Serial Saturday: "Suggestion Box, Vol. 4"--A to Z Challenge: Letter C

The List:
-Crow, Jonas
-Corvallis, OR
-Century
-Cards

The Result:

"The Corvallis Catastrophe"

Jonas slumped down in his seat. The others had cracked every window on the bus, but the temperature just kept climbing.

“Sorry, folks!” the driver climbed back into the bus. “As far as I can tell, there doesn’t seem to be anything broken or leaking in the engine compartment, I just can’t get it to turn on. I’ve put in a call to the repair shop in Corvallis, but there is no telling how long it will take them to get a mechanic all the way out here.”

The elderly couple from Connecticut gripped each other’s hand. “We’re all going to die!” the lady yelled, quivering in her Cancun t-shirt.

Jonas crouched even lower and cranked up the volume on his headphones. He didn’t need to hear this, on top of everything else that had just happened to him. He was going to Canada, and that was that!

The driver pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face, but it was already so saturated that the sheen of sweat remained.

“What can we do?” demanded the father of two who had been looking forward to vacationing in the Columbia Gorge with his family. “Do you expect us to walk all the way to Corvallis?”

The driver shrugged. “I’m saying we probably have enough to survive a few hours, but these buses are not typically equipped for a lengthy emergency situation—so you best prepare for that possibility.”

“Daddy? I’m hungry!” the little girl whined.

“I want water!” her younger brother chimed in. “Great,” whined the young man traveling with his girlfriend, “Now I’m thirsty, but my water bottle is already empty!”

“I’m so hot!”

“Why isn’t anybody coming? What’s taking so long?”

“Excuse me,” said a middle-aged woman to the passenger sitting next to her. “I need to use the facilities.” She stood, edged out of the row, and turned toward the tiny lavatory at the back of the bus.

The driver grimaced. “I wouldn’t, ah, do that, if I were you,” he muttered.

Her jaw tensed and she turned to him in agony, holding her legs close together. “And why not? Isn’t this exactly why buses like this even have a toilet?”

“Yeah, but,” The driver gestured to the front of the bus. “With the system outage up front, the, ah, filtration system would be non-functional, as well.”

Her face melted at the realization. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cried. “Can we get off this bus already?” She sat in the nearest seat, but did not dare relax.

“Great,” muttered the man sitting behind Jonas, “now I have to pee too…”

“Hey!” A man in a sweaty business suit leaned forward, “I have a friend waiting to pick me up at the bus station!”

“Any chance of that repair truck showing up?” somebody else joined in.

The driver patiently checked his phone. He prayed that the blinking battery symbol in the corner had only just begun, that he would at least have a few more hours of juice left till help arrived. “No word yet.”

“Should we be calling 9-1-1?” somebody piped up, only for those around him to start yelling objections as the young children burst into tears at the suggestion.

“Ugh, I hate this bus!” an impeccably-dressed woman with a pinched face complained. “Here I was, trying to be economical, but hey, I guess you get what you pay for!” She stood up and nailed the driver with a steel-eyed glare. “Serves me right—though if I end up surviving this hellish trip, I promise you I will demand a refund, and I am never taking the bus again!”

The driver held up his hands as the palpable agitation thickened all the more. “Now, now, everyone,” he tried to maintain an air of professionalism, “just stay calm. We will make it through—“

“Do I smell burning?” A man three rows from the back jerked up straight.

In seconds, everyone was sniffing and staring.

“I smell it too!” Cancun Lady wailed, and the driver leaped to maintain control of the situation. “All right, everyone, we’re going to evacuate the bus—“

“Evacuate?” Mr. Dad cried. “Are you kidding? I just got the kids to settle down!”

“Smoke!” Bathroom Lady shrieked, pointing to the windows on her side.

Panic set in, and every passenger rushed for the tiny steps leading to the narrow door—every passenger except one.

Jonas was focused on being as invisible as possible, making no noise and pretending with all his might that he didn’t even exist, when a shove on his arm nearly sent him through the window beside him.

“Dude, are you crazy?” the guy demanded. “The bus is on fire! We’re getting out of here!”

Jonas felt his heart catapult into his throat. Fire? How was he going to get to Canada? How was he going to survive now?

