To illustrate: I have been a reader and collector of primarily Marvel Comics since I was eight years old. 32 years ago. I have “mostly” enjoyed the Marvel movies and still enjoy a comic here or there as I can afford them.

I first visited Disney World when I was eighteen years old. I received my college degree in animation and have long dreamed of someday working in animation at Disney. Since marrying my wife Colleen we honeymooned at Disney World and have made a point of returning every year at least once a year since then.

So to sum this news up from my point of view: I AM OVERJOYED!!! I can’t wait for Marvel/Disney events at Disney World. Pixar produced Marvel animated films. Marvel produced Disney comics. The list could go on and on with the great possibilities to come.

I offer my heartfelt congratulations to both companies and look forward to their many great collaborations in my future.

Joe dug in his saddlebags for his book. He found a piece of his old life instead. The artifact was a small leather pouch his partner used to carry on his belt. Symbols had been burned into the surface, after years of use and abuse, the writing made a light pattern in the soft hide. The small bag had been a gift given to remind Joe of their friendship now lost. Joe ran his fingers over the script; the sensation of touching the leather stirred his memory. He brought the memento to his nose and tried to smell the past. He had brought his students here to the plains of Allaway to train where the desert, the mountains, and the prairie came together. He thought he could live with the memories living in this place. He might have been wrong.

“We were a real pair, huh?” he asked Betty, his horse.

“You were children, not much older than these who follow you now,” Betty answered in the clicks and neighs of her language. Betty had become his conscience. They had been together since he first strapped on a gun and rode out into the prairie. At first she had been like a parent to him, then a teacher, and now his conscience and in some ways his nurse.

“But we did somethin’, meaningful, didn’t we? Or is it all for nothing? Will anything we did be remembered?”

“You want to be a legend?” Betty asked, “Or admired, like your friend the Prophet?”

Joe stuffed the pouch back into his saddlebag, and pulled out his book. Its leather binding held parchment pages with gold foil edging. The tome was worth more than all the rest of his possessions combined and that included throwing in Betty. He doubted she would like that idea very much.

“I thought it would have been death separating us,” Joe said, “Not this book.”

“Death separated you, just not yours or his. The words in that book would probably be forgotten if not for the death of its author. A man’s beliefs are a very personal thing,” Betty said. “You made your choice and forced him to make his. He still loves you like a brother. You know as much in your heart.”

“But the prophet speaks the truth,” Joe replied.

“Is that why you killed him and then became a believer to atone for the sin? Truth comes in many flavors; some truths are an acquired taste. If you didn’t need someone to watch over you, I might have gone too.”

“Hmmm,” Joe said, “Thanks for staying. I don’t know if the words of the Prophet would sustain me with my ass in the dirt. These old legs aren’t much for long walks.”

“And mine are? With you riding me? You honor and flatter me, you old coot.”

Joe couldn’t help but smile. Betty knew all of his darkest secrets. She had heard the lies he told himself to make it through another day and she still loved him.

He finished unbuckling the straps from Betty’s saddle and let it slide to the ground. Jeremy, Joe’s protégée and Betty’s handler, scooped up the heavy tack and had it out of sight almost as quickly as it hit the dirt.

“Your bones achin’ as much as mine?” Joe asked Betty, as he ran a hand through her thick mane.

“We live for the children.”

Joe nodded and let his head rest on her neck for a moment. He and Betty had been together so long it felt like he removed a leg when he slid out of the saddle.

Jeremy returned and stood in front of Betty and waited for Joe to acknowledge him. The young man’s hair was greasy and uncombed. The dirt of travel caked his clothes and skin. But all Joe could see was Jeremy’s smile. The young man waited on Joe hand and foot and didn’t mind at all or if he did, he never complained to Joe about it. As almost a reflex, Joe started to unbuckle his gun belt and then changed his mind and rebuckled it.

“Find some food, son,” Joe said. He smiled as the boy took off at a run. “Was I ever that young?”

“Younger, but not as loyal and naïve,” Betty said.

Joe walked into the camp and watched as his herd of students took care of their horses, prepared their meals, and arranged their bedrolls.

He loved the smell of wood smoke and cooking beans mixed with salted meat. Early in their training, the kids would complain about the food. After a few months out in the prairie, pork and beans became a welcome friend coming home to a lonely stomach. Joe felt a growl come from his belly. He felt the loneliness too.

He reached the center of the encampment where a large bonfire was being built. The older children carried and stacked the wood. Older children. He grinned. Next year they would be fully trained Paladin Rangers and he still thought of them as children. It had been less than four seasons ago when the horse clans sent representative horses to choose their riders. Once chosen by their horse, they left the Ranger Chapterhouse to apprentice with Joe. Had he told them everything they needed to know? Were they strong enough? Could he be sure they were ready?

Joe reached out to one of the girls stacking firewood and touched her on the shoulder, “Have someone bring me a place to sit,” he said.

She jumped and turned to the boy next to her and relayed the request. He had asked for a seat but the message they would spread was ‘Master Joe is going to tell a story’. He had made it his custom to occasionally share a story from his life as a Paladin Ranger with his students. It allowed him to camouflage lessons as adventures.

Bedrolls were moved closer to the fire and students gathered around with their mess kits in their hands so they could sit close and not miss the beginning of the tale.

Two boys brought over a tree stump and covered it with a blanket. Joe settled down onto the makeshift chair and cleared his throat. He removed his hat and hung it over one knee.

Jeremy appeared with a cup of hot beans in one hand and a cup containing of mixture of two parts coffee to one part whiskey in the other. Dinner was served. Most followers of the Prophet avoided strong drink. Joe read his scriptures before bed and prayed to the Prophet, but he didn’t consider himself orthodox in his beliefs.

Joe ate while he watched the camp. Children ran from group to group spreading the news. The noise a normal encampment made in the early evening rose with the excitement spreading and then died away as the expectant faces encircled him, stared up at him and waited, while he finished his meal. He wiped grease from his mouth with his sleeve and then took a long drink from his evening coffee.

He admired their dirty faces. It had been a month since soap and water had touched any of these kids. They had been given over to join the Paladin Rangers so they could give their service and bring peace to the frontier. Many of these recruits came from orphanages or parents who for one reason or another couldn’t raise them. The Ranger corps took them in, gave them purpose, and in return, these young men and women would bring the rule of law where there had been no law. He envied them. His life was winding down like an old watch; their lives were wound tight with time stretched out before them.

Jeremy sat in the front row watching for Joe to signal if he needed anything. Joe set his empty cup and spoon down in the grass and took another deep drink from his coffee before settling in for his story. Jeremy made a motion toward the discarded bean cup; Joe waved him off. The young man should be allowed to sit with his peers tonight and soak in the tale.

“Stop me if I’ve told this one too many times before…” he said. He heard a collective intact of breath and the story began.

#

After you have been in the saddle a few years, your skin and joints begin to tell you when the weather is going to change. It was a night like this, many years ago, before the prophet came and yes, I am that old; my skin was slick with sweat from the humidity and my bones ached from the changes in the air. A storm was coming. I pulled my hat down onto my head to make sure the wind wouldn’t be able to take it. I hung my reins from the horn of my saddle to leave my hands free so I could pull my gloves tighter.

Betty and I rode with a Woa-wah-nokt Medicine Walker named A Sunny Day That Could Last Forever; I called him Day for short. The Medicine Walker had been chosen and trained by his own mare Redemption, a red roan Day liked to call Red for short. He liked the irony of a Red riding Red. We consider it bad manners, or some bullshit these days, to call the indigenous people Reds. In those days, the Reds were glad to be recognized as ‘not white’. The white folk were guilty of so many horrible crimes committed during the Great Frontier War.

Five days earlier, a messenger had found us to deliver a post from the Imperial Calvary. The Paladins stand separate from the government in the east but we lend ourselves when they need our aid.

We were asked to ride to Fort Allaway in the northwest near where the mountains met the desert. It used to stand right over there, about a thousand paces north of here. The outpost of about a hundred soldiers, both men and women, was originally built to help fortify an area being considered for settlement, then it was a training post for new recruits. The regiment stationed there was having trouble with a local shaman. Military men were trained for fighting other soldiers or unfortunately killing Reds, not for defending themselves against Earth Magic. The message excited me. General Buckhannon Macintyre, or Uncle Buck as I called him, had been a friend and mentor to me since my rookie years. He wasn’t really a relative; my family was killed when I was a child leaving me orphaned just like most of you. He was a military man to be sure and a strict commander to his men. Buck was also a kind and fair man who had lived a lot of life and he was willing to share his advice when asked. It had been several years since we had been out to Fort Allaway and I looked forward to an evening of fresh cooked food and stories told around Uncle Buck’s table.

Day was a shaman of some power, as most Medicine Walkers were, though he would deny it if anyone asked him directly. He always offered the name of another who he considered to be better skilled with the mystical arts far beyond his meager abilities. I saw him wield his magic on more than one occasion and he was just being humble. He avoided using his power that was for sure. The energies used drained him and he never quite returned to the Day he had been before the spell had been cast. Magic had been a valuable tool in our missions but proved too expensive to use often.

We arrived at the doors of the garrison just as the sun began to set. The orange glow backlit the clouds much like it did before nightfall tonight.

“State your names and business with this fort,” a voice called from high on the wall. The sentry tried to sound deep and menacing. His voice came out thin and youthful.

“We are Paladin Rangers. We are peace-keepers without enemy unless your enemy be the law,” I recited the greeting we were required to give to announce our presence and purpose. “I am Joseph Valentine and this is the Medicine Walker, A Sunny Day That Could Last Forever; we are here to see your commander, General Macintyre. He sent for us.”

“The general’s dead,” the voice said. “I reckon that makes you late.” Anger hid behind the reply. The man sounded defeated.

I slumped in my saddle at the news. I felt sorrow travel down my body and settle in my stomach. I digested the emotions and let it ignite into a fire in my belly. Given the chance to stare Uncle Buck’s killer in the eye, I would be sending the old man someone to keep him company in the grave.

The heavy doors began to swing open and the logs used to construct them drug into the ground. I remember the smell to this day. I swear if the wind would settle down, we would still smell the stink here and now. Those old forts were made of cedar and it reminded me of the hope chest my grandmother kept at the foot of her bed. The cedar scent was mixed with tar and pitch used to seal the seams between the beams; the sealants turned a pleasant scent into a god-awful stench. Both the hope chest and the fort were built to protect a precious commodity from harm. My grandmother’s hope chest had succeeded; the items it held outlived their owner. The fort had proved to be not so effective.

Allaway was built of full tree trunks cleaned of their branches and bark then sunk into the ground. The tops of the poles were sharpened to a point. The trees had to be brought in from miles away. There hadn’t been a forest near Fort Allaway since before anyone could remember. The trees were shellacked weekly and after baking in the sun for years, the wood was as hard as a wall of stone. If a town grew up around the palisade, as was often the case, stone and mortar would replace wood making the post permanent.

Day and I rode through the massive gate and waited for it to close before we looked around. Cabins were built up against the walls to house soldiers and officers. Towers stood at the corners to provide vantage points for lookouts in every direction. The eyes of every soldier turned to watch us.

