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{{seriesTitle}} - سلسلة الكتب

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خطوة إلى عالم لا حدود له من القصص

الاستماع والقراءة

J. R. Kruze

"I don't see why I have to wear this - it's completely impractical! How would you ever, ever fix anything if you have to worry about getting a run in your stockings?"

Steve just shrugged, again. "Orissa, it's just a swimsuit with garters on it. And it's all for show. We need hot-blooded backers for finance. So a little leg, a little suggestion, then their blood heats up and loosens their check books."

"But that's just your theory. I'd rather be tuning that new carburetor for the meet."

"Better you than me. And that hired model bugged out at the last minute. Besides, you're the best judge of character we've got. We don't want ringers, we want real angels."

He had me there. One look in any man's eyes and I could tell the real deal from the wannabes.

Then I saw him. That one...

Excerpt:

"Sir, can I get you a refill?" I asked as I pointed to the smaller of the two groups. Their bottle of the good stuff that my brother was holding was fuller than his buddy's.

"Not right now. How much can you tell me about that plane?"

I caught a twinkle in his eye. This was a test.

"Standard body for the racing monoplane type. Custom engine, custom prop, and safety features you won't find anywhere else."

"What's so custom about that engine?"

"Radial outboard pistons backed by a turbine for higher speeds."

"So you have two engines there. Interesting."

"And safer if you have a bird strike."

"But you can take lower altitudes slower."

"And can utilize much shorter runways. Plus, the turbine can be clutched into the piston half for an emergency start in case of any stall."

"Meaning that you are more comfortable in a jumpsuit with a wrench than showing off your legs in a get-up like that."

"What gave me away?"

He smiled. "Other than knowing the difference between radial-outboard and turbine engines? How you walk in heels, and the number of fingers you bent back today, not to mention that wrenched shoulder."

I smiled back and tilted my head. "So you aren't interested in either of these bidding wars." Said as a matter of fact, not a question.

"No. You're the genius behind this plane, aren't you." Another statement of fact.

"Yes."

"Then you are actually who I came to see today." He looked around our hanger, and spied the tarps covering our tool kits. "And this is where you've built this - or just tuned it?"

"Where we assembled it."

His smile was genuine. I relaxed a little. He wasn't trying to hit on me in the slightest.

"Impressive plane. This isn't a standard monoplane racing body. You've had to make subtle changes in it. It may look the same on the surface, but..."

"And you're trying to pick my brain for secrets?"

Midwest Journal Press

Short Fiction Young Adult Science Fiction Fantasy

The Girl Who Saved Tomorrow

R. L. Saunders

C. C. Brower

At the beginning was The Games. Because they were running out of people.

The gangs were killing each other off too fast. And the city was running out of money to keep them all on free food and free medical.

The Games put everyone in the city to work. They competed with each other for production bonuses. Citizens that didn't work, hardly ate. There was a Plan, and the Game was part of the Plan.

In this plan, the cities were going to rise up into space, and remove almost all humanity from this polluted planet when they did.

While into this scene, two healers showed up. Someone needed their help. Or several someone's. But their deadline was coming up. Soon that city would lift off, forever.

And those healers were told they had to be out of there before 'Cagga did…

Excerpt:

It was like that big video they showed every time you jacked in - cities flying off the planet to new worlds, leaving the polluted mess behind, along with the Deplorables who were "unenlightened" enough to want to stay out in the boonies with their guns and Bibles. Scratching for a living out there while all the 'Leeters were “leading the core of civilization toward greater heights. ”

My Ma didn't see it that way. Like me, she didn't have a choice when the walls went up. They'd decided that for her when they seceded from the rest of the country. And soon after that, no one was allowed in or out. So we wouldn't get “contaminated" by the Flyover ideas and diseases. The politico's had chosen for us.

And now I had my own new baby to add to this mix. She was a darling, with cute blond hair and the brightest smile. While I worked, my Ma took care of her the most, good days and bad. Because Ma had something wrong with her, and so did my little Sue.

Doc came by when he could, but he was pretty much the only doctor outside of their clinics that could go in between the gangs. That meant most of 'Cagga.'Cause their clinics were all at Central, and had visiting hours the same as our work hours. But those were staffed mostly by interns, as the 'Leeters got the best doctors working on sucking the fat out of their guts and hips, or making their faces prettier, or simply listening to them complain about their aches and pains.