He hobbled after the guy. In the bright light of high noon, he saw the driver and about five passengers frantically unloading all of the luggage, piling it on the ground as others formed a chain to transport them to the shady side of the bus.

Bathroom Lady came around from the front of the bus, looking very relieved.

“Thank God no one saw me, but I hope I never have to do that again!” she told the harried mother who was in the middle of trying to console two very cranky, very overheated kids. Jonas saw Businessman pace by him, phone pressed to his ear.

“Yeah, hi! We are on…” he looked around, as if the name of the road would be posted somewhere obvious. “Well, the main road into Corvallis… That’s the one! Yeah, our bus broke down and then we smelled smoke, and—yeah, we called them, but there doesn’t seem to be any… Well, not exactly—I know that, ma’am, but if you cou—What? I couldn’t quite ca—“ he peeled his phone away from his ear and stared at it. “Oh you have got to be kidding me!”

“What happened?” asked a young woman.

The man clenched his jaw and his fists, though the hand that held the phone looked about ready to snap it. “Stupid, piece-of-crap junk phone!” the Businessman seethed. “I just upgraded last week and all of a sudden now it doesn’t hold a charge?” He stopped to kick a clod of dirt. “What else could go wrong?”

“Daddy?” the little boy whimpered, ‘I’m hungry!”

Jonas huddled at the back of the crowd, trying his best to be as inconspicuous as possible. What if Deus Maximus was behind all this bad luck they were having? What would these people do if they found out he was to blame?

A stiff wind swept through, making everyone shiver. The bus driver glanced up at the sky as clouds skated across the sun’s light. “Hey, at least it’s cooler now…” he began, but no sooner did he say this, than a young passenger cried out, and people dashed for their coats and any sort of cover as a sudden rain poured out of a once-clear sky.

All forty passengers huddled fruitlessly against the side of the bus as the downpour intensified.

“Oh God, WHY?” somebody wailed, and immediately, everybody started yelling out to whatever higher power they believed in.

Jonas felt a jab in his shoulder. Bathroom Lady squinted suspiciously at him.

“Hey, why aren’t you praying?” she hissed. “It seems about the only thing we can do. Maybe your contribution would bring good luck to the group!”

“All right, here it is!” The driver announced, backing up to where the whole crowd could see him. “There has got to be something seriously wrong with this trip, and only one person responsible for all the weird coincidences that have left us stranded.”

Businessman wagged his head. “You’re crazy! How can you just assume one person is at fault for all this?”

Thunder boomed overhead. “You have a better theory?” the bus driver yelled. He pulled a comic book out of the inner pocket of his jacket. Jonas recognized it instantly: B.Y.B.L.  Issue No. 29. “I have been reading this comic since I was a little boy, and it always seemed like there was some higher power like Deus Maximus watching out for some people and dealing judgment on others in the real world, just like in these comics.”

The passengers began shifting apart, glancing suspiciously at one another.

“So how do we find out who is responsible?” somebody asked.

Jonas mouthed the words as the bus driver said them. “Cards of Fate!” He listened with a sinking stomach as the driver explained.

“The hero, Remus Hemptor, would use it when he was out in the field, cut off from Deus Maximus, and he needed to figure out which choice would be the right one.” The driver squinted at the group before him. “Anybody have a deck of cards?”

“I do!” The mother dug through her daughter’s travel pack till she found the slim box.

The driver took the deck. “All right, here’s how it works: I’ll pray to Deus Maximus, because that’s what Remus does, then I’ll shuffle, and each one of you will take the top card. The person who ends up with the Jack of clubs is guilty of bringing the wrath of God on this trip.”

“I still think you’re insane!” declared the Businessman.

The driver ignored him, clasping the deck in both hands. He bowed his head and whispered discreetly to himself for several minutes. When he finished, he shuffled four times, and moved to the far end of the crowd. Once forty-one cards had been handed out, he announced, “All right, show!”

Everyone turned over his and her card. Jonas knew exactly what his would be before anyone registered what he was holding.

“Jack of clubs!” Bathroom Lady shrieked. “It was you all along!”

As one body the whole crowd converged on him, the questions coming as thick as the raindrops.

“Who are you?”

“What do you do?”

“Who do you work for?”

“What kind of karmic being did you anger, that would invite consequences on the rest of us for it?”