Scorch marks marked the ground in a zigzag pattern. The burns left furrows as they ran across the dirt and up onto the walls and roofs of the cabins. Bodies were laid out in the center of the yard covered with woolen blankets.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“Magic, unnatural magic,” Day answered. His face showed his revulsion; he looked like he could vomit. “Evil brought down the forces of nature here. Our Mother’s Earth Magic didn’t do this.”

“Boys keep your heads about you,” Betty warned. “The air still smells burnt. I am not sure whatever did this is finished with these youngsters.”

Red shook her head and sputtered to clear the smell. “Burnt flesh, Day. And lightning. And darkness. Old malevolence it crawls across my hide like fleas.”

The smell of the dead mixed with a metallic smell. And Betty and Red were right about the smell of metal cooking, like in a blacksmith’s shop.

“Can we see the General’s body?” I asked.

A young officer approached in a dirty, unkempt uniform. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Normally an officer would introduce himself and offer assistance without being asked when a Ranger entered his fort. This man appeared surly as if he had just been awakened and asked to perform some menial task.

“I will take you,” he said. These young men and women had been shocked into silence. They all wandered about the fort without purpose. They drifted like dandelion seeds on the wind, looking for a place to take root, and finding only hard earth underneath them. The company’s leader lay dead and no one had stepped into the position to take command.

We dismounted and followed the man into one of the cabins. The room was dark; the windows had been covered. This had been the General’s quarters when he was alive. Thick oak furniture was arranged around the room. Shadowy animal heads stared down at us from the walls. Uncle Buck had enjoyed hunting and displayed his trophies with pride. He also honored the animals he killed. Every creature had been used to provide meat and the remains were made into clothing and equipment. The Reds had taught him how to hunt, he also learned from them the value of the animal and how precious a resource they provided. As I passed a table, I saw a copy of Exploits of the Paladins in the West opened with the pages facing down to mark the place where Uncle Buck had stopped reading. I had purchased the book for him and sent it by the courier rider express. I was glad to see he received it. I picked it up, closed it, and set it back on the table. He wouldn’t be finishing the story.

Candles were lit and nearly twenty of them surrounded a dead body laid out on a long wooden table. Knowing Uncle Buck like I did, I was sure this table had to have been cleared of papers, maps, and miniatures before the body could be laid here. The General always reviewed campaigns carried out by his predecessors and spent time here planning strategies of his own.

I removed my hat, looked at Day, and motioned for him to do the same. We approached the body.

The General lent assistance to the Paladin Rangers as we had need and we came to his call in return. He was also a close personal friend. This didn’t look like my friend at all. Uncle Buck had always been full of life. His cheeks were a constant rosy bloom and his eyes would shine. He seldom lay still. Even in his sleep he tossed and turned through dreams of activity. Just by laying perfectly still, the body separated itself from the man who had been the General Buckhannon Macintyre.

A scorch mark, like the ones out in the yard, started at the remains of his boot where it had melted to his foot. The burns then ran up his leg across his torso and over his face. The heat had cooked his eye in its socket leaving a nugget that looked like a charcoal from a fire. The body smelled faintly of cooked meat and burnt clothing. His uniform and skin were still damp. This man looked decades older than Uncle Buck should have been. The life this man had experienced since our last meeting had weathered him beyond his years.

“Tell me what did this?” I asked, turning on the young officer. “What did you see?” I wanted to grab him and shake till the glaze left his eyes. If I had thought it would’ve helped, I would have done it.

“It was lightning,” he said. He refused to look at the corpse. At first he stared at his shoes but then he looked me in the eyes instead. I wished he hadn’t. The pain and terror I saw there chilled my soul. He wanted me to save him. “Every night the man in the jail moans and chants, then the rain comes. And every night the lightning kills another one of us. The general ran out into the storm to find a lost soldier. A new recruit had lost her way in the driving rain and he wasn’t willing to leave anyone behind. He said he heard her calling to him. In the morning we found him out in the yard, dead.”

I grabbed Day by the shoulder and lead him outside. “How long till night falls, an hour maybe?”

“At the most,” Day replied. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

The air felt heavy. My ears hurt from the pressure. The storm was coming.

“Make sure our horses are fed and watered. Bring us some coffee and something we can eat. Betty, Red, go with these men. We will catch up to you in a bit. We need to see the man you have in the jail.”

I turned to Day and walked with him off away from the soldiers. “What do we do?” I asked.

“This is bad. The Earth Mother covets her powers over the weather. A shaman would need incredible strength to wrestle control of a storm from her. To do it night after night is something I would have imagined no one could do.”

Day and I had met the Earth Mother on more than one occasion. I would not have done anything to make her mad. Day looked pale, the thought of an angry Earth Mother had seemingly drained all the blood from his body into his feet.

The jail was a stone building built into a corner of the fort away from the other buildings. Hard oak beams bolted together with iron rivets and strap iron made up the door. Steel bars filled every opening.

The young man who took us to see the General’s corpse also took us to the jail.

“What’s your name, son?” I asked him. In truth, at the time I wasn’t much older than him. It amused me to call him “son”.

“Tommy,” he said, “Major Thomas Raven. I was a private when I arrived here no more ‘en two months ago. A man can move up the ranks quick ‘round here.” He tried to chuckle and it came out with a sound more like someone clearing his throat.

Tommy tried to make a joke. His heart just wasn’t in it. The Angel of Death had been made the promotions officer here at Fort Allaway. It was a tough way to move ahead in your career. There were no parties or celebrations of any kind when these officers moved up. Only tears for the man or woman who had to die and whose post needed to be filled.

Tommy hadn’t shaved for a while. Soft fur had started to show on his face. It would take him six months to never to grow enough hair to be called a beard. If his hair hadn’t been dark brown, it is doubtful I would have noticed the growth on his face at all.

He took a ring of heavy keys from his belt and inserted a large one in the lock. He had to both turn and jiggle it to get the door open. A fort’s stockade was normally used to keep an unruly soldier occupied till they wised up or sobered up, whichever caused them to get out of line. Occasionally, they would apprehend a cattle rustler or other outlaw and keep them until the Marshal or a Ranger could come by and pick them up. Forts were not designed to be prisons. Forts were supposed to be safe havens for soldiers out in the frontier. Forts were meant to be shelter and supplies, not a jail and charnel house.

The door required a push against rusty hinges to swing open. I wondered if the men had even been coming over to feed their prisoner. Maybe they hoped if they stopped feeding him he would just die. Why hadn’t they just put a bullet in him? It wasn’t the lawful thing to do but sometimes it was the right thing to do. The terms of the treaty that ended the Frontier Wars required all native, aborigine, or other indigenous criminals, be handed over to the Paladin Rangers for prosecution. Villains wielding magic were doubly our responsibility.

Tommy led us across a small room to another door. He inserted another key and it opened onto a short corridor with cells on either side. He walked to the end of the row and motioned to his right. We followed him in and on the floor in the cell sat a small old man dressed in buckskin.

The old man smiled as he glanced up and saw us. His teeth had been sharpened into points. He stared at me like a hungry man eyeing a fresh hot plate of food. I felt his hatred. I had witnessed this kind of stare before. He was ready to kill and he was looking forward to it. After viewing the body of Uncle Buck, I had to admit the feeling was mutual.

Then the old man turned and watched Day. The old man took his time sizing Day up and he stared differently than the way he had looked at me. At first the look showed surprise, followed by disappointment, a flash of uncertainty, and then finally hatred came back into control.

I crouched down to look eye to eye with this murderer. He didn’t seem like much of a threat. He was small. His hair hung long, grey and greasy, pulled back in a leather thong. He had been beaten recently. Bruises swelled on his face and neck. His buckskin clothing was torn and dirty with blood smeared across the front. His legs were crossed under him and his feet were bare. He smelled of dried urine and old sweat. Except for the sharp teeth, he looked rather pathetic.

“Who are you? Why are you killing these men?” I asked.

“Ask my people,” he said, “Ask my people when they come. They will come for each of you and invite you to dance. Dance with them. Dance! Dance! Dance with our women! Dance with our children! Dance with the Hownowk, and you will have your answers white man. Then we will feast and dance with your bones.” Spit foamed at the corners of the old man’s mouth as he spoke.

“You’re not Hownowk,” Day said. “And don’t pretend to speak for them.” I was surprised at Day’s response. He became instantly angry with this man. Day had winced at the use of the word “Hownowk” as if it stung him.

“I am Hownowk,” the old man said softly, “and who will speak for them if I don’t? You should be raising your voice for them with me. We should be yelling the name of the Hownowk from the mountaintops for all to hear. You should embrace me as your brother.” The man howled like a wolf.

“Did he bite anyone?” Day asked Tommy.

“Yes, they all died of a terrible infection that spread from the wounds. He killed one guard then tried to eat him, that’s when we stopped guarding or feeding him.”

“Who are the Hownowk?” I asked. Day shook his head and led me outside. The old man began to moan and chant as we left. He slapped his hands on the floor of his cell to keep his rhythm. Outside the jailhouse doors, night drew near; the wind had intensified allowing the bad smells to move on.

In the open air, I turned to Day and asked my question again, “Who are the Hownowk? I like to think I remember all the tribes we have come in contact with and a few I have only read about in books. I have never heard of a Hownowk tribe.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Day said. “There are no more Hownowk. They are a legend told among our tribes to scare our children and teach them the danger for someone who abuses their power. They were a tribe of shaman. From their children all the way up to the oldest elder they all practiced magic, a twisted form of it, with no respect given to the Earth Mother.

“They didn’t grow crops the way nature had intended. They spread seeds on the ground and used their magic to force the seeds to grow. Twisted unnatural plants would spring from the earth within hours and our Earth Mother would weep at what had been done to her children.

“They traded human sacrifice to the dark gods for their power. Then they fed on the flesh to ingest their victims’ strengths.

“They were evil and they had to be stopped.

“The tribes who lived around them had gone to war against them time and time again over the years. Each time the Hownowk would summon demons and evil spirits to protect them and drive the tribes away. Eventually, we just left the Hownowk to their own devices. We erected totems to warn anyone entering Hownowk land and stayed away.

“When the whites were driven from the Old World by the black sickness and first came to these lands, they ignored our warnings and found the Hownowk in the mountains.

“The Hownowk women seduced the men. The Hownowk men kidnapped and tortured the whites’ children offering them up as fresh offerings to their gods. The Hownowk made decorations of gnawed bones so the wind would knock them together and remind others of their power. Finally, the whitemen grew tired of their treachery and deceit and wiped them out, every last one of them. My people should have done it long before, it is our shame that we did not. The whitemen salted their ground and cursed their lands. The Hownowk name is not spoken openly. After many years, we had hoped that outside of ghost stories told to our children, they would be forgotten.”

We climbed the ladder up to the walkway that ran along the inside of the garrison’s wall then peered out over the prairie, the way we had come. We walked around the periphery of the fort till we faced the desert. The soldiers pointed out into the wastes. He had come from there. The dry desert sand came to an abrupt end as it reached the saturated earth around the fort. The storms the shaman called were small controlled events restricted to the area around Fort Allaway.

