8FOLD: Mighty Medley # 8, August 2014, by Alambre, Brenton, Perron, Russell and Russell

[Tom Russell]

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------------- ISSUE # 8   AUGUST 2014 --------------
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-----WIL ALAMBRE--SAXON BRENTON--ANDREW PERRON------
------------MARY RUSSELL----TOM RUSSELL-------------
--------------- Editor, Tom Russell ----------------
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE

"Future Insurance", by Wil Alambre
An accident interrupts our narrator's routine, but perhaps not quite
in the way that you'd expect. On the hassle of paperwork and
preparations. Plus: the tale of Pembrook and his boat, and the
essential question of happiness.

"Beyond the Fields" Part 8, by Saxon Brenton
In which our second act commences. On the Rule of Cool, and the
pick-up technique of an accidental neo-Nazi. Plus!: the Eightfold
debut of the Brenton Thought Bubble!

"Seven 'Gainst Thebes" Part 7, by Tom Russell
Touching on Hank's wife, her many suitors, and the cruelty of the man
who now holds her captive. Hank, Adams, and Silke are followed by the
law, which casts a long but oddly familiar shadow.

"The Song in the Night", by Andrew Perron
A story that contains multitudes. The Unseelie and their song; a
lesson about littering; the indescribable valley of electrons and
reflections in the gibbous moonlight. And ladies that kiss each other.
So, pretty much the perfect story.

"Coward's Tree", by Mary & Tom Russell
The Twain against overwhelming odds. As ever, they prove a study in
contrasts. Thoughtful musings upon the nature of honor, cowardice,
subterfuge, and the price of an omelet.

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------------------FUTURE INSURANCE------------------
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-------------Copyright 2014 Wil Alambre-------------
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    *8am*
   I answer the phone and it's my insurance agent. Half through my
morning bagel she's telling me about the afternoon accident they're
predicting I'll be in. I _insist_ I haven't the time for an accident
today, but it seems there's little she can do for it. Asking for
details only leads into a sales pitch for their upgraded Platinum
coverage. Bloody vultures.
   *10am*
   Called my secretary to let her know I'll be late to the office.
Then I resign myself making arrangements all morning. Prepaying bills,
canceling the maid service, someone check on my fish. How long? A
month? Maybe two? Hm.
   I phone my lawyer and tell him of my upcoming accident. He calls it
a flimsy excuse for getting out of the golf game I'm to lose. Takes me
ten minutes to get him onto business, all of which I'm _certain_ he's
charging me for. Papers to sign, power of attorney, yes yes,
naturally. It takes more to convince him to meet for coffee. Maybe he
can lay some blame and get me something for all this bother.
   *Noon*
   When I arrive at the office, my coffee, my mail, and a copy of
tomorrow's newspaper are all waiting for me. I skim over the upcoming
sports results while going through my messages.
   A call's forwarded to my desk. The same lovely voice from the
insurance company, asking if there's anything they can do before my
accident. I give up and agree to upgrade my coverage. With luck,
whatever damages I can wring from whoever's involved will cover the
rate hike. She thanks me for being a loyal customer and tells me the
paperwork's already processed. I should expect more details in a few
hours.
   *1pm*
   A late lunch at the company cafeteria. They have a salad waiting
for me. I _hate_ salad. They insist on a lighter lunch, wouldn't want
a full stomach. Of course they're right. Might end up unconscious or
hurt, no point in being embarrassed as well. Still. Ugh.
   *2pm*
   I talk to Pembrook about covering for me while I'm out. He still
has that boat picture pinned to his cubicle wall. He's going to win
the lottery in a few years... and fritter it away in less than a
month. One of the reasons he'll never be promoted. He does manage to
hang onto the boat, though. Seems to keep him happy.
   *4pm*
   Insurance company gets back to me. Finally. Seems they've narrowed
my accident down to approximately six thirty. They'll have an
ambulance sent, and I should expect it to happen right downtown.
Outside somewhere. Damn. I won't have a chance to drive my car home
first.
   I call my lawyer and get him to meet me downtown. There's a coffee
shop a block away with _spectacular_ americanos. I don't expect I'll
have a decent coffee in the hospital. I want to indulge before I go.
When I relay what the insurance company said, he offers to taxi down
and drive my car home for me. Hm. Maybe not too bad a chap after all.
Maybe those golf games are just me thanking him.
   *6pm*
   It takes _forever_ to get through the paperwork for my time off.
Despite having booked it in my last contract renewal, upper management
insist on upcoming receipts and forwarding numbers. Sigh. Early
retirement is looking better and better.
   I rush out the door and down the block. Good thing I chose a shop
nearby. Checking my watch, I see I've _just_ enough time to get there.
Looking up and down the busy street, though, I don't see an ambulance
anywhere. Goodness sake, don't they know about regularly scheduled
rush hour?
   Rounding the corner, I finally hear sirens heading my way. And
across the street I see my lawyer sitting at the shop's patio. That
good chap even has a piping hot cup waiting for me! I wave to him,
take a deep breath, and relax. Things are looking up after all.