While Doc said Sue was born with something he couldn't fix without operating, and he couldn't operate anymore since he lost off a couple of his fingers in an "accident". One that happened right after he told one of those 'Leeters what they could do with their faked-up illnesses. Now Doc got what he wanted most, helping people who needed it more. But he was by himself, mostly.

Doc said baby Sue had a tough road ahead of her, but she could make it. And my Ma could have a lot more years ahead of her. Could. But I saw his face and how he looked away at times. He didn't like what he saw, but he kept smuggling medicines to us when he could.

Anyone with a too-quick wit and tongue found themselves too soon working with the rest of the 'gangers out in the streets. In whatever gang their housing fit into…

For the Love of 'Cagga

Why I was brought in to solve a mystery of people getting and staying healthy was a bit curious on its own. 

They were all terminally ill. And in quarantine. Yet one nurse and her student "angels of death" had been able to reverse this deadly disease that modern "medicine' had created through their own negligence. 

Most of the big city hospitals had these outbreaks, and had sent their worst cases out to live their lives in suburban hospices - often unknown to those locals. And if their quarantine security failed, an incurable plague could spread and decimate the human population by at least half - to start with.

Whoever had hired me wanted to know what those healed people were going to do - for anyone could see a huge litigation potential from being cured. But not if they died. For dead people can't talk - or sue.

At least to stay anonymous, my financiers had to stay off my radar and out of my hair. 

Or the head nurse would help me find out how they created this mess that she was solving without their help…

Excerpt:

It wasn't any real surprise to me that these patients started getting better.

But my methods were unorthodox, and had been kept a secret for nearly half a century at this point. I was called in as a last resort by some very insistent, and very connected family of one of the patients.

And now he's fine, but neither I or him or anyone else can talk to anyone outside.

Well, I've got this detective fellow named Johnson who somehow wangled a way into my over-booked schedule. 30 minutes a day. Uninterrupted. And that's a miracle all on its own.

Typically, we are understaffed. And all volunteer. None of us were expected to ever return from the quarantine. But all their doctors and nurses had gotten ill as well, so they'd asked - no, begged for people to basically suicide in order to help these people live out their last days with some sort of dignity.

They got half the number they wanted, which was twice what they actually expected.

But they were city folks. Pretty cold and pessimistic. Hard to get a smile out of them.

And that was our secret weapon - infectious smiles. Works every time. Because you have to heal from the inside out, not just pile on more drugs and pills.

The main trouble was with the quarantine security equipment. The technicians to fix it were also sick. If it failed before we got this outbreak under control, it would roll through all the population of this suburb and those beyond it like no plague before it. And the infected would spread it further, all within a few hours of contacting it. All innocent carriers.

What was worst, it left babies alone. The ones that needed help the most. That was why we were here, originally. To solve why the babies weren't getting sick - and feed them and change them and cuddle them meanwhile.

But when the last of the nurses collapsed, we had to break into the worst areas and sacrifice ourselves. Because the walls were all glass, and we could see the entire ward from the maternity section. Damned if we were just going to stand there and watch them all die…

The Case of the Forever Cure

She was different - and could be mankind's saviour, or it's worst enemy.

The third generation born after a freak accident, her kind were shunned by humanity. Because they meant walking death. Until one human showed her compassion. Then her gifts came to view.

Her parents and their parents only knew death, could only give death. But they only wanted to be understood.

Rochelle was searching.

For the one thing that could save all of mankind from itself.

To find it, she would have to live among them as one of them, in disguise.

As she still could wipe out an entire city through her touch. If she wanted to. But she didn't know what she was supposed to want. 

So she came here, to surround herself with strangers. Some her natural enemies, but maybe some friends. It was up to them, for she didn't really care whether they lived or died.

But she knew she needed to find out…

The Lazurai Returns

(Short read - 30 minutes - 21 pages)

Her closest friends didn't know she was dead.

Until they saw the full page ad in the paper advertising her funeral.

They mystery was in how she died. No corpse, just an urn filled with ashes that was distributed over the harbor without any witnesses. Shown by a slick video played at her funeral. 

No motive. Just a disappearance. The coroner's report from an upstate, rural county stated natural causes. For a young 20-something advertising executive. 

But there were no details left unaccounted for. Funeral arrangements paid for in advance. Even the police chief said it was a closed case. That didn't stop Detective Johnson from being curious.

He stopped in to see her partner to answer his many questions. On his own time. The day after the funeral.

Excerpt:

I.

The day she died, an ad was run.

And you saw it, everyone did.