I felt my stomach growl, a boy of no more than sixteen, brought us some food and coffee. The coffee was lukewarm and tasted like dirt and sticks. The food wasn’t much better, stale bread and salt dried beef. I would’ve eaten shoe leather. After eating what he brought, I felt like I had.

Dust devils swirled across the sand before us. The wind picked up, grit peppered our faces, and tortured our eyes. We pulled our neckerchiefs up over our mouths. If the storm had been natural there wouldn’t have been so much dust in the air. Dark magic was hurling sand across the desert in advance of the storm’s approach.

“They’re coming!” a soldier on my left, cried out, “They’re coming, oh God, they’re coming!”

Day took out items from the pouch he kept tied to his belt. He held each item close to his eyes to be sure he had what he expected and then began rubbing the ingredients between his hands. When he had a fine powder, he waited for a lull in the wind; he held his hand flat and blew the mixture into the air. As soon as the dust left his hand, he pulled the neckerchief back up onto his face. Ordinary dust would’ve just blown back onto us with the next gust of wind. The magic dust flowed against the currents and began to bind itself to the air.

“Let’s see if the air will speak to us,” he said. His eyes twinkled like they always did when he used his magic.

At first nothing seemed to happen. Then slowly particles sparkled out in front of us. It looked much like a late summer evening when fireflies come out to greet the night.

A tiny flash here, the sparks began to spread and shapes would form and then fade away. Soon the air filled with a shiny fog. But instead of obscuring our view, it intensified it. We could see where birds had torn through the air throughout the day. I moved my hand in front of my face and afterimages formed as the movement broke the air. Day had made the air itself translucent and we could see where anything that touched the air had affected it.

The magic didn’t bring comfort to the soldiers around us. They shuffled nervously and mumbled, some moaned and sobbed in fear.

“Remain calm,” I said, and then in a whisper to Day, “Is this helping?”

“We need the air to tell us what is coming. I have asked for its help. Mother Earth will take our side in this fight.”

“We know what we are doing,” I yelled to the young recruits, “This is why we are here.”

I looked back out into the twilight. The glitter in the air lost its shine as the light faded. “We do know what we’re doing?” I asked Day. “You know what we’re doing, I mean. I need something I can shoot at if I am going to know what I’m doing.”

“You’re yammering,” Day said. “Yes, I know what I’m doing. Let’s see what we’re fighting.”

The shiny fog had spread down and out into the desert. Where moments ago there had been nothing. I could see movement. Figures moved out in the sand. As Day’s magic spread, the vague shapes sharpened into distinct forms. There were people out there, dancing people.

They wore ceremonial garments and swung their bodies back and forth as they danced. The group was mixed: men, women, old and young. They writhed and rubbed up against each other. They pulled at each other’s clothes and hair as their dance intensified. The men and women pantomimed the sex act as part of their dance. The old people slapped and shoved the children in rhythm as they moved within the group. It horrified me. I stood mesmerized.

Day turned to me. “Meet the Hownowk,” he said. “The old shaman pulled their spirits back into this world. Whether or not he is one of them, he knows the dark magic.”

“Ghosts? We’re fighting ghosts?” I asked. “How am I supposed to put a bullet in a ghost?”

“You can’t,” Day said. “Not unless we pull them all the way into this world.”

“Then I will put a bullet in the old coot in the jail. He called them up. He drops dead. Poof! Back to being dead for the ghosts.”

“’Fraid not,” Day said. “Once they are called they have to be put back. If we kill him, they are free to wander this world. There is no telling what they would do.”

“I can’t shoot him. I can’t shoot them. Why am I even here?”

“I might need you,” Day said. “You may get to shoot something or someone yet.”

“That’s a relief.”

I could see Day loosing steam as the magic drained his strength. He held a railing on the edge of the walkway and lowered himself to sit on the ledge.

“The spirits of the dead who walk the earth always want to cross back into the realm of the living. They need the help of the living to make the crossing. We must prevent it. They will entice you, they will threaten you, you must not submit.”

“I’m not gettin’ cozy with the ghosts,” I assured him. I don’t think he meant me in particular. As the last of the twilight faded and night took full control, the rain came with the darkness. “Get yourselves inside,” I ordered the soldiers. “There is nothing to look out for. It won’t matter if you see them or not. Get inside!”

Like good soldiers, the young men and women took a moment to wonder if they should be taking orders from someone not in a uniform. Then Tommy cleared away their doubts by yelling from the courtyard below.

“Are y’all waitin’ for me to come up there and invite y’all inside? Get your lazy asses movin’ now!” Tommy would make a good officer.

I ran a hand along the brim of my hat to clear the water and pulled down the front to shield my eyes. Next, I slipped an arm under the arm of Day and pulled him up. I helped him keep his footing then watched as he slid down the ladder to the ground. He held onto the ladder while I climbed down, more to keep him steady, rather than to steady the ladder for me.

Tommy waited for us and then motioned for us to follow him. The yard had already turned to sloppy mud. Several nights in a row of rain had not given the ground time to dry out even with dry air blowing off the nearby desert.

I felt what I imagined to be slaps as the rain, propelled by wind, hit my face. I could barely see Tommy in front of us and it seemed like we crossed miles to reach the shelter of one of the cabins. Lightning danced across the open space. The bolt slammed into a soldier to our left. I hadn’t even seen her until the flash illuminated her. The rain sizzled and smoke formed then washed away just as quick. The Hownowk had claimed another life. I planned to make them pay for each one.

We stepped onto a slim porch in front of a cabin and we were out of the rain.

“Has it been like this every night?” I asked Tommy, as he shook water from his uniform and peeled the fabric away from his skin.

“Oh, it’s really just gettin’ warmed up, sir,” he said.

A young woman held the door for us as we entered the cabin and then slammed a bar down to lock it behind us. I really doubted locked doors were going to keep out ghosts of ancient cannibals who commanded the weather.

Inside the cabin was one big room. Most of the space held bunks three high. Eyes peered out at us from every rack. Off to the right sat a long table with chairs set up for meals and meetings. From that direction, I smelled coffee and I followed my nose looking for the source.

A young cadet pulled out a cup from a cabinet and offered to sweeten it with whiskey. I waved her off; I liked my coffee straight and black in those days. Day refused even a cup.

I pulled out a chair, took a seat, and just held the warmth of the cup in my hands letting the steam rising from it warm my face. This coffee did not come from the same batch as the one served with my dinner. “Now what?” I asked.

“We wait,” Day said. “The spirits will walk among us. We must decline anything they offer. Trust nothing they say or do.”

“Maggie’s dead then,” a young woman’s voice said from one of the bunks. “The lightning hit her as we ran for cover.”

Day met her eyes with his and nodded. The woman made a soft sobbing noise.

“Private?” Tommy asked.

The young woman stood up from her bed and stood at attention, “Private Tamara McCloud, requesting the status of Sergeant Margaret Krisher, sir.”

“Understood, Sergeant McCloud. Are we clear, sergeant?”

Tamara’s expression said they were more than clear.

“At ease, Sergeant,” Tommy released her.

Tamara crawled back in bed with her grief and a new rank to keep her company through the night.

“No offense,” I said, “But why are y’all so young?”

“Fort Allaway,” Tommy began to explain, as he sat down across from me, “Is a training camp. General Macintyre was allowed to keep the post instead of retirement for both himself and the fort. We don’t really guard anything here. This isn’t disputed territory and the Calvary thought we would be safe here while we trained for service.”

“At least you got word out,” Day said. “The scout you sent to us went on to Calvary Headquarters without more than a few hours rest for her or her horse. You should be proud of her and all of these new soldiers. You’re all being very brave.”

“The General expected you to be able to save us,” another voice said from a bunk. “How are you saving us in here? Shouldn’t you be out there fighting whatever is causing all this?”

“A lesson you still need to learn is sometimes you can put the enemy at a disadvantage if you let them come to you. Rushing into a fight may be rushing to your grave,” I said. There was a teacher in me even then, though I didn’t know it.

The wind whistled as it tore at the building. The rain created a buzz as it washed over the wooden structure and ran down the windows. The room would flash into near daylight when lightning struck and then plunge back into a murky darkness. The people trapped in the cabin spoke rarely and only in whispers, except for Day, Tommy, and myself. An unspoken rule existed that only grown-ups sat at the table and only grown-ups were allowed to speak in a full voice.

“Do you know how to send them back?” I asked Day.

“No,” he said. “We will need to convince the old man to do it. Whoever calls the dead must send them back or they are free to wander the land of the living. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Hownowk try to kill him. If he dies while they are active, the spell that brought them over will be permanent.

“I will need to take counsel from the Earth Mother before we take action. I need a quiet corner to myself.”

Tommy led Day off to one side of the cabin and cleared the floor. He pulled over a chair and offered it to Day. Day refused.

The Medicine Walker removed his gun belt and mocassins, then sat down cross-legged on the floor with his back to the corner. He gently hummed and mumbled words in an ancient language.

I had witnessed Day calling one of the Old Ones before. Medicine Walkers could summon their gods in times of great need. Some of the deities were angered by the intrusion, others welcomed the chance to spend time with one of their children.

I smelled sweet flowers and grass wet with dew, the scents of springtime made up the perfume of the Earth Mother. A glowing butterfly materialized, flew across the room, and landed on Day’s knee. He reached out a hand, the creature floated into his palm. He formed a cup with his other hand and whispered to the butterfly. Faintly, I heard it whisper back.

“Day,” I said softly, as not to break the spell, “Is that the Earth Mother?” I knew the Old Ones could take on many forms.

“This is her messenger,” Day said, “Our Mother is busy elsewhere. Moah-ma-ky asks that we forgive her. I tell our Mother I understand many things require her attention. Moah-ma-ky has explained to me, the shaman is trading dead soldiers for his power. For each dead soul, Crowfeather, Chief of the Dead, grants him the power to call the Hownowk. She has explained to me a way to send them back if I can be strong enough.

“We face the power of an Old One channeled through this shaman. For tonight, the payment has been made. We must keep everyone inside and sleep if we can.”

The storm raged throughout the night. The soldiers slept with fitful dreams. Day and I took turns keeping watch.

Sometime in the depths of the night, I sat observing the others sleeping around me.

I saw movement. Immediately I rose from my chair. A young woman had gotten up from her bed. She was lacing her boots.

“Do you have plans for this evening?” I asked.

“Mama is calling,” she said. “She’s lost in the rain, won’t take but a minute to get her in where it’s warm and dry.”

“When was the last time you saw your mama?” I asked.

The girl seemed confused. “I, why I,” she stammered.

“Is your mama, dead?” I asked playing a hunch.

“Yes, yes. I went to her funeral,” she said. “I dressed mama in her Sunday best for her viewing. We buried her up on Cambric Hill back in Restitution.”

“Seems unlikely she’s out wandering in the rain then doesn’t it?”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Go back to sleep, missy,” I offered, “Dreams are leading you astray.”

We made it through most of the night without losing another soldier to the storm. The shaman’s payment to old Crowfeather was going to be lighter than usual while we were on duty. A few hours before dawn, the storm lightened but hadn’t moved on, Day and I decided to make our move.