The driver waved his hands. “All right! All right, let him speak!”

All voices drifted to silence as all eyes focused on the young man in the grubby tee shirt.

“Um, hi?” he stammered in the silence. “I’m Jonas Crow; I’m a blogger, and I write about the hidden messages and theories that I get from the B.Y.B.L. series.”

“Hidden messages?” the driver blinked. “Like they have on the official Remus Hemptor blog?”

Jonas could feel his face flush bright red, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. “Um, actually, that’s not an official blog—that’s my blog.”

The man’s eyes snapped wide. “You’re the blogger for Remus Hemptor?”

Jonas nodded. “Yeah, and I was supposed to be on a mission for Deus Maximus—“

“Deus Maximus gave you a mission?” The driver’s face was so purple Jonas wondered if he was going to pass out before the end of the conversation.

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to do it, so I ended up on this bus because I’m running away.”

The driver hauled out his comic book. “So let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “Deus Maximus himself gave you a mission, and you decided to run away instead—so now we’re getting punished with bad weather and a broken bus just because you're here instead of where you’re supposed to be?”

Jonas nodded miserably. And the Award for Idiot of The Century Goes To….

>>>>>

This excerpt is a scene from an unfinished novel I started a couple years back, The Astonishing Adventures of Jonas Crow, which would be a modern-day adaptation of the Bible story of Jonah. In particular, this scene is the famous "Storm on the way to Tarshish", where Jonah tries to run from God and gets found out, just before getting swallowed by the whale. Enjoy! If you would like to read more excerpts from this story, click the hyperlinked text >HERE<

Also in the A-to-Z Challenge Series: ( * Continuations of Suggestion Box installments)

-Letter A* ]     [-Letter K* ]          [-Letter T*

-Letter B* ]     [-Letter L* ]          [-Letter U

-Letter C   ]     [-Letter M  ]         [-Letter V

-Letter D   ]     [-Letter N* ]         [-Letter W

-Letter E   ]     [-Letter O   ]         [-Letter X

-Letter F   ]     [-Letter P   ]         [-Letter Y

-Letter G  ]     [-Letter Q* ]         [-Letter Z

-Letter H  ]     [-Letter R

-Letter I* ]     [-Letter S*

-Letter J (Part 1) and (Part 2)

NaNoWriMo 1K-A-Day: Day 25

The Remnant Resonance (Ruth)

 The telephone rang. Ruby ignored it, wrapped up in the grips of the novel she was reading. She habitually didn’t answer the phone, since most often it was for Nora or one of the boys. It wasn’t till she heard Ophelia’s voice answering the phone that Ruby suddenly remembered with a violent wrench of her heart that Charlie and Martin wouldn’t be answering the phone ever again--and Ophelia didn’t know.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Ophelia growled, and slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

Feeling guilty, Ruby tiptoed to the doorway and poked her head through. Ophelia was scowling darkly at the telephone, as one would defiantly stare down an enemy.

“Who was it?” Ruby asked, attempting in vain to keep her voice casual, even though she knew exactly who it must be.

Ophelia pursed her lips tightly. “Some joker passing himself off as a doctor from the city morgue. Said we had an appointment to identify the bodies of Martin and Charles Burke this afternoon.” She smirked. “I didn’t fall for that line, though; they’re not due back till next week.”

Ruby felt that she couldn’t deliver the news standing up. She quickly dropped into a chair at the table next to Ophelia.

“Fee…” she began slowly. “It… it wasn’t a joke.”

Ophelia snorted. “What, you expect me to believe that our husbands somehow died without our knowing?” She chuckled. “You know, now that I think of it, Nora did mention something about a surprise coming the other day.” She playfully cast a knowing look at her friend. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? Something like, we go down to the morgue, and they are hiding under sheets, and they jump out and scare us? One of the ladies down the assembly line was telling a story like that, only her husband arranged with the doctor to do it a few weeks ago, on Halloween. Seems a bit out-of-season to do a trick like that now, wouldn’t you say?”

“Fee, it’s not a trick!” The longer it took to get the news out, the harder it became. “We were meaning to tell you. Nora and I went down to the train station to meet Charlie and Martin--”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Ophelia shook her head. “So you were all in on it together! Taking advantage of the fact that I’m always the last to know, eh? So tell me, do you think they’d mind if I just didn’t react when they jumped? I bet they wouldn’t expect that!”