Because it was a perfectly composed ad, with a perfectly chosen photo. Perfect clickbait headline. Not a word out of place. And it had a 30% click-through rate. For the mortuary.

That service was the most highly-attended event the mortuary had ever held. And pre-sales of burial plots and cremations spiked. All bought by impulse.

Yet the mortuary didn’t run that ad.

The deceased did.

It has come from her ad account, placed the day her body was delivered.

No one knew that. Until the I showed up in the agency’s office a day after the funeral service.

II.

Wednesday. Another grimy, gritty, overcast day in the Big Apple.

Tess, her partner, inherited the rest of the ad agency. That had been set up when they formed the company. Judy was the creative end, while Tess kept it running along.

Tess thought it odd when when Judy didn’t show up on Monday and didn’t call over the weekend. But it was a real shock to find out she had died on Friday, been cremated over the weekend and was buried on Tuesday.

All thoughts to distract her from the Pine Sol scented elevator with the faux wood paneling as she rode the it once again to their 23rd floor office suite. And again she missed her Midwest college town with the Victorian-styled two-story they used to rent for cheap. Clean air, parked out back. No constant street noise. No closed elevators with Muzak and filtered air pumped in.

She could see from her desk through the glass walls into Judy’s office. The work had arrived as usual, piles of ad copy, printouts of the newsprint runs and magazine inserts. All making a small pile on her desk. Like every work day. Just as Tess expected Judy to walk in with some wild story of bedding some young college stud and completely losing track of time,

Those days were over now. Tess sighed and felt some real grief rising. But shook it off with a shrug. Then sat down to make sense of all their projects.

Since Judy’s phone was ringing constantly and unanswered, the calls started getting routed to Tess. As the details were in her partner’s computer, Tess had to go into Judy’s office to get the data.

It was then she saw the ad. A full page newspaper treatment, centered on the blotter.

Her funeral services ad…

Death By Advertising

(Short read - 30 minutes - 17 pages)

An unintended result of a terrorist bombing a children's hospital, the Lazurai could kill a person without touching them. 

The government made it worse by their experiments. All they wanted was to feel love like any child. When they grew older, their powers increased. And they found they couldn't be stopped.

Chuck hears a rumour of one coming his way, to his remote way station on the highway. But he can't leave his wife, who's dying. So he waits. And sees the hooded Lazurai walking the long miles on a hot desert day toward him. 

All he can do is wait.

What he doesn't know is that this one is different from all the rumors. And his life is going to change forever…

Extract: 

Late morning that day, he saw someone walking.

Miles off yet. Coming toward him, along the edge of the road and staying off the pavement. Chuck could tell because the highway was laser straight for miles in both directions. 

You could hear anything coming when there was traffic. And then hear it going. 

Walkers made no noise, and took a long time to get there. A long time to get gone. 

"Well Mr. Lazurai, take your time. I'm in no hurry." Chuck said out loud to no one in particular. 

He figured that this had to be a Lazurai as he was walking. 

People told stories about them: they wouldn't always kill you right off. If they liked you, then you had a few 
days. The people that lived were cursed anyway, as anyone they knew would leave them alone after that. As what the Lazurai gave a person could also affect the other people around them. Big or small community, it didn't matter. Viruses spread. 

Chuck didn't care. He would not leave Charlene and she would not leave her baby. So if this was the end, he was as ready as he would be. 

By the time the walker was nearly in earshot, Chuck had finished off the rest of his lemonade and was ready for a refill. But he stayed on that bench in the shade and waited to meet this person. 

His only real hope is that the end would be swift and painless. For everyone concerned.

- - - -

J. R. Kruze is an upcoming fantasy and science fiction author, credited with a couple of novels and several short stories. Be sure not to miss any of them.

The Lazurai

A Writer Recluse Places an Ad for a Caretaker and Gets More Than He Asked For

This quiet contemporary fiction has a calm romance beneath the seeming gruff exterior of a reclusive writer who wants his solitude above all else.

When a caretaker arrives who is every bit as quietly headstrong about keeping the place tidy, there have to be some adjustments…

Excerpt:

Herman Gauss found a caretaker through an ad he placed.

As a reclusive writer, he didn’t much care for what he got, but had some wishes. Since he’d never married again, the idea of having a female moving about the big empty house made him both worried and content. He had been happy to live quietly at the end of a long, dusty road, but found his cleaning habits left too much dust around.

He wanted to write, not clean house. He didn’t want his solitude interrupted, but would appreciate having the dust gathered out of the corners and the occasional hot meal he didn’t have to prepare himself.