“We need to go there then?” I asked. I didn’t want to admit it even to myself but we needed to protect the old sorcerer. The last thing this fort needed was a permanent haunting by an ancient evil. I reached out a hand toward Tommy and he placed his keys in my hand.

I took a long last drink from the coffee I was calling breakfast to put some warmth into my body. I adjusted my hat and tightened its leather drawstring up under my chin to secure it. I pulled my leather gloves from my under my gun belt and slid my hands into them, giving them a tug to be sure they were good and tight.

“Wait. Before we go, I want to leave these people some protection. Give me your knife.”

I pulled out my knife and Day used it to make a slit in his finger. He used the blood to draw on the table, symbols and words in an ancient language. I had seen him write like this before. He laid down a protection spell. When he finished on the table. He cut another finger crossed the room and created a similar set of symbols on the door. One spell would protect against the ghosts entering the other would weaken them if they got in.

“Keep these just as I have made them,” he told the now shivering soldiers. “And start a fire in your stove. You won’t be very good fighters if you are all sick in bed.” The night of rain had left the morning air chilled.

I filled with pride to be Day’s partner. He remained fearless in those days and kept his head in some of the worst situations. Truth be told, I nearly wet my pants I was so scared. Gunfighters? No problem. Outnumbered fifty guns to two? Nervous but still ready to go. Spooks and demons? I wanted to curl up in a ball under the covers and pray for my mommy. Never believe a man who tells you not to be scared. Believe me when I tell you to take that fear and turn it into strength. Face what scares you and be proud when you conquer it.

I wished we had taken the time to unpack our dusters before the storm had come; it was too late as soon as we stepped outside, our clothes were soaked and clung to our skin.

We put a hand on our hats to hold them down and walked through the storm. Sheets of rain poured on us. It felt more like standing under a waterfall rather than a rainstorm, and the storm’s intensity had lessened from earlier in the night.

We ran as fast as we could in the mud, occasionally jumping as lightning hit the ground dangerously close to us. I wonder to this day if he had done some magic to keep the lightning off of us. I looked mostly at the mud beneath us as we moved. I could see footprints made by invisible feet appear in the mud and then wash away. The Hownowk danced around us. Whether by magic or luck, we managed to make it to the other side of the yard.

I fumbled with the keys, squinting against the water in my eyes, trying to determine which key to use and where the lock had gone so I could use it. After what seemed like an infinite number of attempts, I found the lock with the right key; the two of us put a shoulder to the door and shoved.

“Hello shaman from hell, time to go beddy-bye,” I said, trying to lighten my own mood by entertaining myself. We crossed over to the cellblock and entered. The old shaman sat right where we left him. The only difference, he wasn’t alone. He moaned and chanted swaying back and forth on the floor. Two apparitions stood on either side of him and gently cooed to him and stroked his hair. Then occasionally they would pull his hair and giggle as he winced. These were not his friends.

The figures were semi-transparent but were clearly female. Their shapes were very feminine. Their every movement offered an invitation. Their long black hair shimmered as it moved in the air around them as if they were in a gentle breeze. Their skin showed tattoos starting at the edges of their faces and covered most of the skin visible outside of their clothing. The ghost women’s faces were beautiful. I had a hard time not staring into their eyes. They smiled as they noticed us admiring them. Their shoulders were bare. The front of their clothing covered their breasts but really hid nothing. Their leggings were laced tight, hugging their buttocks and lower limbs. These women were unlike any other native women I had ever met.

One of the spirits gave the shaman one last brush to his hair, she ran her fingernails over his cheek drawing blood, then crossed through the bars to come closer to me.

“Like me handsome?” she asked. “Wish for me in your bed and I can be yours tonight.” I did really want her. Paladin Rangers make it their practice to not become entangled in matters of the heart or of the flesh. It doesn’t make us immune. Loneliness affected me as any other man who had been years without the company of a woman.

“Clear your mind or fill it with something else,” Day warned. “Don’t let them harness your will.”

I closed my eyes and tried to think of sunshine in a meadow back home. I pictured the flowers and the grass and then pulled up the memory of their scents and textures. I imagined the sunlight on my face.

She whispered, “Think of me. Dream of me, cowboy. Wish for me and I can be yours.”

My thoughts of the meadow turned to a dream of her crossing the field to fall into my arms. I cleared my mind and I thought of Betty. I mentally went through removing her tack and cleaning her coat. I imagined brushing each inch of that horse. I focused on an area at a time. I started at the crest of her neck and worked my way to her hind quarters.

“Damn you, what kind of man are you?” she growled. “A woman offers herself to you and you want to spend time with a horse?”

“Betty and Red will be proud,” Day said.

I felt the spirit move away. My skin crawled as cool, oily air moved across it. I opened my eyes. Day pulled an impossibly long staff from out of his pouch. I loved when he did stuff like that.

“Can I get a saddlebag made like that pouch?” I asked.

“Not hardly,” he answered. “Only items of magic can be carried in it. Come stand close to me.”

I stood elbow to elbow with Day while he gestured with his staff and chanted. The end of the stick took on a faint glow as Day moved it around me. A barrier formed around us on the floor. I could see it as if I were looking out on the world through a slightly milky sheen.

He extended the staff out through the shield and began to wave it over the old man. The film formed around him as well, forcing the spirits back so they couldn’t reach him. They hissed as the barrier pushed them from the shaman’s side. They turned to hiss at Day for conjuring it. Their beauty faded as their anger grew. First, their skin appeared tight and then their faces were just skulls full of sharp teeth.

“I think you made our dates angry,” I said.

“I hope to make them furious,” Day replied.

He sat on the floor and crossed his legs under him. “What I am about to do is very dangerous,” he said. “I need you to watch me. If the old man gains control, you have to kill me. Understood?”

“I don’t know if I can kill you. You’re like my brother.”

“If he turns my spell back on me, I will be dead inside already. Do it because we are brothers.”

Day began to chant and moan in a similar rhythm to the old shaman. Then they matched exactly. Day formed a harmony with his opponent and they were both casting the spell. I could feel magic crawling all over my skin. Day’s eyes were closed and he swayed back and forth just as the old man did. They were in perfect sync, mirror images of each other.

I felt the struggle. Energy ebbed and flowed between the two. The Hownowk phantom women jumped back as if they had been shocked. Day reached out with his arms and I could see a raw power ignite around them. Mystical lightning flowed from the old man into Day and back again.

Then there was a loud pop as all of the air sucked into a point in-between them and then air from outside rushed in to fill the empty space.

“Nooooooo,” I heard Day’s voice emanating from the old man’s lips inside the cell. Day’s eyes popped open but it was a stranger looking at me from behind them.

“A new young body is a generous gift,” a deeper rough voice said from Day’s lips. It definitely wasn’t Day.

Without thinking I had my gun in my hand and my thumb pulled back the hammer. I pressed the barrel against my closest friend’s temple. I prepared to fire. Could I will my finger to pull that trigger? My reflexes were tightening the tendon; my heart held the finger joint still.

Then I saw a struggle. The face of my friend changed. The expression shifted from being the old man’s back to Day’s again. I waited with my finger tense on the trigger. How long would I have to decide if I should shoot? I saw my hand tremble. My gun hand was usually steady as a rock. A standoff raged inside of me to rival the one I watched between these powerful shaman.

Then Day’s voice came from his lips, “Be ready to kill the old man,” he said.

“You said before not to kill the old man,” I reminded him. This had to be a trick. The old man pretended to be Day to fool me or had Day regained the upper hand? Day told me clearly that killing the old man would keep the ghosts in the world of the living forever.

“I am forcing his spirit out of his body,” Day said. “I am also wrestling the spell away from him. I will only have full control of it for a moment. You must kill him at that moment. His spirit won’t have anywhere to return to, for a moment it will be safe for him to die.”

Day went back to chanting and moaning for a bit. Then the old man went stiff and sat upright, straight as a board.

“Now!” Day said. Before all the air pushing the words from his mouth had left his lips, I had pointed my gun and fired. The bullet ripped through the old man like it was passing through dried paper. His brains blew out in a wet splash against the back of the cell wall. I fired three more times. I had to be sure, because there’s nothing worse than a wounded shaman. My trigger finger ached from holding itself so tight without getting to fire. It felt good to put those bullets into the old coot.

Day’s chanting changed and the phantom women faded. Lightning and thunder flashed and roared outside, then there was silence. Day collapsed like a marionette with his strings cut.

I holstered my gun and bent down next to him. He was breathing. He panted as if he had been running for miles.

I turned back to the body of the old shaman and was surprised to see another man in the cell with him. A tall Red, dressed in dark buffalo skins and a full ceremonial headdress of black feathers, knelt down to look at the shaman’s corpse.

“Do you wish to trade for this one’s soul?” he asked.

I knew this was one of the Old Ones, Crowfeather, the Chief of the tribe of the dead. The dark shaman had been sending souls to Crowfeather in exchange for the power to call the Hownowk and control the storms.

“It is not mine to give, Old One,” I said. I wanted to look away but fire burned in this god’s eyes and they demanded my attention.

The Chief of the dead crossed the cell and looked closely at me through the bars. “When you take a life, you take some responsibility for its future. His afterlife will be measured by his deeds here on this plain. You ended his life; do you wish to trade for his spirit? I will take good care of it, I promise. Or do you have another you wish it to go to?”

“No, Old One,” I said, “Unless taking it will leave these soldiers in peace.”

“Hmm, a fair bargain, then,” he said as he faded. I saw the spirit of the shaman rise and follow him. With one blink of my eyes they were both gone.

I picked Day up and carried him out of the jail. Outside, the morning sky was painted red by the rising sun.

I carried Day over to the stables. I found Betty and Red in their stalls and pulled over some hay to lie Day on it.

“You boys alright?” Red asked. Betty reached out of her stall to unlatch the gate. By the time I had turned from our saddlebags to answer, the two of them were nuzzling Day to examine the damage.

“He’s breathing,” Betty said. “Get some dry clothes over here.”

“What do you think I’m doing, you old bossy mare?” I asked a bit irritated with them for assuming I had lost all common sense.

“Of course you are, dear,” Red said. “We just worry is all.”

I dried and changed Day’s clothing without waking him up. I wrapped him in a woolen blanket before taking care of myself. A few minutes later, I had on fresh clothes and curled up next to him. Betty and Red stood and watched over us till mid-afternoon.

We both awoke to the sound of Betty snoring. She had dozed off but still stood right above us.

I took care of getting the horses ready and packing our gear, while Day enjoyed a few more minutes of rest. He remained pale and shivered a bit in the warm air.

After helping him into his saddle, I led Betty and Red out into the yard.

Tommy had taken charge of the troops and organized a detail to clean up the debris blown around by the storm. He approached as soon as he saw us.

“One of your horses kept my people out of the stable while you slept. You should have mentioned they liked to bite. We just wondered what had happened to you.”

“Sorry,” I said, “We were both exhausted. We needed sleep before offering explanations.”

“Understood. It looks like you’re leaving,” he said.

