8FOLD: Mighty Medley # 11, November 2014, by Messrs. Brenton, Perron & Russell
Tom Russell
joltcity at gmail.com
Sat Nov 1 05:10:12 PDT 2014
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------------- ISSUE # 11 NOVEMBER 2014 -------------
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------SAXON BRENTON--ANDREW PERRON--TOM RUSSELL-----
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--------------- Editor, Tom Russell ----------------
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE
"Beyond the Fields" Part 11, by Saxon Brenton
In which our heroines find the alternate Earth abnormally normal.
Containing by way of example much practical advice for those readers
who likewise plan on travelling to alternate universes.
"Rhapsody in Black", by Tom Russell
The space-robot Monad finds solace in a place that doesn't exist, yet
has a thousand names. On the dangers of forgetting, and the
life-saving importance of a single, unlikely word.
"Doing It For The Art", by Andrew Perron
An impossible legacy continued, and an old genre chestnut updated for
today's wired age. As ever with Mr. Perron's work, its twists and
surprises are gentle, sweet, and endearing.
"Seven 'Gainst Thebes" Part 10, by Tom Russell
In which the seven attempt to protect their employer from Jack Peake--
sadist, killer, kidnapper, and speedster. It is perhaps this last
quality that makes the ensuing contest decidedly uneven.
"The Froggy Problem", by Tom Russell
In which we invite the reader to solve a puzzle; post your answers
below. With apologies to the Reverend C.L. Dodgson, whose original
"Froggy Problem" went unsolved for over a century. Ours won't take
nearly that long, for the answer shall be in our next number.
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-----------------BEYOND THE FIELDS------------------
---------------------Part 11------------------------
-----------Copyright 2014 Saxon Brenton-------------
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First impressions. There was a shuffling of scenery as the two of
them moved between worlds, combined with what appeared to be a
fast-forwarding from autumn into mid-winter. It probably would have
been disorientating if Deidre hadn't been prepared for it, but instead
she looked dispassionately around what seemed like a town with almost
stereotypical middle European architecture. It was a clear afternoon,
and people were going about their business and tromping through what
remained of a layer of snow on the ground. The practical part of
Deidre's mind briefly wondered whether their clothing would be warm
enough for this weather.
It looked... almost too normal. The part of her that was hyped up
for a confrontation with an esoteric threat reacted with an
unimpressed .oO( *This* is the heart of darkness? )
Then the smell hit home. Not an actual physical smell; the place
was quite normal as far as human scents of habitation and cars and
occasional uncollected garbage. Outwardly it was no more noisome than
you would have expected. Nevertheless it took a concerted effort of
will by Deidre to keep herself from wrinkling up her features in
distaste. Instead she breathed out, as though letting out a deep
breath of bracing December air. Beside her Joan was looking around, a
smile on her face as she pretended to be a proud community member
gazing affectionately at her home. In a casual voice the angel said,
"Yes, the psychic atmosphere is foul. There is evil afoot here."
"No argument about that." Deidre glanced about. "We don't appear
to have attracted any attention, but the 'don't notice me' effect will
work best if we keep moving and act natural. Do you have anywhere in
particular that you feel should be investigated?"
"Not particularly. Not at the moment. I can't feel any specific
source of what's happening here."
"Me neither. Well, let's do some window shopping then. We can
pick up a newspaper and maybe eavesdrop on some conversations."
Joan looked at Deidre curiously. "Do you have local currency?"
Deidre made a wry face. "I don't. And it probably wouldn't be
wise to use Krugerrands for something as minor as a newspaper. But if
you keep your eyes open," and here she nonchalantly leaned over to
pick up a discarded paper from a bench as they walked by, "there are
usually opportunities that can be used to your advantage."
They continued on. As they went Joan occasionally ran her fingers
over the surface of walls and lampposts and the trunks of leafless
trees. "I don't think this is a dreamscape," she said. "But I'm
having trouble trying to determine exactly what it is."
Deidre asked, "Is it solid? I mean, in the sense of being made of
matter and energy rather than ectoplasm, or something like that."
"It's definitely not ectoplasm," answered Joan. But Deidre noted
the puzzled frown on the angel's face, and the way she avoided
commenting on whether or not it was matter.
"Okay then. Well, if it's a divergent timeline then it's not in
synch with our present," observed Deidre as she referred to the
newspaper. "It's December 1963 here."
"Really? Hmm." Joan was looking out beyond the edge of town. "I'm
beginning to get a sense of a more specific source of the taint. It's
taken a while because it was masked by the background pollution. I
think it's off that way..."
At which moment there was an enormous explosion in the direction
that Joan was pointing.
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-----------------RHAPSODY IN BLACK------------------
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------------Copyright 2014 Tom Russell--------------
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It's easy to let herself become lost. Space is so big, and black, and
silent, and empty, it's not hard to let it be the only thing that
there is. That urge to just melt into it-- to be overwhelmed by,
absorbed in, and part of it-- is one that Monad doesn't put a lot of
effort into resisting.