So he placed an ad through an agency. He paid them to find and pre-interview the applicants. They would send over one at a time, only sending the next in line when an earlier one disqualified themselves.

And the reasons for the disqualified applicants seemed inconsistent and even frivolous. But the company was only paid to send applicants, so the money would keep coming to them until Herman ran out of it, or they ran out of applicants. (Word can get around about certain ads…)

Maggie was herself quiet and happy to have such a job. She was a student of writing, but had never published. Her shyness found her many admirers, but never a long relationship. That’s not to say she didn’t have strong opinions. And perhaps those were what drove her would-be lovers away. She never talked about her personal life, even when asked.

How she got hired was a bit of a mystery. She wasn’t outspoken much, but was firm and unmovable when she was. It wasn’t that all things should be a certain way, but certain things should be kept in certain ways.

The hiring company took this minor loss of income in stride.

- - - -

Herman got used to the thick curtains on the west being open in the morning, and those curtains on the east only open when the sun had passed the house peak, where the west curtains would be closed. He didn’t mind that if he came in early from his walk, he wasn’t allowed back in his own study until the cleaning was finished.

Maggie didn’t work to keep the porch as spotless as the rest of the house inside. So when Herman was refused access to his inner chambers, while she was cleaning, he would come out here. He took the rough broom and ash shovel, and pick up the worst-offending dirt clods and dried mud clumps. He’d even pick up his boots to put them outside on the steps so that he could empty the tray they sat on. All to help get rid of som of the dust. At least those in the form of dirt clumps.

In Spring, he would find occasion to take his heavy tan overalls and dark brown coats to put them into a standalone, faded, porch cabinet out of the sun. Heavy gloves would go into porous bags made from pillowcases, putting in sets onto one of its upper shelves.

However, he wasn’t permitted to clean the windows or screens of that porch. Maggie would have a fit, in her own quiet way, if he tried this. If they needed painting or repairs, then he could take them down to work on them.

The house soon became Maggie’s as much as Herman’s, although he had title to it…

The Caretaker

A farmer out checking his cattle finds a newborn calf of many colours. Deep in fresh snow with no momma cow in sight. It is supposed to get well below freezing tonight and the sun is going down quickly. 

What choice does he have but to pick the newborn up and get her to where it's warm and dry for the night? … And then come back in the dark to find its mother.

40 pounds of calf a quarter of a mile from anywhere. So he wraps her up in his coat, picks her up, and starts trudging through the snow back to his farmhouse.

But a couple of spirits were waiting for him to arrive…

Excerpt:

It was supposed to be a time of peace.

No conflicts beyond fighting with the weather for crops and rebuilding our society.

Better than that, there were outside forces adding to that mix. Spirits and demons and stuff.

I didn't know all that when I was checking the cows that winter day. Just my dogs and me. Seeing how the fences were, making sure the calves were on the right side of them. Not that there was much conflict or worry from those cattle. Even coyotes left them alone. Nothing like a mean momma cow. They were never far from their young calves. And wolves were only up north. Hunters made them scarce in this state.

So when I saw the calico calf in the snow, it was surprising. The cows were black and white, no red or brown in them. Not in several generations, anyway. Not with this bull. And the neighbor's haven't been out of their fences into ours.

Now I'd heard of striped cows, and spotted cows, but those were in two colors. This was three. Like a cat. Or more like a kitten.

There was this calf. New born. Shivering. No cow tracks anywhere. Just fresh snow on top of old snow. Still below freezing. Means I had to get this calf somewhere warm. Closest place was a quarter-mile away. Carrying a forty-pound calf. So I took off my outer coat to wrap up that calf. (Layers helped in more ways than one - besides, I'd be sweating shortly hefting this weight up and down hills. ) And I'd still have to warm up some colostrum and milk-replacer. And come back to find that mother cow and bring her up to wherever I got the calf safely.

I had some hundreds of other thoughts going through about what I now had to do. Like the many fences I'd have to cross with this calf, where to keep it warm that I could clean up. How much it was going to take to get another cow to take it in. My day had just been changed. One bright spot was that it was still morning.

That bright spot was dimming though. The sky was becoming dark, but without any clouds. I could hardly see my own tracks to make my way back. I didn't want to stumble with this precious bundle in my arms. And that slowed me down as I had to be more careful. There wasn't even a moon to light my way. This was becoming quite a chore. And I thought I was used to farm chores.

"Are you sure this is the one?"

"You've read the same signs. The stars, the loneliness, the remoteness. He's the future."