“We are,” I answered for us all. “I may need to take Day to someplace where he can get some extra help to recuperate. He did the most to stop your shaman. Sorry for the mess in the jail, by the way.”

“Mess?” he said. “What did it look like when you left it?”

I motioned for Betty and Red, with Day slumped in her saddle, to wait while I followed Tommy over to the jail.

Inside I expected to find the remains of a bloodied corpse shot at close range. Instead, he showed me a heap of rumpled buckskin lying on a pile of dust. The bits of him that had blown out all over the cell had turned to dust as well. Some quick work with a broom and no one would have even been able to tell which cell he had been in.

“Can I see Uncle Buck, I mean the General, before I go?”

“Of course,” Tommy said.

I went back to see Uncle Buck for the last time and gently covered his body with a regiment flag and blew out the candles. I picked up the book I sent him and tucked it under my arm. I would read it again and think of my friend.

“Good-bye” I said, “sorry I was so late.”

#

Joe picked up his hat and placed it on his head. He reached down to retrieve his bean cup and spoon, Jeremy jumped up to take it from him.

“Goodnight Gunfighters,” Joe said.

“What about the story?” a young girl said. “There must be so much more.”

“Oh, there certainly was,” Joe said. “There will be other nights and other stories. I promise. And not long from now, you will be living in your own stories, young one.”

“Ah, crap,” she said. “I guess now we are supposed to sleep.”

“Sleep while you can,” Joe said. “There will be many a night you will want to come back here to this moment and have the luxury of sleep. Enjoy these nights. When you’re old, your sleep will be filled with memories of the friends you left behind and the nights you couldn’t sleep even when you wanted to.”

“But what happened to Day? Where is he now?” the girl asked.

Joe knew when he was being coaxed into another story.

“Bring me a candle, Jeremy,” Joe said, “I want to read some scripture in my tent before I retire.” Joe tucked the book under his arm, placed his hat on his head, walked past the soon to be Paladin Rangers, and looked for his next good night’s sleep.

Around him the office was buzzing with his coworkers chatter and rustling. They were preparing to attend a celebration of their mutual success. Their long hours and dedication to their work was about to pay off.

Eli picked up a cheap plastic frame from off his desk. He pulled a tissue from his back pocket and wiped away the dust and grime clouding the image held inside. He had neglected the picture in the same way he had neglected the people pictured in the holograph. As he wiped away the dirt, the light in the room bounced off the holographic image and its illusion of three dimensions returned.

He looked into the scene and his mind drifted back to a time when his family was still all together. His wife Clara and his daughter Ellie stood next to him. Their smiles were real, and in the moment captured in this tiny fragile frame, they had all been happy.

Now he was left alone, except for Saturday afternoons. Sunday through Friday he moved through his life, alone. He had become thin, in spirit as well as in his physique. He simply forgot to eat. In his old life, eating had been a social time.

In the time represented by the picture, he was the kind of husband to rush home to his family. He was also a devoted employee, he often worked late, but when it was time to head home, he couldn’t get there fast enough.

He would slip quietly into the house and as soon as his nose was in the doorway it was filled with the smells of cooking food. As his ears came into the house they heard a spoon touching metal, chemical reactions taking place brought on by heat, and the voice of his wife warning Ellie to “stay back, that’s hot, you’ll get burned.” His hands would discard the necessities of his work, his laptop, briefcase, and empty lunch container, then his fingers would itch in anticipation of touching his wife’s skin, and brushing through his daughter’s hair.

His fingers went momentarily numb and let the hologram in its frame slip through his grip. The corner of the cheap plastic frame impacted the floor of his cubicle and he heard the sound as it cracked. Eli bent over to retrieve the frame and a spiders-web of cracks spread from one corner down over the image of his wife Clara. A tear tried to form in his eye. Now the image displayed his present life, instead of the past.

Eli jumped as his chair was spun around.

“Ah, come on, Eli, this is your big day, more than anyone else’s.”

“You startled me, Mort. I was thinking,” Eli said with a sigh. To his face, the office called Morton Gordon, Mort, to each other, they called him Ton. The man weighed 400 pounds if he weighed an ounce. The fact that Ton could sneak up on him made it clear to Eli how out of it he had become.

“Mort, give me minute, I will be there before the presentation starts,” Eli said rubbing his thumb against the cracks in the frame as if rubbing them could make them close up. It was just like his efforts to heal his family. All his efforts just made the splintering spread.

“I’m saving you a seat, Eli, I want to be the first guy to shake your hand when the Dragon’s Wing launches,” Ton said as he backed out of the small space, leaving Eli to finishing his thinking.

Eli couldn’t help himself, he smiled. Watching Ton maneuver his way out of the opening of his cubicle, caused Eli to picture the Dragon’s Wing awaiting its launch. The name made it sound thin, yet powerful. The truth was the ship looked more like a Dragon’s turd. The vehicle was made from a hollowed out asteroid. The journey it was about to undertake was the longest any human had ever attempted. The robot crew of the ship would strip-mine the inside of the rock to fuel the ship and make replacement parts as equipment wore out. The human crew were Eli and his team’s responsibility. They had perfected the means for the first humans to travel to another star.

Eli noticed the chatter and rustling caused by his excited colleagues fading. The last of his coworkers had left to make their way over to the company auditorium for the presentation. The seat next to Ton would remain empty.

Eli moved his hand over the touch pad built into his desk. The view area in the corner of his cube lit up and the icons representing his life’s work floated in space in front of him. Eli clicked on the icon to connect to the web and typed in the address for the feed showing the launch. Clips of the Dragon’s Wing floating within a large metal superstructure were interspersed with file footage of the human crew training. A stern and determined young lady’s voice gave commentary on what was being shown to her audience. Eli shook his head and lowered the volume to a whisper.

He watched as the file footage changed to more recent clips. The human crew, all three hundred and sixty of them filed onto the ship. They removed their mostly ceremonial spacesuits and stored them for their century spanning journey. They showed the various brave crew-members being strapped into their seats and their vital sign monitoring devices being attached. Then Eli became interested. His face appeared on the screen, with his name printed in a clear bright font near the bottom of the image. Elias Wells, Temporal Engineer for ChronoTech, a UBC company. The interview had been taped months ago. He turned up the volume.

“Tell us, Dr. Wells, how your discoveries will make this history making journey possible,” the young lady, who Eli had forgotten her name, asked.

“I didn’t discover it,” Eli began, and was interrupted.

“Can you explain that, my notes show you as the inventor of this process.”

“My father was a student of Dr. Ronald Mallett, the father of temporal science. It was his discoveries that fueled my work. My father talked endlessly about Dr. Mallet’s belief in man’s ability to control time and its application for human endeavors. My father carried on Dr. Mallet’s work after his death, and I carried on my father’s work after he retired, ten years ago. I simply stripped away the ideas we couldn’t make work, and found a useful purpose for the theories we were able to put into practice.”

“You are too modest, Dr. Wells,” watching the play back Eli noticed the reporter had actually been rather flirty with him. He never noticed such things until after the event was long over. “You and your team at ChronoTech have built the first working time machines.”

“Hardly,” Eli’s recorded voice said, “If anything we have perfected the first time stopping machine. That is where science and fantasy were forced to part ways. A time machine would allow the user to travel back and forth through time like you driving back and forth to work everyday.  This idea is, stated simply, quite impossible. It is as impossible as attempting to travel faster than the speed of light.

The proposal I took to UBC, and for which they created ChronoTech to allow it to become a reality, involved combining the problem of two impossible tasks and making a solution for both. My father, using Dr. Mallet’s theories had built a prototype, time bending machine. I took it to the next step and stopped time entirely. Once time is removed from the equation, building a ship and traveling to the nearest star with a planet in the habitable zone becomes a reasonable goal.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Dr. Wells. Slower and this time in language our vid viewers can follow,” the young woman, stared at Eli in the recording like a groupie staring at a celebrity. She was a science geek, and he could see her hanging on his every word.

“Ok, ok, here’s how I explained it to my daughter Ellie,” Eli began again, only to be interrupted again.

“You have a daughter? How old is she?” the young woman leaned in as Eli like a good father produced a small hologram from his wallet. The vid recording was able to zoom in on the image but the three dimensional qualities were lost in the web broadcast.

“She was twelve when this image was taken,” he explained, “she is very bright, but not all that interested in all of her dad’s science talk. She needed an explanation for a paper she needed to write for school, so I gave her a simple explanation.

“The nearest star with a planet any human would be willing to visit is very far away. So far we had stopped considering a trip there because even with the fastest spaceship we could build, it would take centuries to get there. In the vid shows, the captain of a spaceship would just turn on his magical faster than light engines and be there in minutes. The truth is, there is no such thing as a faster than light engine and there never will be. End of story.

“But what if you could stop time. If time simply stopped for a crew of our fastest spaceship they would strap in here in our solar system and from their point of view, moments later unstrap their seat belts and be circling a distant new world. In effect, these individuals would have traveled through time into the future. Unfortunately, the trip would be one way.

“UBC had the resources through their space exploration divisions to build the ship, they also were kind enough to provide me the funding, personnel and resources to perfect the Mallet temporal device. Combine the two ideas and you are looking at the Dragon’s Wing our first intergalactic spacecraft.”

“So, Elias, I may call you Elias?” Eli didn’t interrupt her and she took his silence as approval, she smiled and blushed a little before continuing, “Elias, can you explain the principle behind how this works. Again, keep in mind my audience are not scientists.”

“Hmmm,” he said, wanting to clearly pick his words before using them, “The device stops time from penetrating a small area. Dr. Mallett bent time, we stopped it. Any deeper explanation and I think your viewers would need some coffee,” he grinned at his weak joke.

“Why not just send one space technician in a little capsule then?”

The recorded Eli turned to another person sitting just off screen. The recording panned over to the new face and Eli was out of the picture.

The new face went on to explain how the ship had to be large enough to carry and create enough fuel for such a long journey. Mining robots would turn the raw materials of the asteroid into the means to power the ship. Also artificial intelligence systems and robots would pilot the ship since the crew would be unavailable throughout the voyage. Finally, the need for such a large human crew had to do with maximizing the result when they arrived at their new home. These explorers would be far away, and completely out of touch with their old home. The crew needed to be large enough and diverse enough to land and begin a colony on a new world without any help or guidance.

Eli stared down into his empty coffee cup. He took it and left his cubicle, crossing the empty office to the communal kitchen. He examined one coffee pot and found cold sludge. The second pot held hot coffee only a few hours old, just what he needed to make it through the rest of his day.

The launch was also on a vid screen here in the kitchen. The images had switched to a live broadcast of the preparations for the ship’s imminent launch. Eli chuckled to himself at the silly idea. He looked at his wristwatch. The Dragon’s Wing was already well underway by now, the “live” pictures just hadn’t had time to reach Earth at the all too slow speed of light from the outer edge of the asteroid belt. A little over thirty minutes ago, the Dragon’s Wing had taken flight, slipping out of its metal cocoon and heading out into the outer solar system.

Time. It was all a matter of time. How he had made choices to spend the time he was given in his life had shaped the events that had left him a lonely broken man. All he had left were Saturdays to look forward to the time he could spend with Ellie.

