, and there, and all about,” intoned the voice, “and no where, at the same time. It is true that some have called me…”

“God?” interrupted Blink, skeptically.

A rumble filled the room that felt like thunder, but somehow non-threatening. A chuckle, the three realized.

“Hardly,” said the voice with some irony, and with considerably less pomposity. “Who would want to be that? All that worshipful crap, everyone so bloody convinced they have it exactly right, and no one coming close. No thank you. Some have called me ‘The Narrator’. Now shut up and let me finish.” A soft throat clearing sound echoed through the room, and the voice continued, returning to its more senatorial tone. “You three obviously need direction. You’ve been mucking about, and never quite seem to get to the point of dissipating the threat to your planet. I’m here to put you on the right track.”

“Well that’s good news,” said Blink with hard-edged sarcasm, “we’ve got yet another source of truth here to help us. Lovely, that.”

“BE SILENT!” the Narrator’s rumble took on a tone of menace. “Or I’ll turn you into something more unpleasant that a multi-limbed intelligent furball that likes to lick people and eat out of dumpsters.” After a brief pause, the voice said thoughtfully, nearly in a whisper, “though off-hand, I can’t imagine what that would be.”

“Now then,” the Narrator continued, “where was I? Oh yes. You three need to start cooperating more. No more bloody fighting, splitting off into different tangents, nearly blowing one another up, infecting each other with bugs and viruses and whatnot. Don’t you see the power you have?”

“You mean the power of my ship?” Not-Sophie asked, somewhat mollified.

“You mean the power of my mind?” Blink thought, he thought to himself.

“You mean whatever it was that made everybody think I’d be a good killing machine brain even though I’m a cute skin-kneed little preteen girl?” said Sophie meekly.

“No, no, and no.” The Narrator responded, enjoying Blink’s dismay at his thoughts being overheard. “I mean you have the power of three. Three is a magic number. Yes it is. It has been so throughout history. You speak of the divine…the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The Id, Ego, and Superego. Kirk, Spock and McCoy, for crying out loud. Even Luke, Leia and Han. The three of you together are unbeatable. You have the power of mind, body, and soul. Use it. Look at that weak character over there.” The light seemed to shift, and a Tregethan appeared in the room, seemingly spotlighted by The Narrator’s light.

“Faaaaaarthuuuum,” the Tregethan screamed heavenward, with exasperation, then looked wildly about, “what the hell are you doing to my quarters!? Where’s my skull rubber!?”

“He’s pathetic.” The Narrator continued. “You probably wouldn’t even have to join forces to defeat him. Yet, if you simply mold your minds together, as you have started to do in the past, you will have absolute power over him. Try it!”

Blink, Sophie and Not-Sophie exchanged glances. “Worth a shot,” said Blink, giving his closest equivalent of a shrug, for a multi-limbed furball, “let’s try it.”

The three closed their eyes, and made mental contact. “Now what?” they asked.

“Focus on the Tregethan.” The Narrator instructed. “Then decide quickly on what you’d like to happen to it.”

In a trice, with a loud splat, the Tregethan blowed up. Real Good.

The three broke contact, and looked about at the pieces of Tregethan, which, while all about, hadn’t mussed them in the least. “That,” said Not Sophie, voice rising, “was – freaking – AWESOME!”

“Indeed,” said The Narrator, “you are powerful. And fast too. Well done. I will leave it to you, then. Go on, figure out what else you want to do. I can’t be bothered to hold your hand for the entire rest of it.”

The light went out. The Narrator was gone. Blink, Sophie and Not Sophie looked at one another, and considered their next move.

As you know, Jeri and I are doing a round-robin story game. There are sixteen collaborators in this game; each one will write twice.

Part 1: Nathan
Part 2: Shawn
Part 3: MWT
Part 4: Eric
Part 5: Matt Warnock
Part 6: Jeri
Part 7: Saqib
Part 8: Michelle K.
Part 9:Vince
Part 10: Kimberly-Ann
Part 11: Tom
Part 12: Kate
Part 13: Justin
Part 14: Bryan (below)
Part 15: Tania
Part 16: Charles

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And here’s my alleged contribution:

Sophie from Shinola, Part 14:

Farthum Bardabuff was not having a good day. At all.

First, any day the tactical officer had to actually speak to the Supreme Councilor was by definition a bad day. Have the SC yell at him only made it worse. But the worst, the worst of all, was dealing with indoctrinated warships, especially the new ones.

“Bardabuff to warship WA-11. Come in 11.”

A few crackles of static. Nothing else.

“WA-11! Report!” Nothing came through the speakers on Farthum’s console. Once again Farthum cursed the Military Procurement office’s unending quest-to-screw-up-through- better-use-of-low-bidder-contract shenanigans.