“Ophelia, stop!” Ruby begged, feeling the hard lump forming in her throat. “It’s not a trick, the boys aren’t at Harvard… they wanted to come early… that was the surprise…” Ruby could only manage a phrase at a time.

“What are you talking about?” Ophelia frowned. “Of course it’s a joke! Could you imagine such a freak thing as both brothers dying at once?” She picked up the receiver again. “I bet if I recalled that number, it will be something completely different.” She dialed the operator. “Yes, could you connect me to the number that just called a few minutes ago?” She held the receiver away from her ear so that Ruby could hear the voice as well. Ophelia grinned as the thready voice spoke.

“Harlem City Morgue; who is speaking?”

The grin vanished. Ophelia slammed the receiver down so hard that Ruby worried she might actually be strong enough to break the cradle.

“You shut your fool mouth!” she screamed at the phone, as if it had been the source of the revelation.

“Ophelia,” Ruby reached toward her. “I tried to tell you--”

“No!” Ophelia shoved her hands away and retreated to the far corner of the kitchen. “It’s not true! It’s not real!” She began sobbing in heaving, open-mouthed wails. “Stop! No! NO!”
>>>>>>

The Astonishing Adventures of Jonas Crow (Jonah)

The comic issue had opened to a page near the back of the book he had never seen before. Frantically, he checked the front cover: B.Y.B.L Issue #37, one of his “legacy” comics, an issue he’d received early on in his development of the “hidden message” conspiracy. It should have been one he knew by heart, but the pictures on this particular page were entirely unfamiliar. It was a segment called “A Prophet Arising,’ and Deus had called Remus in to tell him of a new mission and a new figure he was going to recruit.

“Here is your new mission,” said Deus, looking more shadowy than usual. “I’m going to let you uncover more intel about the true identity of Nixon Seatent.”

“What will you be doing while I’m out of the way?” Remus asked.

“I need to stop by and visit a friend of mine,” Deus replied.

“The Prophet?” Remus asked.

“Some would call him that.” The artist had drawn a wide grin on Deus’ face--at least, the lower half that was sketched and not blacked out for dramatic effect. “I have a very important mission for him.”

“Why not give me the mission?” Remus asked. “If it’s so important. I feel like you’re shuffling me off to the side.”

“The difference is that you already trust me,” Deus stated, “while The Prophet still needs to learn how to do that.”

“Can I ask what sort of mission his will be?” Remus inquired.

“You certainly may, I don’t have secrets from you. I have decided that he will be the one to deliver my message to The Siren, that she needs to relinquish her power and return to the cave from whence she came, or she will face my wrath.”

“He’s not going to like it,” Remus remarked.

“I know,” said Deus. “But he’ll have no choice.”

Jonas felt his scalp prickle as goosebumps stood up all over his skin. The Prophet? Deus and Remus--they were discussing him! “The Prophet still needs to learn how to trust me.” Was that the reason Deus was sending him to Vegas? Jonas shook his head.

“What am I thinking?” he mused. “Going to Vegas? Ha! That will never happen, unless I get a sudden death wish!” He chuckled to himself and got up to pull the leftover pizza out of the refrigerator.

NaNoWriMo 1K-A-Day: Day 23

Deus Maximus: Do you trust me, Remus?
Remus Hemptor: Trust is not the same as blind faith. Everything in my experience has been fallible.

Deus Maximus: Even me?

Remus Hemptor: Just because your missions have gone exactly to plan doesn’t mean they always will. But I still trust you to have answers to all my questions when I ask them.

Deus Maximus: Then I accept your trust. You have a new mission.

Jonas jerked awake and flailed weakly at the air. His eyes popped open--only to fill his photoreceptors with blinding sunlight. He yelped and snapped his eyes shut again, seeing the flashes still behind his eyelids.

That’s when it registered that there had been a familiar shadowy shape in his apartment, where there hadn’t been one before. Jonas rolled over and slowly opened his eyes.

Something between an animal snarl and a girlish shriek ripped itself out of the young man’s throat as his body convulsed so hard, he practically fell off the couch he’d been laying on. He sprawled in a heap on the floor--right at the feet of a shadowy figure in a trench coat.