Friday and it was late afternoon. He wouldn’t be getting any more work out of his staff. The celebrations would be starting shortly and then the party would carry on well into the night. He didn’t feel much like celebrating. He just wanted to head home.

Eli took a lid from the station next to the coffee pot and covered his cup. He still needed the caffeine; he would take it to go.

He walked through the empty office, and it reminded him of how he felt most of the time. Even when the cubicles were all filled and voices could be heard everywhere, he felt alone. The most important person in his life had been reduced to an occasional visitor. The rest of these strangers were inconsequential.

He returned to his cubicle, locked down his workstation, retrieved his coat from the back of his chair and headed out of the office. He found his transport in his usual parking spot.

Eli used to pride himself on being a driver. Few people actually drove themselves anywhere anymore. AI were standard equipment on all vehicles, and the transports drove themselves. Eli had adjusted his AI to allow him to take manual control. He used to make Clara smile, and Ellie squeal as he took them on acrobatic spins and hairpin turns. He could make the most mundane trip to the shopping mall into a thrill ride to remember.

Now he slipped into the transport, punched in the code to power up, and set the coordinates for home, with two stops along the way. Eli sat back and sipped his coffee as the vehicle lifted into the air and followed his instructions.

He felt a shiver, riding in the transport brought back too many memories for him. The environment controls were controlling the temperature perfectly, it was not the temperature of the air that caused the shiver.

Eli looked over at the seat next to him and he could still picture Clara sitting there, smiling and laughing as he told her about Ton explaining how thin he was now compared to how big he used to be.

He was driving them home, after a visit to Clara’s parents. He glanced back to see Ellie fast asleep. Her head was pressed against the head rest, her mouth hung slightly open and a small dribble of saliva hung from her lip. At twelve years of age, if Ellie knew someone saw her in such a state she would be embarrassed beyond any hope of a father consoling her. He would keep the moment to himself.

His attention was drawn back to the front by a bright light filling the transport cabin. A large vehicle was too close and heading straight into them. Eli moved hands over controls, fingers pushed all the right buttons, but all he did was far too little, far too late.

He could remember the sounds of shattering glass, tearing metal, and his wife screaming. Why had he lived?

Metal ripped away and a vicious wind tore through the small space. The piece of the transport holding Clara was gone. He had only blinked for a second, or had he been squeezing his eyes shut forever. When he looked, he was staring into open sky. Rain poured in through the hole. Perhaps, it was the wetness hitting him in the face that forced his eyes open. The transport spun. Eli knew they were falling. He heard the vehicles engines crying as they fought against gravity and were losing the battle.

He saw Ellie’s eyes peering from the darkness of the remains of the back seat. She had been awakened by the crash. She was in shock from her injuries. Pieces of metal that moments ago held her mother in place had found their way through her body. Eli could barely make out her cries and whimpers over the sounds of the engines and the roar of the wind.

He remembered the floor of the transport rising to meet him. It was the only indication he had the vehicle had hit the ground. The cabin filled with airbags and safety foam. The engines had slowed their descent enough to allow them to live. Then all was black, until he awoke in the hospital, and his life turned into an unending grey.

Eli awoke and found he couldn’t move. Plastic casts and restraints held his body in a position the doctors felt would allow his injuries to heal. His body would heal. His family was terminal. Clara was gone. Ellie was headed into hell.

He missed his mouth with the coffee and the still hot liquid splashed onto his chin. Eli let the past go, and focused on the present. He reached into a pocket of his jacket and retrieved a tissue to wipe away the stinging coffee. Why couldn’t he pay more attention, and live in the moment, even now?

His first stop before he arrived home was the memorial. Clara had not wanted to be buried. Her remains had been cremated and scattered across the grounds of her parents’ large estate. At the edge of the property, Eli had a memorial placed. It was a traditional hologram grave-marker with a vid of memories a visitor could watch after pushing a button. Eli came here every Friday evening.

He used to watch the vid at least once every visit. He could now pull up the pictures, voices, and music from his memories without the help of the projector. Clara was calling out to him from the hole in his soul. He would never be a whole man again.

He used to cry when he visited Clara. Now the tears refused to come. He wished he could touch her skin again. His fingers still itched to feel her skin against his.

“The Dragon’s Wing left today,” he said. “I always promised I would work fewer hours and be home more once the ship was on its way. I did it. Now who do I spend the time with?

“I miss you. Ellie misses you, but she doesn’t really know how long you have been gone. I promise I will always be there for her.

“She has your eyes, and your smile. She is all I have left of you. I am so, so sorry. Good night, my love.”

Eli felt wetness on his face, and he hoped the tears had found a way to come again. He needed the release. Then his whole face was wet and if there had been tears, they were lost in the rain.

He walked slowly back to the transport and let the rain soak into his clothes. The fabric clung to his skin and the cold covered him. The chill made him alert. He wanted to be present; he had another task to perform.

Ellie was twelve years old when the crash happened, five years before. She loved teddy bears. Most twelve year olds traded their stuffed animals for pop music, cell phones, and more clothes. Ellie had never grown tired of the bears. They decorated her room, she named them, and for some she had made a wardrobe of clothes to wear.

It had taken five years for Eli to allow himself to examine the personal effects returned to him from the crash. The six small boxes had been delivered a few days after he had arrived home from the hospital. He moved them into the basement and left the seals untouched for five years.

He filled his empty Sundays with meaningless cleaning and yard-work, when the weather permitted. This past Sunday had proven to be cold and wet. He decided to clean the basement.

Much of their old life had been collected and packed away. It really was an accident when he pulled over a box and broke its seal before realizing it was one of the containers from the crash.

Sitting on top of the scraps of his old life, lay a battered, torn, teddy bear staring up at him with a sewn on grin.

He pulled the bear toward his face and he smelled Ellie, and Clara. When she turned twelve, Ellie had found she smelled funny. Hormones were running amok in her body, and she was beginning to have sweat that stank like B.O. should. Clara had introduced her daughter to antiperspirant and perfume. Ellie still smelled of adolescent sweat but it was mixed with the smell of Clara’s perfume. To Eli it smelled like roses blooming early in springtime.

He gently examined the bear and took note of every injury. Its fur was torn and matted. One arm hung by a bit of fabric and some weary string. The bear looked like Eli felt inside. The bear he could get repaired. Ellie would be thrilled.

On Monday afternoon, during lunch, Eli had gone to a seamstress he had found on the web during the morning. She had assured him, via text message, she could mend the bear.

The shop was small and tucked into a strip mall. It was situated between a gun store and a payday loan office. This was not the neighborhood Eli was used to visiting.

A bell rang as he entered the door. Eli looked up and examined the bell. It was a real bell on a curled piece of metal. The metal flexed as the door slid under it and the bell rang. Most shops that wanted the quaint sound of a bell when customers entered, used sensors and an electronic recording. Eli felt comfort in seeing the real bell.

The seamstress was an old woman named Annie. Eli made himself grin, imagining her name might be short for Annabelle. She crept around the counter and had a hand on his hand in greeting before he had a chance to object.

“You must be Elias,” her voice was like wheels moving through gravel, “come in, come in, and let’s see our patient.”

Annie had not seen an image of Eli during their text message exchange, and he had not had a chance to introduce himself. She just knew.

“Hello, Annie,” Eli said, trying to form a full grown smile. His face had forgotten how to make one.

“Never mind, the pleasantries,” she said, “We have an injury to repair, and you look like a busy fellow. I know I have lots of things to do.”

Eli took a seat at a table, Annie indicated as a place for their meeting. He set the rumpled brown paper bag with the bear in it between them,  and gently unwrapped Annie’s new patient.

Annie lifted a pair of glasses she wore on a chain around her neck, to her eyes and stared at the damaged animal.

“Uh, huh,” she said, “Hmm, ah,” she continued mentally noting each and every area that needed her attention. “Can you give me till Friday?” she asked.

“Friday? Sure, Friday would be great,” Eli said. He had been sure she was going to tell him the case was hopeless and the last bit of hope for repairing part of his family’s old life would have been gone.

He offered her money ahead of time and she refused. She shook his hand again, and had him out the door within another minute.

Now Friday had come. The transport set down in the parking lot, and he walked past men sharing beers and loud conversation outside the loan office. Obviously one of them had scored a loan and they were celebrating.

He smiled as he heard the bell announce his entrance, and there, right on cue, was Annie holding what appeared to be a brand new bear.

“I cleaned her fur, and fixed all the boo-boos,” she said.

Eli took the offered bear and stared at it speechless.

“You can check my work if you like,” she continued, “I did my best to hide the stitches.”

Eli briefly looked the bear over. It was Ellie’s bear, there was no doubt, but all evidence of the accident’s effect on it was gone.

“How much do I owe you?” Eli asked, “Your work is amazing.”

“You can’t pay me yet,” Annie said, “You don’t own that bear. You take her home to her owner. If the lady who owns the bear is happy, you mail me a check, or drop it by when you are in the neighborhood. Better yet, I take money on my website, I accept Paypal.”

Eli smiled, and then he couldn’t help himself. He hugged Annie with the bear in between them. “But how much?” he asked again.

“You decide how much it was worth, when you show the little lady,” Annie said, “You will know how much it was worth.” Annie looked Eli over in his wet clothes. Then she took the bear and wrapped it in plastic.

She shook Eli’s hand after placing the bear in his other hand. Annie had him back out of her store and on the pavement in a moment. Eli beamed as he walked to the car.

He sat in the vehicle and stared at the bear all the way home. The bear’s shiny plastic eyes looked back at him from inside the shrink wrap. He saw Ellie’s eyes staring at him from the back seat, during the crash. Her eyes knew her mother was gone. Her eyes knew her father was to blame. Her eyes knew everything.

Eli still lived in the house they had all shared as a family. He walked through the door leading from the transport hangar, dropped his wet coat on the floor, set the bear in a chair in the living room and headed to the kitchen.

Since losing Clara, he had made a habit of eating boxed frozen dinners. The nutritional value was minimal, the taste was marginal, and the space it filled in his stomach was acceptable. He no longer found joy in meals. He mentally knew his continued existence required he occasionally eat. He didn’t have to like it. He carried his excuse for dinner into the living room and plopped down on the couch.

He turned on the vid screen and scrolled through the channels. Almost every channel had some variation of the coverage of the launch of the Dragon’s Wing. The entertainment and gossip channels interviewed celebrities and asked what they had been wearing when they watched the launch. It was big news. He should be elated. He chewed his food and only tasted burnt ash.

The evening blurred. Allowing himself to relax for a moment, let his exhaustion wash over him. This life was killing him.

He awoke still sitting on the couch with the empty food container sitting in his lap. Daylight was tearing through the windows and ripping at his eyes. It was Saturday morning.

Eli carried the container to the recycling slot and put his utensils in the sink. He rinsed out the coffee pot, filled the coffee machine’s reservoir with water, and decided to take a shower while it brewed.

In the bathroom, he slipped out of his still moist clothes and stared at himself in the mirror. His body was wasting away. He had been a plump slightly overweight man when his family was whole. He wasn’t exactly fat. He had that fullness a man achieved when he found contentment. He enjoyed meals and time spent on leisurely moments with his wife and daughter. He had been happy and soft.