"The future that is yet to be, hundreds of years in the future."

"But only if we act now."

"Right. Let's do this."

Bonus Story: "Mr. Ben's Rail Road" where an entrepreneur is working to re-establish a working railroad between the farmers and the city just miles away. A young girl, along with her father and cousins, are allowed to ride along for the adventure. She's recording everything for history, just in case…

Snow Gift

A goddess visited me. And told me to get to work. Writers were supposed to be writing, not just complaining about their writer's block.

She told me that what you don't use, you lose. So my imagination was something to exercise. 

Of course, the way she was dressed left little to the imagination. And as she got closer, it was more evident…

Excerpt:

A goddess came to me last night.

She said there was a gold mine between my ears, but I'd have to start using it. 

Until I did, I could spend none of it. And would be working hand-to-mouth for the rest of my life. 

She wore a gossamer-thread shift over her, which was a bit distracting. Golden hair, clear blue eyes. None of this covered her feminine features very well. 

Have you ever seen gossamer? It's extremely thin, and rare. It's the stuff young spiders put out in order to catch the wind and fly to their new homes. Of course, it's the same stuff web silk is made from, so is extremely tough. When you walk through the woods, you'll find that across trails and catching in your face. So tough that you can almost hear it "pling" as it breaks. So thin that you barely see it except when you catch the sun glinting off it. 

So making an entire garment out of this would be expensive, and humans wouldn't find it possible.

"Fairies." She said.

"Huh?" I asked.

"Fairies collected and wove these strands into cloth." She said.

"Well, that would make sense. Providing you believe in fairies." I replied.

"They don't need you to believe in them. That rumour got started by a writer and his stage play." A slight frown crossed her face. "Fairies only appear in your universe if you believe in them. That's the trick. They still exist regardless of whether you believe in them or not. But they only show up if you ask them, or expect them, even as a stray thought."

"Like the odd times that you see a single small branch waving in the wind, but you feel no wind, and nothing else is moving." I said.

"Exactly. But that might not be a fairy.

Might be a goblin. Might be a poltergeist." she said.

"Could be helpful. Could be dangerous. How would I tell?" I asked.

"Only by accepting it as it is and figuring out how to talk with it. If you can't see it, you haven't accepted it 
enough, yet." she answered.

"So I see only what I want to see." I said.

"Sure, like it's always been. Like you don't hear the teacher sometimes in class. Like when you 'tune out' to some recording and find it 'rewritten' when you listen to it again - new sections you'd 'never heard' before. This is old stuff. You've been through this. Selective perception." She idly played with a loose thread on the bed's quilt…

Bonus Short Stories Included: 

Max Says "No." - When the pet dog starts talking by refusing to get into the pickup truck cab, it was time to have a conversation with him…

A Nervous Butt- Not the only talking animal on this farm, an expectant momma cow tells her worries to the farmer who is caring for her. Starting out by knocking him down…

A Goddess Visits: Three Short Stories

Some vacation. Not like I'd planned - or the brochures.

Now I'm in a space suit after some sort of freak accident. Lucky I knew how to get in one, and one was nearby. First time for everything.

But now, I had just so much air, and a huge gap to jump. Because the explosion left a big hole behind. Guess there's a first time for more than one thing…

Excerpt:

No power. Little air.

Deep space, off the trade routes.

Helluva way to start a vacation.

The explosion had happened in hyperspace. It threw us out of “warp” and we appeared in normal space several parsecs from where we could be found.

My problem was more immediate though. Power and Air existed on the other half of the ship.

Separated from me by a big hole that explosion had left.

And, no, I wasn't trained at this spaceship survival stuff. I worked in a research group, back of a library, in a college town. My training wasn't in surviving space-liner wrecks. We all had to take the required emergency drills before we could board for the vacation. Not that it gave us much experience with these things. Like those boring lectures flight attendants give on airlines about what to do when the plane gets in trouble. (Yawn)

But now we were in real trouble. Deep in it.

At least the suit I found mostly fit. Too big is better than too small.

And why I was able to find one near that bathroom I was using at the time - that wasn't my main question right now.

There were few air minutes left and a big gap to travel. Then somehow getting in on the other side without tearing my suit open.

Let's see, give a straight push, not too hard. Because I'd have to cushion my "fall" on the other side. Looked easy in the movies.

Here goes…

Well, here I am, floating.

Getting there.

Closer.

Oh, come on.