She just drifts, timelessly, forgetting for a minute or a year that
space is not really a thing, not really a place at all. It's nothing,
it's no-place, it's just airless air that (doesn't) exist between real
things: stars and planets and moons and dust and rocks and her. But
it's easy and soothing to pretend otherwise, and especially here, in
this particular corner of nothing.
Because even if here isn't really a "here", it is here that big,
black space is at its biggest and blackest. It is the single point in
all of space that is emptiest. The nearest real things are farther
from this spot than any other spot, huge and boiling stars visible
only as faint, soft pinpricks of light, more imagined than seen.
It has names. Though it's not a place, it has a thousand names in a
thousand tongues. One of these names, if translated literally, is the
black rhapsody. A less literal, and perhaps more useful, translation
of the same would be the sirens. For this cold, lonely void is
irresistible to a certain sort of cosmic being.
Lonely gods, of the sort that quite enjoy their loneliness, are
drawn to this spot, just as Monad has been drawn to it. Here, they
forget their singular sorrows and forget, yes, forget that space isn't
real the way atoms are real. So easy to forget...
To pretend that this is a place...
And because they pretend, without even knowing that they pretend,
and because their bodies are pulsing and irradiated with unfathomable
cosmic energies, they make it real. Real enough, at least, for it to
feed. To swallow a god whole before it goes back to never existing.
The black rhapsody. The sirens. The gods-slayer.
Monad knows none of these names, and is unaware of the ancient
hungry nothing that gathers around her. She simply and serenely drifts
in the void and stares out into the blackness, squinting at those
little pinprick suns in the distance. If I still had human eyes (she
thinks) I couldn't even make out that much. It would be completely
dark, untouched by light, perhaps the only perfect lovely darkness in
this or any universe.
...If I still had human eyes? Still?
What a strange choice of words, "still"! She's never had human eyes.
Has she?
That single word, still; it disturbs the slow and easy peace of her
idyll, and in that moment, she remembers: remembers that space is not
a thing, only the nothing between things, and remembers that this is
not a place, only the nothing between places. And so she locks her
eyes on one of the fuzzy, fading pinpricks in the distance, and
launches herself in its direction.
If she feels something nibble at her edges, she does not make a
note of it. She's focused on her destination now. She remembered, and
because she remembered, she will not forget again-- at least, not
here. It's not long before she's beyond its grasp, never to return.
As quick as it began to exist, the black rhapsody returns to
nothing, hungry and vengeful.
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-------------- DOING IT FOR THE ART ----------------
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-----------Copyright 2014 Andrew Perron-------------
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"Brother!" shouted Captain Impossible, crashing through the
skylight. "I certainly hope you've got a giant typewriter behind that
curtain!"
"Please, girl! That was the sort of ridiculous thing our
grandfather, the original Professor Impossible, would do!"
"Oh, sure, be that--"
"THIS is the kind of ridiculous thing I would do!" The modern-day
Professor Impossible drew the curtain to reveal - a giant tablet PC
with attached giant mini-USB keyboard!
She grinned. "I knew people were complaining about how big the new
iPhones were, but this is ridiculous!"
"And I'm going to use it to steal the bank accounts of the top
twenty wealthiest people in the nation!"
"Oh, okay."
He paused. "...what, really?"
She crossed her arms. "Yeah."
Professor Impossible sighed and rolled his eyes. "You know a couple
of those people run really important charities, right?"
Captain Impossible threw up her hands. "FINE." She leapt into the
air, drawing the Impossiblade and landing on the Function key.
The bad Professor shook his fist and bounced from key to key,
springs underneath catapulting him ten feet at a time. "Why so
hesitant? I know you've been waiting to fight me again!"
The good Captain bounded after him. "I've been waiting to *talk* to
you again!" She came down hard on G and flipped over his head, making
a perfect two-point landing on 7 and 8.
"Hah! My art crimes are already the talk of the town!" He ran,
touch-typing a reverse QWERTY.
"That's just the thing - I want to join you!"
He made a tab stop. "What?"
"I mean, not for the crime part - for the art part!"
He turned around, cape flaring flamboyantly. "And why should I
believe that this isn't just another heroic trick?"
"Because, ya jerk! Mom was wrong and you were right - you *can* be
an artist and still carry on a legacy you're proud of! You can do it
all, and so can I!"
"...you're really being honest about this."
She looked up, into his eyes. "Absolutely."
"Us, together, spreading the Impossible Legacy into the minds and
hearts of the world?"
"Yes."
"Then... yes."
The audience broke out into riotous applause. The Captain and the
Professor turned, linked hands, and bowed.
"Thank you!" "Thank you!"
"Come to our Thursday show," she shouted, "where we'll be doing
'The Tragedy of Doctor Mephistus'!" They bowed once again, and the
curtains closed.
He squeezed her hand and whispered, "And you were right."