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-----------------BEYOND THE FIELDS------------------
----------------------Part 8------------------------
-----------Copyright 2014 Saxon Brenton-------------
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   A few days later Deidre was back in Edmonstown, where she was only
briefly surprised by a dinosaur.  It was a more-or-less tyrannosaur
looking creature which was decked out in local police department
colours that looked suspiciously like brownshirt livery, and was being
ridden like a horse.
   .oO( Now, wouldn't *that* be an impressive looking image for the
opening of the second act of a story, ) she thought sardonically.  Then,
more sceptically, .oO( But why would a rural town consider it effective
to have *any* sort of mounted police force? )
   However she had just given herself the answer to that.  Following
on from what Joan had told her about the nature of the painting by Adolf
Hitler, Deidre already had a working theory on what was going on, and
it relied on the triumph of style over substance.  "The rule of cool,"
she said to herself.
   "The what of cool?" someone asked.
   Deidre turned to find Lee Ardock standing there, looking politely
bemused.  She'd met him during her previous fact finding mission.  He
was one of the minor office holders of the local neo-Nazi group, and
in Deidre's assessment was an unassuming but competent young man who
really didn't deserve to have his life corrupted like this.  She put
on a rueful smile and said, "Sorry, just thinking out loud.  Usually
I've only seen dinos on TV.  I keep forgetting how impressive they are
up close."
   (And this, for what it was worth, was true.  Dinosaur appearances
turned up on television news from time to time.  Usually they were
part of some supervillain scheme, and that included the occasional
incursions back and forth between this world and one or another of the
dinosaur-dominated Earths.)
   "How long have you been using dinosaur mounts in Edmonstown,
Mr Ardock?" she asked, curious.
   "They were first introduced back in the mid-seventies.  It was
supposed to be a way of avoiding the OPEC oil crisis," Lee explained.
"Then they were kept around because... well..."
   "They were cool?" Deidre asked with a grin.
   "Yeah."
   "Huh," went Deidre.  That was a more coherent reason than she'd
been expecting, actually.  And she strongly suspected that if she
checked the municipal records that this would indeed be what had
happened.  But she wondered how far she would have to go before she
crossed back into a version of history where it had not.  And whether
that line was stationary.
   "Look," said Lee, "I've got some stuff to do.  Are you going to
be around?"
   "I've got business in town.  I think it will take a few days, but
that might change suddenly," she admitted.
   "Okay then, if I don't see you in person, here," he said, and
pressed a scrap of paper into her hands.  "Call me," he added, and then
hurried off.
   Deidre looked at the paper. As she had half expected, it had Lee's
phone number written on it.  Someone else walked up to her, and she
recognised Joan.  "So what was that all about?" asked the angel.
   "Would you believe he's trying to ask me out on a date?  I would
have thought someone in his mid-twenties would have had better skills
at picking up girls.  Oh well, I suppose I should take it as a
compliment.  Obviously I'm better at pretending to be a wholesome middle
class girl-next-door than I realised."  She looked at Joan.  "Hello,
Ms Smith.  I know the Lord works in mysterious ways, but I still haven't
found out whether it's because it's truly necessary, or whether you lot
just like playing at being inscrutable."
   "Ask me out for coffee and I can explain how delicate free will is,"
Joan replied, equally deadpan.