Farthum was well aware that WA-11 was going to be a challenge. While the hunter-seeker droid’s report indicated the mind it had appropriated for WA-11 was exceptional, and would be a gifted destroyer of worlds, some of the readings were, well, eccentric. WA class cyber warships, armed to their metal-polyplastic teeth with everything from laser disrupters to, well, metal-polyplastic teeth, were a very efficient means of sterilizing troublesome life forms off colonizable worlds. Trouble was, to make them that good, they were loaded with the stolen intelligence of a lifeform; it was thought to be best that the lifeform was one from the world about to be wiped out. That might have had more to do with the innate cruelty of Farthum’s race, rather than actual results, but it was how it was done. The resulting AI tended to get a little batty just before making the planetary kill.

WA-11, however didn’t seem like it was hesitant. Just weird. Somehow the blasted thing had gotten into some old entertainment files while charging after the hunter-seeker transfer. The HS droid must have been watching old Earth tapes on its off time.

Farthum gulped a deep intake of the liquid oxygen which surrounded his body. Calm, I have to be calm, he thought. 11 was still functioning, and the readouts showed the warship was near striking distance to the target. The computer schematic on his console showed the ship charging up for the attack. But Farthum had no control, and that worried him greatly, especially since his ship was still nearby. “11,” he said intensely into the com, knowing from early calibration of the ship that by throwing in a few key words he could trigger a response, “I think I’m entitled to answers about the mission. I think I’m entitled to the truth this time.”

“You can’t handle the truth!” 11 screamed over the com. “I don’t give a DAMN about what you think you’re entitled to.”

“WA-11, cut the figgle crap. What’s your status?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Clarify, 11.”

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Surely you can tell me more than that, 11. Turn on your visual receptors.”

“Receptors on. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Farthum could see the target, or at least what WA-11 was labeling “the target”. But while roughly round, the “target” was not a planet. It was a multi-limbed creature with short fur and limpid, intellegent eyes. “Sophie,” Farthum heard the target saying through the com, “what’s wrong? Why are you shivering?” By the buzzes and clicks coming from Farthum’s monitoring console, he knew that 11 was charging weapons, readying for the kill. The tac officer could tell, however, that 11 was confused, a confusion he shared hundred-fold.

———————

Tania is next.

Smug son Zach is a photographer and artist. In my biased maternal opinion, he’s a pretty good one.

Last summer, he saved up enough money from his lawn mowing to buy the game console of his dreams. Instead, he chose to buy himself a digital camera – a high-end point-and-shoot Canon S3. He uses it a lot, often taking 1,000 shots a day using different settings, and ends up with some really good images.

His school photography club is having an art show at a coffee shop downtown this month. Zach has three pictures on display. I was privileged to attend the artists’ reception with him last week.

Seeing his work framed and hung, contending very favorably with that of much more experienced photographers, was wonderful. He received lots of positive feedback at the event.

The club is primarily senior girls, and Zach is a fairly geeky sophomore boy. It was amusing to walk in, see all the girls cheerfully say hi, and watch him turn a hundred shades of red. Poor Zach.

I’ll probably buy one – or more – of his photos, just to support him and hang on our wall. Yes, I could print them out (again) for nearly free, but this teaches him copyright, pride in his work and the value of a unique piece of art.

On another subject entirely, work is wild and woolly this week, and I’m not finding any time to get online, write, or visit others’ sites. This too will pass. I hope.

Obviously, my husband and I were not thinking creatively enough when we had our small backyard standard wedding. Check out the science fiction-themed weddings at Mental Floss.

Picture courtesy of Star Trek Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m not more afraid of success than failure.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m plenty afraid of failure. I’m a perfectionist par excellence, hate to make the slightest mistake, find criticism quite painful, and abhor spending time doing things I am bad at, like golf and softball.

I wonder, though, why I’m so adept at self-sabotage. I know plenty of other folks who suffer from this too, women in particular, although I don’t know how significant my anecdotal evidence is. I just happen to be close friends with more women than men.

So why is it that I start something new – say, writing short short fiction – and when I establish that it’s something I enjoy and might be able to do really well, I stop as if I’ve run into a wall?

The same applies to metalsmithing. I invest enough time and dollars on the subject to know that I love doing it, and demonstrate the ability to make some interesting and very wearable pieces, and then I just stop using my workshop.

Five or six years ago, I embarked on a highly disciplined diet and exercise program and lost about 80 lbs. (I needed to take off an additional 40 or so after that, but was still in the best health ever in the last 20 years.) And then, again, I ran into an invisible wall and made no further progress. In the years since, to my very great grief and regret, I’ve gained half of that back.

I can sure lay the excuse of time on the table. As a working wife and mom, I’m a constant multi-tasker and it’s difficult to find time to focus undivided attention on any one endeavor. I have to be really honest with myself, though – that’s not it! Exercise, discipline, creative projects can be fit in… we all spend our time and energy, like our money, where our priorities are. Or in this case, where our comfort zone is.

There’s something in me that’s at complete odds with my desire to excel, be extraordinary, accomplish tangible things. It’s as if I hold a flawed schema that tells myself I can’t possibly deserve success, so I need to stop now before a) I disappoint myself in a big way, and b) the world finds out how flawed I really am.

And so, I muddle along in mediocrity, dysfunctionally shutting myself down when I start thinking I can do anything special.

I need to figure out how to break through that wall.