“Well, good,” said a rumbling voice from the deep shadows around the man’s chin. “Saves me the trouble of waking you up and hauling your ass off there myself.”

Jonas flinched and opened his eyes at the sound of the voice. He knew that voice! He looked up. He couldn’t see the man’s face very well, underneath the fedora. The shape of the chin, though--the cleft in the middle rang in his memory, but he couldn’t tell where he’d seen it.

“W--who are you?” He stammered. “What do you want?” Syrien Corp heard about my prophecy and sent a guy here to kill me! His paranoia screamed.

The man stayed where he was, peering around the apartment in barely-concealed disgust.

“I came to talk,” he mused. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you.”

Jonas winced; in his bleary, newly-awakened state, he really couldn’t be blamed for anything that inadvertently made it out of his mouth. “I didn’t--uh,” His brain registered just in time, and he quickly eased himself up onto the couch. “Who did you say you were?”

The man finally located one of the two chairs Jonas possessed--and it was stacked with magazines. To the young tenant’s chagrin, the stranger swept the whole pile off with one hand--yet they didn’t scatter like he expected them to. Instead, the comics seemed to defy gravity itself, floating down and settling on the floor still in that same neat, organized pile Jonas had kept them in. The man settled into the chair.

“Ah, that’s better.” He sighed, giving the apartment another once-over. “So, is this a squat or do you actually live here?”

Jonas frowned at the unusual reference, but he understood: the man wanted to know if the apartment was merely a temporary “safe zone,” like the various hotel rooms Remus Hemptor maintained. He referred to them as “squats” in the comics, too.

“No, no, this is my home,” mumbled Jonas. “I live here.”

The man gave a dubious glance to the clothes piled every which way around, above, and on the tiny hamper in the corner of the living space.

“Do your parents live here too, or is it just yourself?”

“Uh, what? Oh, I, uh, live by myself.” Jonas squinted at the face before him; he could see the man’s features clearly enough in the daylight--but still, only that chin stuck out as familiar. He didn’t recognize the rest of the face at all.

“Ah.” There was no underlying judgment in the tone, that Jonas could tell.

He was getting less worried about the man’s origins (if he were an assassin, Jonas would be dead by now, not watching him judge his laundry habits!) and more irritated at the way the man seemed to care more about extending the conversation with menial observations and awkward pauses. “Look,” he finally said, fighting (no, praying!) to keep his voice low and mature-sounding, no matter how badly his vocal cords wanted to snap into the “high and squeaky” register. “Would you mind telling me who you are and why you’re here?”

The man chuckled. “Why, no, Jonas,” he mused softly. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Jonas felt his body go numb all over. “Y-you know my name?”

The man gave a dark chuckle. “See? Now we’re getting somewhere. I know a lot about you, Jonas. I know where you live, obviously; I know that you’ve been pretty popular of late, because of one prophecy that you made last summer that ended up amounting to something.” The man slowly began pulling off his gloves. “I know that you haven’t been able to predict anything like that since. I know that you’ve been invited to the convention in San Diego because of that one prophecy… and I also know that it’s probably going to be your last con for a while, if you don’t find something new to get the network buzzing again.”

Jonas sat on his couch, watching this mysterious man talk, while his brain scrambled to figure out where he had seen or heard him before. “You know about the cons?” He asked. “How did you know? And for the last time, who the heck are you?”

The man still grinned. “You know who I am, Jonas.”

Jonas shook his head. “No, really I don’t.”

“Yes you do; you’ve been trying to remember this whole time, when the answer’s right in front of you.”

Jonas scanned his immediate vicinity in confusion. The only things around were his B.Y.B.L. comics. His eye fell on a familiar-looking fedora. He picked up the comic. It was an issue from the series Deus Among Us, when Remus was busy and another crisis arose, so Deus himself actually left his office and went looking for recruits. He wore a grey fedora and a camel-colored trenchcoat… Jonas felt his brain stop working as he raised his eyes to the man in the camel-colored trench coat and grey fedora sitting in his apartment.

“Y-y-you…” He didn’t want to say it; what if he said it and it wasn’t true? “You’re… Deus Maximus?”