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--------------SEVEN 'GAINST THEBES------------------
----------------------Part 7------------------------
------------Copyright 2014 Tom Russell--------------
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   Adams kicked at one of the corpses at their feet. "So what did you
want with them, anyway? Reckon I can figure what they wanted with
you," he added, glancing at the noose still hanging around Hank's
throat like a necklace.
   "Took my wife," said Hank.
   "Your wife?!" scoffed Adams reflexively. Then he thought about how
much he liked having his head attached to the rest of his body. "Your
wife. Aw, Hank, that is a damn shame. How long you been hitched?"
   "We was newly-wed," said Hank. "Celine was, is, is a right pretty
little thing, with many admirers and suitors. Some felt it weren't
right that I should be the one to bring her happiness. One in
particular, I reckon."
   Silke spoke. "You've an inkling as to who?"
   "Nah," said Hank. "Only that this lot, and their leader, they were
the ones what took her."
   "And who's that?" said Adams. "Their lieutenant?"
   "Don't know his name," said Hank. "Only that he's fond of flaying
people alive. So as you can see, I'm more than a little eager to find
her, only now, thanks to you gentlemen, I'm bereft of anyone to
question as to her whereabouts." Hank looked at Silke pointedly, and
in the looking asked him to put it right.
   "Reckon I know a thing or two about tracking," said Silke. "Also
reckon we could use you for a job we're planning. Help you with yours,
you help me with mine? ... for pay, of course."
   "How much pay?"
   "Handsomely," said Silke. "Handsome as you are, sir."
   "But first we find Celine?"
   Silke nodded. "We'll get the rest of my posse."
   "Now, hold on," said Adams.
   Silke stared at him; Hank stared at him. Adams stared at the tree.
   "Never mind; let's get going."

Silke led them from the wilderness back towards Bleeding Branch. Every
once in a while, Adams would open his fool mouth again, only to be
reminded why he shouldn't, only to forget the reason and try it again
a bit later. Worse than Gulliver.
   Presently, Silke became cognizant of something following them from
behind. He stopped and turned around, and the others did the same.
   A little dot appeared on the horizon, shimmering in the red dust
and yellow sun. It became a little bigger, and a little bigger still,
and now was a man on a horse. Became a little bigger, and became a man
in armor, riding on a charger. Became a little bigger, and it weren't
no knight at all, but a man what was made of metal, and a horse of the
same. The metal man wore a hat, and a suit, and upon its lapel was a
badge.
   Became a little closer, and Silke could read the badge. "Marshal
number nine, nine, nine."
   From its neck came the sound of gears grinding together, and the
head spun like a lazy susan; then the mechanical man spat out from its
unmoving little slit of a mouth. "Name's Three-Nine," he said, tipping
his hat. "Marshal Three-Nine, and I'm the law around these parts."
   "What can we do you for?" said Hank.
   "Well," said the marshal, awkwardly attempting to draw the word out
with his mechanical voice-box. He pulled out a queer looking pistol
and pointed it at them. "There's the matter of the men you just
murdered."


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-------------- THE SONG IN THE NIGHT ---------------
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-----------Copyright 2014 Andrew Perron-------------
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   "'Pulse Collective'. Please." Agatha snorted and tossed the
newspaper over her shoulder and out the window. "Those jerks don't
realize that the real threat is from... THE UNSEELIE FAE OF THE
UBERWELD??"
   "Agatha, first, I know that, second, STOP SHOUTING," said Patrice,
pulling the pillow over her head. "We need to get some sleep in case
the Unseelie attack the rec center tomorrow. *Again*."
   "Fine, fine." Agatha rolled over and squeezed Patrice around the
belly. "But I am only giving in to your demands under duress of having
your incredible cuteness taken away."
   "Heh." Patrice turned around and kissed Agatha on the nose. "You're
just a soppy girl."
   "That I am, dear, that I am."
   Outside, the newspaper blew and twisted in the night wind,
separating into pages. The next day, Agatha would learn a valuable
lesson about not littering, but for now, the grayish paper spread
itself across the forest.
   One page in particular floated for a moment. A sudden thermal
wafted it up in the air. Tumbling end over end, the dots of CMYK ink
reflected the gibbous moonlight.
   The newsprint crinkled as a yellow claw caught and gripped it
strongly. The great golden eagle, not seen in these parts for many a
year, wheeled about. Over the foothills the eagle sped, precious
papery cargo clutched tight.
   In a cave on the great stone mountain, the eagle alighted, and
dropped the page. Human hands caught it. "Thankee, Annabell."
   The eagle rolled her eyes and started preening.
   The page was smoothed out, examined with a keen eye. "So, another
war." A soft snort of derision, a shaken head. "Sapients. Ain't
nothin' but trouble."
   A pair of hands lifted a guitar, fingers took a pick made of what I
can't say. A radio transmitter clicked on, and a song lifted out into
the warm night air.
   The electromagnetic waves danced, bouncing off each other like
nervous, giggling teens in their first mosh pit. In less than
one-sixtieth of a second, they jostled up against a very special
network router.
   In the indescribable valley of electrons, there was a being who did
not lean back and listen carefully, tapping their feet. But the kind
of feel you're thinking of was about what this being felt.
   The being didn't snap their fingers and didn't gyrate to the music,
not feeling the beat wrap around them like an old friend. When the
song ended, the being didn't sigh contentedly and didn't physically
turn back to what they'd been doing.
   "Well then," the being said to themself in such a way that the word
'said' just barely applied, "perhaps you can stop a war by singing a
song?"
   The being tapped into the dense web of information at their
things-that-weren't-fingertips. "Hymn of the Unseelie," they read.
"Warning: Do Not Play Unless World Is About To End. ...maybe a
different song, then."
   Kid Enthusiastic worked late, humming into that same warm night.
   And if you say it doesn't count because they didn't feel it, then
you don't know much about how electromagnetic signals are subtly
influenced by variations in air temperature and density.