Here we go. A little more…

Watch that rotation. (Like I could do much other than move my arms, but then everything else moved in turn.)

Hope my gloves hold.

"Be still, poor heart." Breathe. Breathe regular.

Here we go.

And…

Bonus Stories: 

The Emperor's Scribe - How a young scribe taught new truths to an old Emperor through his calligraphy, and disappeared one day…

The Snow Cave ( Part 1) - When a sudden winter storm blew in, a rescuer has to find shelter. Luckily, she remembered an old cave on the maps. The partially-open door to it is large enough to fit a semi-truck. If she's lucky, she'll be able to squeeze in behind it. If not, they'd find her here, frozen…

Long Overdue Santa - An older pet misses the children and Santa as much as her Masters. It's another Christmas, and this family dog finds a red hat on the driveway that shouldn't be there…

Vacation Amok: Four Short Stories

When there are no more governments, other than on paper, one Corporation will rule and solve all poverty and warfare. The solution enabled people to stay "jacked in" and code 24/7, loving the opportunity.

***If the Matrix had a prequel, this would be it.***

Excerpt:

We were called to war. And all volunteers. Not for god or country but for our corporation. 

The global one. The one we were all warned against. It came in the back door that had built into our culture. The China-Russia pact had founded it, and gradually its handouts and bribes co-opted all the governments until it was just the U.S. and a handful of holdouts that weren’t on board. Until they were. 

Our job was simple. We coded. All day, all night. Jacked in and plugged in with all the nutrients we needed to keep us going. All volunteer. Dopamine rushes on intervals for meeting quotas. Adrenaline when needed and appropriate. 

And it was all good. We had all the pleasures we could want. Plenty of pay and bonuses. The trick, that the “Corp” as we called it, was that we were all losers until we were winners. In our pods, jacked in, we had access to about everything we could want. As long as we did what we were asked, then we could get anything we wanted. Anything. The only thing that didn’t really work out was being unplugged. The horror stories we found out were very, very bad. Coders had come back after "vacations" and didn’t want to talk about them. You could tell by reading their endocrine levels. They came back exhausted, in shock, and their production nowhere near what it should be to compete in the Games. 

That was all there was. The Corp and the Games. All else was secondary. Our job was simply to do the coding, create the new world we wanted to see, everyone wanted to see. And let the old world rot because that was all it was good for. 

No one in here wanted the “real world.” It was only filled with horrors. All our friends and family were online, And the ones that worked outside had troubles. Sad. We were inside and happy. 

Because the whole world was Corp. It controlled everything. Literally. All the power, all the food production, all the entertainment and news. Sure, people could say and do whatever they wanted. But if they wanted to talk to someone else, they had to go through the Corp. If they wanted a better job, they had to do through the Corp. More pay, better living, all Corp. 

In the old days, it went by many names. And they eventually bought out each other, or had the principles on the boards of the others, and they all were jacked into each other’s lives so much, it became obvious that they couldn’t work without cooperating with the rest. And sooner or later, the Board ran everything. It wasn’t a CEO here and a CEO there, it was a few people who made the top decisions, and the sub-boards they controlled would then get their marching orders, They then sent their marching orders downstream to other boards and everything got done. 

If you didn’t produce, you missed the pay raises, the bonuses, the promotions, the perks. We saw this every day. The Code shows everything. Our view is the “matrix” as it used to be called. We don’t need our eyes or our bodies as everything is cared for. 

The Game is to build a new world. Because the old one is rotting out from under us. The Enviro’s got on board quickly. Particularly after they found their funding depended on tweaking their policies slightly, or protesting a different government agency instead of the one they'd picked out. And the leaders of these enviro groups got promoted into high board positions inside the Corp, up their own chain of leadership. 

Politicians were able to keep playing their game of getting elected, getting kickbacks, staying in office indefinitely. Because all the votes were electronic. All the media was electronic. It was all in the Code. Media and votes got people re-elected. Simple. All Code. Everyone who was anyone was online. And everyone else had to plug in someway in order to get what they wanted. Surveys were online. Payments were online. 

Bonus Short Story: Peace: Forever War - A disaster left Jerusalem underwater. And protecting it as a international religious worship area for all humans was a perfect way to test an impregnable and self-sustaining defense shield...

The War Bringeth: Two Short Stories

Light, Seasonal Reading by New Author C. C. Brower

Contains three short stories to fill your holidays with cheer:

Long Overdue Santa - 

The house seemed so empty now with the children all grown up and on their own. Just [ ] and his masters. A view of the holidays through the eyes of the family dog.