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--------------SEVEN 'GAINST THEBES------------------
---------------------Part 10------------------------
------------Copyright 2014 Tom Russell--------------
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"Oh, Mr. Peake!" exclaimed Strife. "I've heard of you, alright. In
fact, I've been awful keen to find you. Isn't that so, Mr. Silke?"
"It is," said Silke.
("He took Celine," said Hank.)
"In point of fact, Mr. Peake," continued Strife, "I was hoping you
would enter my employ. I would pay you double what my brother pays.
Even triple."
("My wife," said Hank.)
Peake seemed terribly amused. "With what money, Mr. Strife? What
income do you have, to make such a promise?"
"That ranch is half-mine," insisted Strife. "By rights, by law."
("Why are you talking to him?")
"Might be such a thing as law in the East, Mr. Strife," said Peake
as he drew his knife. "But we ain't in the East, and you don't have no
ranch."
"HE TOOK CELINE!" Hank lunged at Peake with the force and speed of
a train. It weren't near fast enough, and part of the split-rail fence
exploded into splinters and dust.
Peake's knife flashed out, quicker than a scorpion's sting, but it
only tore Hank's sleeve as it glanced off the invulnerable hide
underneath it.
Gulliver had already took to the air, lobbing cannonballs of flame.
Peake made his body vibrate like a flesh-and-blood tuning fork, and
the balls passed right through him like a whistle in the dust. What
remained of that fence now took fire and burned.
The knife flashed out again, it alone becoming solid, and stole
some of the flame from Gulliver; with his other hand, Peake made a
little tunnel of wind that sent Gulliver sprawling clear a block away.
Peake whirled around back to Hank and the knife became ghostly
again. This time it passed through Hank's skin, plunging deep and hot
into his gut. The blade became solid inside of Hank, and Peake drew it
from one end of the other. Then Peake pulled it out.
Hank clutched at his stomach. There was no wound to clutch at, and
no blood, least not on the outside. Hank screamed, and the voice was
so high and sobbing as to sound like he was a woman after all. It was
a terrible sound, and Silke's boy would remember it the rest of his
life.
The boy, Adams, and the Marshal all discharged their weapons. Peake
remained untouchable long enough to let Three-Nine's queer red beam
pass through him, harmless as Gulliver's flame. He then became solid
long enough to catch the bullets, and then to throw them back in the
direction of Paul Strife.
A second later, Strife was flat on his back. Silke eyed Peake
wearily, then bent down to check his employer's vitals. "Stone dead,"
he said with a softness the boy thought uncommon for him.
"I've no quarrel with the rest of you," said Peake. "I'll be on my way."
Three-Nine chirped. "I'm afraid I can't let you get away with..."
He stopped quick as he started, as presently there was a knife in his
head.
Peake pulled out another knife from his belt, and a block of wood
to whittle it with. He turned and ambled away.
"Celine." Hank was on the ground now, curled up like a little ball,
weak and whimpering.
"Oh," said Peake, "Ned will make her a fine husband. He'll treat
her just right. He's a sentimental fellow. You can see that. You can
see that from how he cares for his kin. And if he don't take a shine
to her?
"If he don't, well, the lady has a mighty pretty skin, and a lovely
soprano what's made for screaming." With that, he walked away,
slow-like.
They watched him for some ten minutes, until he was completely
disappeared. Once he had, the corpse and its clothes all tore open
like a greasy bag, and Skin of Snake climbed right out.
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------------------THE FROGGY PROBLEM----------------
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------------Copyright 2014 Tom Russell--------------
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Monika suspects her live-in boyfriend, Froggy, is secretly one of the
Villains Quartet, a sinister string ensemble and crime syndicate. From
the following clues, deduce the identity of one of the members of the
Quartet, and explain why the evidence points to this conclusion.
(1) When they attempt a heist, and it is successful, they always split
the loot four ways-- 25% for each person who took part.
(2) If Froggy gives Monika a gift, it's only because he feels guilty.
(3) Froggy only dates gorgeous redheaded women.
(4) If only one of their members is sound asleep, the Quartet will
attempt a heist.
(5) The two Violins are each of them gorgeous redheads.
(6) The only night Froggy and Monika are apart is Tuesday, as Froggy
always "works late at the office".
(7) Now that Froggy's fine black hair is out of curl, he has stopped
smiling altogether.
(8) Froggy's snoring and virulent flatulence keeps Mona awake six nights a week.
(9) The famous Monster Diamond was stolen Tuesday night by the Quartet.
(10) On Wednesday morning, Monika found the Monster Diamond, and
strands of red hair, hidden in Froggy's sock drawer.
(11) The Second Violin is the only woman in the Quartet.
(12) When a jewelry heist is unsuccessful, the Cellist smiles
uncontrollably from embarrassment.
(13) Froggy has worn the same socks all week long.
(14) Men who philander smile uncontrollably from embarrassment.
(15) Froggy does not play the viola.
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-----------------SEE YOU NEXT MONTH-----------------
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All characters are the creations of their authors.
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