The five years since the accident had taken a toll on his body. The roundness had melted away to show the hard angles of bones showing through skin and thinned muscle. He didn’t look fit, just frail. His once filled out skin, now hung over his skeleton like carelessly hung clothes on wire hangers. Dark circles held up his eyes. His cheeks were beginning to sag. The touches of grey in his hair were spreading to take over his scalp. He had aged fifteen years in the last five.

Eli stepped into the shower and let the warm water flow across his body. He closed his eyes and it had been a mistake. The warm water became blood running over his skin. He couldn’t get it off and he wasn’t sure whose blood covered him. He forced his eyes open and he was back in the shower. He foamed up with deodorant soap, and let the memories run down the drain. He kept his eyes open even when soap splashed into them and he felt the sting. Nothing was worth closing his eyes again. Nothing.

He dressed in a hooded sweatshirt with a large kangaroo pocket. His wife used to call it “old blue”. He also slipped into some old faded blue jeans and a pair of high top sneakers. These are the clothes he would wear every day if corporate culture would allow it.

He wandered the house and went into his office. He sat at the desk and pulled an envelope out of the drawer. Inside were the papers that closed the door on any chance of happiness for Eli. It was the report on Ellie’s condition after the accident. He reached inside the envelope and pulled out the sheets of paper and the pieces of film illustrating the words in the reports. His daughter was dying.

Her injuries from the accident were surprisingly minor. She had cuts from flying glass and metal shrapnel. The doctors were able to extract every piece with the help of body scans. It was the dangers not caused by the accident; the disease the body scans also showed that would kill Ellie.

Centered in her brain, and slowly spreading through her body was a hungry cancer. The tumors were feeding on Ellie and eating away Eli’s last chance at a life with his daughter.

He did the math to be certain. One year. 365 days. 24 hours in each day. He had approximately eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Ellie would still need to sleep, about 10 hours a night considering the chemotherapy would make her tired. That left 14 hours a day. Five thousand one hundred and ten hours. When he took her home, the doctors assured him she would have at least a year as long as she followed her treatment. One more year with his daughter, wasn’t nearly enough.

He moved the prototype from his lab in the workshop behind the house. He worked every moment he wasn’t at the hospital. The last few days Ellie was admitted, he didn’t sleep at all. Time was his enemy and this fight he was going to win. Five thousand one hundred and ten hours.

He arranged for a treatment facility to be assembled in Ellie’s bedroom. He would monitor her progress and have a visiting nurse give the chemotherapy. He would explain to them the new procedures they would need to follow. Five thousand one hundred and ten hours. How long could he make it last?

The prototype’s range was extended as he placed the components in and around Ellie’s room. He would tell her it was all part of her treatment. The equipment was there to keep her alive and it wouldn’t be a lie. Five thousand one hundred and ten hours.

He wired the power matrix into the house. He contacted the electric utility and received a certification for in-home equipment necessary to sustain a life. The woman from the utility company assured him his connection to the electrical grid would be maintained as a priority and his added expense due to high energy consumption would be eligible for subsidies. Five thousand one hundred and ten hours.

“Dad, this place is a mess,” was the first thing Ellie said as she reentered their home. Dust covered everything. Empty boxes and bits of equipment and wire were everywhere.

“I have been trying to catch up on some work,” Eli told her.

“Maybe you could catch up on some cleaning,” Ellie said, trying to coax a smile from her dad.

“I’m sorry your room is going to look more like the hospital, than the way you left it. I had to install a lot of medical equipment so they would allow you to come home.”

“It’s ok, Dad,” Ellie said, she huffed and moved through the house, “It’s good to be home.”

Eli noticed the extra effort it took Ellie to simply get in the house and go down the hall to her room.

“What is all this stuff?” she asked as they arrived at her bedroom door. Eli had installed pieces of the prototype around the door and covering the walls. He needed a complete field if his plan was going to work.

“Part of the in-home treatment,” Eli sort of lied, “They are better at hiding these things at the hospital. I kept most of it on the outside so you would feel more comfortable.”

Ellie slid into her room and fell onto her bed. The hospital recommended he get a hospital-style bed. Eli refused. He wanted Ellie to have as much normal as he could give her until the end.

“Do you mind if I take a nap?” Ellie asked. “I’m excited to be home and all, just really tired. See you when I wake up?”

“I will have some lunch ready.” Eli left the room turned out the lights, activated the new equipment in the hall and time stood still for Ellie.

Saturday was the day he spent time with Ellie. It was all about the math. Five thousand one hundred and ten hours. He would spend two hours every Saturday with her. Every seven weeks he would spend five weeks visiting her while she slept. Parceling out the time he would stretch one year into nearly fifty. He would grow old, and possibly die of old age before she would turn thirteen.

He did his best to maintain a normal life for her. He let her friends visit. He explained to them the limitations of their coming over before he let them in with Ellie. Two hours was the limit, it would be too tiring for her to be entertained longer. Ellie complained. But was happy to have the visitors.

A few Saturdays they would go out if she wasn’t feeling too tired. She wasn’t a prisoner she just lived on a different timeline than everyone else.

It took about a year before she figured it out. They had gone out to the mall and were eating tempura in the food court.

“Dad, what day is it?”

Eli said, “Satur…,” before stopping himself. He tried to do a quick calculation in his head. What day would it be for her.

“It’s Saturday, isn’t it. It’s always Saturday. It’s ok, Daddy. I think I know what you have done for me.”

Eli looked down at his hands in his lap. The fingers started trembling. “I can’t lose you, not like your mother,” he said trying to keep the words steady. If he let his hands shake maybe he could keep the tremor from spreading to the rest of his body. Hearing her call him ‘Daddy’ nearly broke his heart.

“Daddy, it’s ok. I’ve thought about it. I am like one of your space people. I get to see the future without getting old. I get to be twelve forever,” Ellie looked at him, and her eyes forced his head up. He felt them staring at him and he had to look back.

“You’re going to miss so much,” he said, “I wanted to torment your first boyfriend. I wanted to teach you to drive.” The words slipped out before he could catch them. Ellie’s eyes lost their brightness. Her mouth hardened into a tight knot. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he said.

“I need to walk a bit,” she said, pushing away from the table.

Ellie walked alone for the rest of the time they spent at the mall. She came back to the table and wanted to go home. They rode home in the transport in silence. Ellie went back to her room, and time stopped.

This Saturday would be different, Eli was sure of it. He had the bear, and he had the launch to talk about. It was going to be a good Saturday.

Eli fixed lunch for both of them. Real food, Ellie’s favorite, tuna salad with hard-boiled eggs and lots of relish mixed in. He lightly toasted the bread and piled the tuna on thick. He even made a third sandwich for the bear.

Eli spread a tablecloth over a service trolley Clara used to use to serve at dinner parties. He tucked the bear under the cloth and set the three paper-plates on top. The wheels buzzed as he shoved the cart down the carpeted hallway.

He stepped around the cart and powered down the prototype unit. He felt the time bending energy ripple across his skin when he got this close. He wondered if Ellie dreamed when she was in no-time. He at first called it ‘time-out’ but didn’t want to think of her as being in trouble. He switched to calling her time away no-time. Did she feel time moving by around her? She had to be seeing the difference in her father week after week as he withered away. But was the time stopping machine able to stop all feeling from entering her room.

“Hello, my sunshine,” Eli said as he whizzed the cart into her room. Ellie was sitting at her desk right where he had left her a week ago.

“I was writing in my journal,” she said, “The words were flowing and now I can’t remember what I was writing about. Hmm, I’m sure it will come back to me. Is that tuna?”

“Lightly brown toast, and almost more egg and relish than fish, just the way you like it,” Eli said. He felt a smile trying to curl his lips. He was having a moment of happiness, and he wanted to rush over to the time machine and keep it forever. As soon as he let his mind drift to the machine and away from his daughter the moment was gone. The smile died before it was born.

“Three plates,” Ellie tilted her head, and asked. “Whose coming?”

“An old friend,” Eli said, as he slid the restored bear from under the tablecloth.

He walked the bear over to his daughter’s outstretched arms.

“Walter!” Ellie exclaimed, immediately recognizing the bear, “Walter, I thought I had lost you.” Then she started to shake and she began to cry, “This bear, was with me that night, this bear, this bear…”

“He’s good as new,” Eli offered. “I had him repaired, the lady did her best to hide the stitches and to clean his fur.”

“Oh, Walter, Walter,” Ellie said. She got up from her desk and took Walter to her bed. She curled up with the bear in a fetal position and she wept.

Eli didn’t know what to do. He expected smiles and a hug. How could he have been so wrong? He so wanted something to be back to normal after the accident. He wanted to put it all back the way it was. Walter was the only piece of that night he thought he could actually fix.

“Dad, I can’t do this anymore,” Ellie said. “I can’t keep letting time slip by around me. I want to die, in real-time, like I was supposed to.”

“No,” Eli said, he felt the trembling coming on, “No. Don’t say that Ellie. I don’t want to lock you in here but I will. They might find a cure; the chemo might work. You just need to be patient.”

“Dad, you can’t fix me like Walter,” Ellie said, “He looks good on the outside, but inside he has Mom’s blood on him. So do I. I don’t want to live so long with Mom’s blood on me.”

“Oh Ellie,” Eli could feel his nerves burning, the tremors were spreading, the crying was coming and he wasn’t sure he could stop it. He wanted the release but he wanted to keep it from his daughter. “Your Mom would want you to live. You’re all I have left.”

“This is about you!” she said in an unexpected burst of anger. “You let it happen, you keep me locked in here, you can’t bear to be alone, you want me alive for yourself. What about me? I want a real life, for the time I have left. My friends are graduating from high school. I missed my prom. I want to kiss a boy before I die. Dad, please let me go.”

Eli’s heart was tearing into pieces. He wanted his daughter in his life. He wanted his daughter to be happy. He wanted it all to be ok.

“I can’t,” he said, “You’re all I have left.”

He left the sandwiches on the tray and left the room. He activated the time machine. He would have a week to make it all better. A week to cry, and brood and try to forgive himself for what he had done to his wife and daughter. Was she right? Was she alive for him?

He went to his study, activated his workstation and brought up Annie’s web address. He clicked the PayPal link and sent her one hundred dollars. Annie had done her best. It was Eli who needed to hide his stitches.

He cried for an hour alone. Then he went back down the hall, and turned off the switch for good.

Five years, he had used five hundred and twenty hours, roughly, he would have four thousand five hundred and ninety hours left. Ellie deserved to use her hours however she wanted them.

What could they do with four thousand five hundred and ninety hours all in a row? It was up to Ellie. It was her life.

What follows is my review of the film as a Star Trek fan and new science fiction writer:

First a little history. My father dreamed of me being an astronaut. I was born around the time of the first moon landing and the beginning of Star Trek. My dad bounced me on his knee while he watched the show. I became a fan at an early age and have continued to follow the voyages of the Starship Enterprise and the history of Starfleet ever since. I never became an astronaut. Being fitted for prescription glasses at an early age and my first math test took care of my dad’s vision of my future.