But this holiday has surprises for all, and a heartwarming surprise ending.

A light read to cheer your heart.

The Emperor's Scribe - 

A young apprentice teaches the Emperor truths found in recording the day-to-day events of the Royal Court. What he found changed an empire...

When Vacation Plans Revise - 

He was in the bathroom when the explosion left him alone in his emergency spacesuit. Ahead is the greatest challenge of his life - survive with the little training he'd gotten before setting out on this vacation in the stars...

About the author:

C. C. Brower is a new author and rapidly gaining an audience for her fresh approach to storytelling. These short stories give you a taste of her style and approach. Perfect for filling in the idle moments.

A Long Wait for Santa

Carol and Reggie were different. They thought different. Reggie could talk "the ears off a corn stalk." He was an expert on history, like a walking Wikipedia on ancient times (if people could stand to listen to him. ) Carol hardly talked, but her hugs could tell you the world. She could solve quintic polynomial equations. And a 4x4 Rubic's cube with one hand.

They were autists. "Special needs" people. Savants, kind of.

They were perfect for each other. Or maybe not. So different.

Between them, they understood the universe.

It was no small surprise that they were part of the next stage in human evolution. The one that's already here. Of course they knew it. But most of humanity didn't…

Excerpt:

Reggie could talk until tomorrow came. Gawd that guy liked to talk. 

When he couldn't talk, he'd write.

Me, I liked to hug. 

And children. I love children. 

And what most people think are “difficult” math problems. 

They just don’t try to understand what that equation wants. How it smells right when it’s accomplished what it wants. 

So they use math to solve really dumb things like how a rocket jerks in flight. Instead of looking for things that want to fly, they have to build something truly inefficient that makes a big sound and blows up with a louder one. Because they don’t feel when it’s right. 

I moved into Reggie’s apartment after we danced that one time. His room mate swapped apartments with me, since I lived near a bunch of other girls and he was tired of listening to Reggie. (But I don’t think so, it’s probably that he’d rather listen to girls giggle while they co-flirted. )

[Is “co-flirted” a word? Too bad if it’s not. Bag and Cat are now disjointed from mutual proximity. ]

So I’d come back in from work to find Reggie tapping out yet another over-long essay on his computer. 

I’d hug him and he’d pause. And his heartbeat would slow to match mine.

Then I’d let him go and move into the kitchenette to make a couple of sandwiches for us. I knew he probably hadn’t eaten. Or he would eat a sandwich I made just to make me happy. 

And he would finish up whatever he was blogging about. I’d have the sandwiches on a plate and a big mug of sweet tea or something cold (or hot, depending on the season) with two straws. Then I’d come out of the kitchen and bring them all out into the great room. (Why people call it a “living” room is non-sequitur. Living is an action. But they sit and watch do-less TV in it, which is couch-potato logic. )

Our big screen was set to a live feed from one of Cal-Tech’s telescopes. (No commercials. No fake news. )

We’d sit and cuddle the night away watching stars without having to be uncomfortable outside. 

Sometimes we’d have sex or make love.

Felt good either way…

The Autists

An Epic Road Trip and Fantastical Semi-Memoir

Living life is nothing that any moron or better couldn't accomplish, even without setting one's mind to it. The trick is to do something with that life. Or live several at once, so that one could at least be a success in one of them. 

Herbert, having endured his mid-life crisis with all the aplomb possibly available to him, now was set on making a new life for himself. This is his book. 

Such a book has parallels with our own. That is life for you - it sneaks up on you and drops some odd segue or link into some other person's scene and then just nips away, as if it was mainlining pixie dust or some super-quantum Dune drug. Blue eyes and all. 

You see, Herbert does live more than one life at once. Shackled to the mundane world of the Midwest warehouse laborer, he yet lives in worlds of extreme science, wild fantasy environments and incredibly sensuous surroundings. For Herbert reads books, surfs the Internet and has an overactive imagination. 

But let's meet our hero… 

- - - -

Excerpt:

Driving down Interstate 40 after leaving LA was a bit of a non-scene. Desert and highway didn't change that much after Barstow. Modern highways are built to be safe and wide in America. Deserts were designed by God to be hostile and unforgiving for any who broke down out there. Highways had the occasional road-side phone and also Patrol coming along. Deserts had cacti, dust and not much else. 

Herbert. That's me. There's about 5 or 6 variations of that name, but only one I would answer to. Comes from 
being raised in a family of 10. You had to pick an identity and stick with it, or drown in the uncertain melange of other lives around you.