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--------------------COWARD'S TREE-------------------
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---------Copyright 2014 Mary & Tom Russell----------
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One steaming hot day on ancient Earth, the Twain find themselves atop
a cliff and surrounded by a pack of atypically aggressive
chirostenotes. There's a reason for that change in attitude; Quasha
and Danalee stole their eggs for breakfast. All their eggs. (Quasha
was hungry.)
   The Twain fight fearsomely, but are steadily losing ground. By
which I mean that soon there won't be any ground left for them to step
on. Quasha and her blade Thirteen flash on with abandon, while
Danalee, ever-cunning, keeps one eye peeled for a way out of this
mess.
   "There's a tree," notes the assassin.
   "Hmm?" says Quasha, momentarily distracted from the joyful
decapitation she was presently occupying herself with. "Oh, yes;
hadn't noticed it. Really, friend Danalee, this is hardly the time to
be admiring it."
   "Have you also not noticed we are rapidly approaching the precipice?"
   "That I have marked, and well. Not to worry. The tide shall turn."
   "Of that there is no doubt," says Danalee. "But suppose it doesn't.
Wouldn't you rather go up than down? I much prefer up, myself. I'm not
particularly partial to down."
   "What?"
   "The tree, Quasha! These feathered beasties mightn't know how to climb."
   Quasha snorts. "Go right ahead. But as for Quasha? She might be
damned, and an Oathbreaker, but never a coward."
   Danalee sighs. "Of course, if I climb and you don't-- mind your
right flank!-- you'll be overwhelmed for sure."
   "And die gloriously in battle! We shall fight to the last breath,
and for two breaths after!"
   "So, obviously, if you don't go up-- duck!", and here Danalee fires
her beam pistol Arrow, "then I won't go up, because I can't leave you
here to die, so we'll both die."
   "Gloriously! In battle!"
   "I don't really want to die, in battle or out of it, gloriously or
otherwise. It's not really fair of you, is it?"
   "You've never concerned yourself with honor before. Please don't
let it stop you from running away now."
   "Fine, suit yourself," says Danalee, starting for the tree. Then,
she screams and curses.
   "Danalee!" Quasha turns towards her.
   "I twisted my ankle," says Danalee. "At your left."
    Quasha swats the chirostenote with the broad, flat side of
Thirteen. "You did not. Nimble-toed Danalee, the silent assassin,
swift and foot-sure, twisted her ankle? You're faking."
   "Perhaps, perhaps not," says Danalee. "But will your honor let you
take that chance? To stay the blood of others is the warrior's first
commandment."
   "You are the worst," says Quasha. "I'm going to kill you after I'm
done saving you." She sighs, wistfully splitting open two more of the
beasts before encircling her big right arm about Danalee's slender
waist. Begrudgingly, mumbling the entire time, she sets to work
scaling the tree.
   They are not the only ones. "I thought you said they didn't know
how to climb."
   "The word was mightn't," reminds Danalee. "Which also means they might."


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-----------------SEE YOU NEXT MONTH-----------------
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