I do not now nor have I ever owned a Starfleet uniform or any of the Star Trek character costumes, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Star Trek to me has at its best been about exploring the human condition and fun. It is my opinion, the folks at Paramount have lost sight of both of these concepts in all their recent attempts at Star Trek TV and cinema. I believe the franchise “jumped the shark” somewhere around the time they made Star Trek : Generations for some reason they were never quite able to translate the Star Trek : The Next Generation concept to the big screen. At the same time the makers of Star Trek on the small screen began to lose their way, as well. I continued to watch from time to time but I continued to be disappointed.

My disappointment ended last Friday. The new Star Trek film goes back to the beginning of the original crew’s adventure. The new movie even goes back before we first met the characters from classic Trek originally. We see one character’s birth. To save the franchise Star Trek needed no less than a brand-new beginning.

The writers of the new movie have boiled down the characters we know and love down to their essence. Sure some of the details have been changed. Let’s be honest they needed changing. This thing was an ol’ saw in need of some tender loving overhaul.

This film is first and foremost fun. Star Trek hasn’t been fun since before Star Trek : The Motion Picture. I don’t mean they are making fun of themselves as in Star Trek : The Voyage Home. No, here there is action, adventure, romance, danger and fun. The characters we know and love are portrayed by new actors and being young and fresh they seem to be having the time of their lives.

Other reviews have faulted the story for playing fast and loose with science. They do. Watch the old show they gave a scientific reason for why one planet was run by 1920′s era gangsters, and another episode featured space hippies. This movie goes no where near that far. What they do is make an exciting movie about characters thrust into an amazing futuristic adventure. If science got in the way they ran it over. This isn’t a lecture, it’s a movie.

I can’t recommend this film enough. If you have never watched a second of Star Trek don’t worry. They start from scratch and catch you up as needed you won’t be lost. And you old Trekkers who are afraid of something new…give it a chance…it will win you over. If it doesn’t you may have forgotten to have some fun at the movies.

My job search has taken first priority of late and so unfortunately this blog has gone “un-updated”

For the foreseeable  future I am going to alternate my usual essays with some short stories presented here for your enjoyment. I am not looking for critiques on these works, but please let me know if there are certain kinds of stories you would like to see more of. Thanks for reading… it is good to be back.

I attended mostly the panels focused on writing (big surprise) but I thought I would share some of my thoughts on the experience and give a shout out to some of the folks I met there. The panels were set up with two to three authors in attendance sharing on a particular aspect of writing. For example, Horror and How to Scare Your Audience Half-to-Death or Mundanes and Transhumans, Making Memorable Characters. The writers would open with a discussion among themselves with usually one of them acting as moderator, then the discussion would be opened up to include us, the audience.

As can be expected the quality and content of the presentations varied depending on the authors featured. I want to give special recognition to three authors who made a real impression on me and offered very valuable advise on improving my writing and turning my hobby into a profession.

First, Shirley Damsgaard. Shirley writes cozy mysteries with a paranormal twist. This type of book is more my wife’s cup of tea rather than mine. However, Shirley offered great insight into her process, keeping your writing current, and the realities of life as a writer (you may need to keep your day job for quite sometime). She brought examples from other writers she had met and was patient with every question she was asked.

Second, Angie Fox. Angie has just published her first novel The Accidental Demon Slayer. Her book is a light-hearted adventure with a fantasy and paranormal flavor. She offered the perspective of an author who has just crossed over from the hobbyist to the professional. She shared aspects ranging from how to get in some writing while being a parent of young children to how to lie to your editor and get away with it. She was a fun, and funny in person as her words are on the page. She also showed by example why it is a good idea to purchase an easy to use and assemble easel if you are going to display a large poster board with your cover on it. Angie explained that her husband’s instructions for the easel’s use came with a history lesson covering the origins and storied past of the easels across time immemorial.

And third, E.E. Knight or Eric as he asked us to call him. Eric writes the Vampire Earth series and the Age of Fire series. His experience was the closest to what I aspire to in my writing career. He was willing to share his process, his trials, and his achievements equally in an aviable and easy going manner. I appreciate his good nature, patience, and willingness to share even the smallest detail if he thought is could help.

I want to thank these three writers in particular. Their advise will be cherished and used by this author to be. I can’t measure my appreciation for their contributions to my eventual success. To show my gratitude, I purchase all of their books, including two I had to take out a loan to obtain. The check is in the mail (in case my creditor is reading this). Please keep writing, and I hope it is my good fortune to see you again. Perhaps one day soon, I will be able to join you as the author sharing my advice rather than just receiving it as a newbie.

Though now that I am back, at least for the moment I thought
I would examine this arch-nemesis of the would-be writer, time. Many priorities
in our lives take chunks out of our limited time. First of these is making
a living. Sadly, it has become increasingly more difficult for writers to make
a living, writing. If you wander the bookshelves at your local bookstore a
large group of the people responsible for the books you enjoy earn their livelihood
with another job, besides writing. In the old days, the legends like Heinlein,
Bradbury, Asimov, Clarke were able to slip into writing by crafting short stories.
In the good ol’ days, short stories paid enough that a writer could survive
long enough to craft their first novel. Then back to short stories while writing
the second book, then repeat as necessary.

Today, the short story market is hanging on by a precarious thread.
If you thumb through the fantasy/science fiction/speculative fiction sections
of the current Writer’s Market you will see many markets for short stories
pay their writers in copies of the magazine. These are lovely as bragging rags,
and you might be able to trade this fleeting fame for a round of drinks at
a local pub, but just try to trade these for groceries and rent.

Michael Moorcock tells the story of how Elric one of his most
famous creations was born (I paraphrase here): He could write an Elric novella
each month and make the money he needed for rent and groceries to last him
until the last month. Nowadays, selling a short piece of fiction might buy
the groceries (if the magazine can pay you at all), but forget paying a month’s
rent or mortgage with it.

So how does a present day writer survive and even flourish, well
for me, I design and code websites. And when I can squeeze together some time,
I write. Then I submit what I write wherever I can until it sells or at least
yields a published copy of my work, then I repeat.

Thus, the battle against the enemy goes on. Truthfully, I believe
the loser in this battle is the reader. I have often overheard scifi/fantasy
fans griping about how the writing of today’s writers doesn’t measure up to
the classics. They may be right. I believe the work suffers when it is a person’s
second or third job. However, writers must write. If we don’t we will surely
go mad.

I, unfortunately, contracted a different strain. My infection
presented itself when many of the lymph nodes in my body swelled up. This was
followed by shooting pains, general aches and pains (like with the flu), and
constant fatigue and headache. In other words it sucked, and I mean sucked
hard.

Now I have had the flu a few times in my life. It is a miserable
ten day experience. My experience with the influenza virus is why I happily
get a flu shot every year. My Bartonella infection lasted over a month. It
has taken three different antibiotics, blood tests, sleepless nights, and living
in general suck-itude.

So you are now trying to reassure yourself…This has got to
be pretty rare right? Wrong. Forty percent of all cats carry the Bartonella
bacteria and don’t show any symptoms. They are plague carriers we invite into
our homes because they are so cute and furry.

And here’s the worst part, I didn’t even get a cat out of the
deal. Most folks who get his infection, recover and then live a happy life
with their new cat knowing that once infected by their cat’s particular strain
they are immune. I received my gift from a friend’s cat. My wife and I were
cat sitting. My wife got the eye infection, I won the bacterial infection jackpot.

That’s where I have been. I apologize for the lack of updates,
but I haven’t been off having fun. I am back. I am healthly. And I am keeping
my eye out for cats.

Amway sells a variety of household products. Good stuff too. Seeing as my brothers were selling it I have been convinced to purchase some of their products from time to time.

Amway had a unique (at the time) way of recruiting their salespeople. You would not only sell product but also sell the idea of becoming a salesperson to all of your clients. For every client you recruit you would receive a bit of their sales thus eventually working yourself out of having to sell anything to make money. It sounds very tempting. Who doesn’t like the idea of working hard now so you don’t have to work at all later? It’s the American way.

So what does this have to do with ecommerce?

Recently one of my brothers came to me with a business proposition. He had discovered the secret to making enough money to retire with all of his debts behind him.

See if this sounds familiar.

All I needed to do was sell these products from a website I would build or have built for me. While selling the product I would recruit other people to do the same. For each person I recruit I would get a percentage of their sales thus eventually making money for no work.

The only new element is the delivery system, ecommerce.

I have also heard this story repeated in various flavors and permutations. Basically it boils down to how this “new thing” will make you money without you having to work for it.

Let me offer one other bump to this sales drama. I build ecommerce websites as my “day” job. I listened patiently as my brother explained the amazing opportunity available to me by just listing a few things on a website and waiting for the money to roll in. I think I may have permanently injured my tongue by masticating it attempting to not spew forth laughter. He had to be joking. He wasn’t. I was polite. I didn’t laugh. I never considered his offer.

Here’s the truth. Ecommerce stores are great delivery systems. They allow a retailer to reach out to people wherever they are located and to offer their products to them. This is hard work for the retailer. All the work associated with creating, running, and maintaining a physical “brick and mortar” store exists for an internet store. On top of this hard work is added the work of working on a site using programming code and esoteric tools like Adobe Flash and Photoshop.

Ecommerce can be very profitable. It is still very hard work. The people who put in the time and the effort necessary will see results based on their level of commitment and exertion.

A wise man, Robert Heinlein once wrote, TANSTAAFL “There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch.” Even on the internet, lunch comes with a bill.

So what do I think?

First let me say, my beliefs are my own and I am happy if they remain mine alone. I am not preaching here just giving my point of view.

I believe God is like a traffic accident…

I believe things beyond explanation happen all the time. These events may be beyond explanation because the witnesses of the event have no way to adequately explain what they have seen or heard or felt.

For some witnesses these events take on spiritual significance.

Here’s where the traffic accident part comes in. These significant spiritual events happen and they are witnessed by people who filter them through their own points of view. This is exactly how a report for a traffic accident is compiled.

It is a given that the accident occurred. Now how do we explain what happened?

We ask the witnesses. On each street corner and in each car are all credible people who tell different versions of the event. Most people when questioned at an accident try to tell the truth to the best of their ability (assuming there is no crime being committed).

So why do their stories differ? Sometimes their stories are nothing alike.

Buddhist tradition has another way of explaining it:

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approach’d the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!”

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, -”Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ’tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!”

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a snake!”

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
“What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,” quoth he,
“‘Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!”

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!”

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Then, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

MORAL.

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

I like to think each witness IS right. Buddha, Mohammad, Jesus, Joseph Smith, L. Ron Hubbard, all of them. They experienced something. It was real to them. Perhaps they experienced the divine. We all give different weight to their stories based on our upbringing, culture, point of view, and let’s face it, taste.

I like to believe this is proof in the spiritual world and in the divine, not a contradiction. God is the traffic accident, people keep witnessing the event and having the experience. I think it is very likely they all got it right.

The truth is if you boil all the religions down to their core message, God is trying to get one thing across to us, “Why not try being nice to each other for a change? It will probably make you all happier.”