This is my life, at least as I recall it. 40+ years old and leaving the known for the formerly known in order to make some sense of my life. Not that I was confused. But what I had been doing didn't make sense anymore, so I was now driving from LA, away from the nonsensical, toward the sensible. 

Barstow itself hadn't changed much since I had been there some 20 years ago. I had gone to Vegas to get married and found that Barstow was an interesting rest stop. I was the only one with a license, and so was the elected driver. We took off late after work - two couples in one car, both seeking an instant marriage and
abbreviated honeymoon on the way back. We had essentially 48 hours to pull the whole thing off. So, with the late start and nerves keeping me up the night before, lack of sleep started taking its toll after midnight. Pulled over by a trooper, who noticed the car was weaving.

So we stopped in Barstow for a couple of hours - they went in and had some food, I slept (but first my wife-to-be and I "made out"

in the front seat, just short of having sex - which was forbidden as part of the Center. 

A rise in the highway brought my attention back to the current, swerving the heavy loaded rental truck to stay between the lines. Topping the slight rise, I saw only the black parallel bars of highway stretching again into the darkening desert, the sun behind me along with a tail wind, pushing me ever home and away from Center forever. 

Center had been something which promised answers to all my many questions about how the universe operated. They said that you just had to follow their exact path and keep studying the books and lectures of their founder. One day, in an ever-increasing but gentle gradient, you would know Truth and this hope kept you going - along with the required annual celebrations you were required to attend where the official PR was read out by executives…

Toward a New Dawn

When Sue crash-lands back on Earth, she didn't know what to expect. What she found was a telepathic wolf pack, capable of reasoning and the dominant life form on the planet. The were in a fight for survival with the feral species of wolves, as well as the remnants of humankind. 

In the first part of this, Sue learns to communicate and to travel with the pack as they fight and escape from the hunting ferals. In doing so, she fights alongside Tig, the hunting pack leader, to save both their lives. 

What she wanted was to get back to the moon base to rescue her family. She didn't know how bad the collapse was. 

But before she can get anywhere, she has to prove to the sentient wolf pach that she can be trusted. This means a "probe." Something no human has survived. Sue has special talents and information the wolf pack needs. 

While she is preparing for this process, the wolves are fighting for their own survival as a species. The ferals know where their hidden valley is and how to get in. The Sentient wolves intend to attack first before anything can happen to them.

Within the pack itself is a conflict between Snarl, and Tig, who were both raised to lead the pack. The Chief is old, too sick to lead the hunt any longer. Snarl has something planned…

Excerpt:

The wolves had selected an old hooman foundation for the probe site.

It was circular, and legend had that the old building was mostly for storage and sheltering livestock. Hooman's called it a "barn". Those that hunted in and around it said it was a slave building, trapping the beings within. Supposedly, this was by mutual consent, as the beings who sheltered in that barn had few defenses without hoomans around. 

Those days were before the hoomans leaving in their sky-ships. Sentience wasn't widely available until after they were gone. After the plague took most of the remaining hoomans. 

Today, that foundation would be for the ceremony.

It would mark where the probe would take place, and where the sentient wolves and their cubs could watch in relative safety. 

Or so they thought. No hooman had survived the probe before. But this one was different. No hooman had been to the valley since the days of the hooman plague. 

This was completely new. 

And yet, more vital than ever. The ferals knew where the valley was. And the hooman settlements had been growing in size. Not just locally, but in every area where hoomans still survived. This news was brought by the migrating birds and insects. 

Unless a way was found to communicate with hoomans and ferals, it would mean a new world war that would destroy both sides. A war that would never end until one or the other side was exterminated.

Tig-she led Soo-she up to the circle and then stopped. The wolf looked at her and sent her a faith-filled prayer for the best outcome. 

Soo-she nodded in reply, then entered the circle. 

A hawk flew in lazy circles overhead, riding the thermals. With a cry, she dove to earth. Soo-she ducked, but the wolves didn't flinch.

On landing with a graceful back-sweeping, the hawk alighted without a sound. 

Eying the assembled wolves, the hawk bowed its head. 

A shimmering covered that form, which showed a wolf when it cleared. Grey, almost white fur - it was Teacher…

Short Fiction Young Adult Science Fiction Fantasy - سلسلة الكتب

Short Fiction Young Adult Science Fiction Fantasy - سلسلة الكتب

Short Fiction Young Adult Science Fiction Fantasy كتب بالترتيب

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