NaNoWriMo 1K-A-Day: Day 4

The Astonishing Adventures of Jonas Crow (Jonah)

The bus driver took one look at the tee shirt, the backpack, the hat, and the goofy grin on Jonas’ face and frowned.

“Again?” he grunted.

Jonas clambered on and paid his fare. “Yep! This time I have proof!” He went for the zipper on his backpack.

The driver kept both eyes fixed on the road in front of him as he closed the door and shifted the bus into gear. “Not even interested! Just sit down, Crow.”

Jonas allowed himself a tiny sigh. “Fine.”

The Calaveras County Event Center was roughly the size of a very large warehouse. All county events were held either inside or around it. Jonas knew the layout by heart. He skirted the long line of cosplayers streaming out of the four double-door entrances, choosing instead to let himself into a single door painted to blend in with the wall. Glancing around to make sure nobody was headed his direction, Jonas slung his backpack to the floor in the corner. He could hear the hubbub of the crowd crawling through the foyer, the subtle beep of scanners as the attendees presented their tickets.

With practiced ease, he slid the pile of folded cardboard out of the backpack, along with a rolled-up poster. He spread the cardboard flat and pulled out a roll of tape, which he used to affix the B.Y.B.L. poster to the cardboard. Next came the cardboard box of Remus Hemptor buttons--painstakingly hunted down and collected from every comic-book store in the greater L.A. area--and small bookmarks printed with the address of his blog.

Jonas looked around once more; so far, so good. Now came the tricky part. Out of the front pocket of his backpack, Jonas slipped a lanyard bearing a laminated card emblazoned with the word STAFF. He had hand-drawn a doodle in the corner, more of a rough sketch of the logo used on last year’s badge. He said a quick prayer that the actual staffers would assume it was a badge from this year, or--if his luck held out--the logo hadn’t changed from previous years. Most of all, he prayed that the staffers there wouldn’t be the ones who knew him on sight.

In the forefront of his imagination, Jonas pictured himself slipping out of his “convention attendee” persona, and into the fedora and trenchcoat of Remus Hemptor, average-Joe champion of the oblivious, sheep-like masses. He pulled his hat low over his eyes, and tucked his chin into the collar of his tee shirt as he slipped into one of the many doors accessing the main exhibit hall.

Most of the convention was happening at the other side and in the middle of the hall. The only people around here were those on their way to other areas of the con. Nobody paid attention to the "staffer" leaning a poster of Remus Hemptor meeting Deus Maximus against the wall. Jonas wanted to make it look like he was just getting ready to set up another booth... Even though he had been turned down repeatedly by the organizers and facilitators of the event when he tried to register. Jonas carefully laid out the box of buttons and prepared to slither out as quickly as he had gotten in.

"Hey!"

Too late! Jonas glanced toward the voice to see how much time he had to run away. The tall, angular woman stalked toward him, her thin, drawn face perpetually a wide-eyed state of anxiety. Beryl Markham, the chief event coordinator for the Calaveras County Event Center. She had reached his side while Jonas was still trying to figure out how to talk his way out of this one.

"What do you think you're doing here?" She seethed. "Pick that crap up right now, and leave!"

"Ms. Markham, please! I know you think I am just a crackpot, but—"

"I don't want to hear it, Jonas Crow. You cannot be here!" She picked up the box and shoved it into his arms. Jonas overbalanced and stumbled backwards. The buttons bounced once, and fairly jumped out of the box, clattering over the floor like tiny, clashing cymbals.
>>>>>>>>

 Brothers At Arms (Joseph)

The cell door creaked open, and the thick combat boots thumped on the floor.

“Sijjin! Get up!”

Joseph instinctively threw his body to the side and bounded to his feet as soon as he heard the voice. The boot swinging for his ribcage missed, but the backhand was just in time to meet his face. The guard all the prisoners called Jilmud never missed a chance to use physical confrontation to remind the wards of their place. The guard’s name meant “boulder”, and from the way the other prisoners explained the name to him, Joe gathered that it was both a descriptive reference to his size, as well as a covert slight of his intelligence. Joseph used his tongue and the shoulder of his grimy uniform to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth. If the General saw him wounded in any way, he might dismiss the young man as useless--and there would be no chance of release whatsoever.

Jilmud clomped along, the tree-trunk legs taking long, heavy strides, forcing the handcuffed prisoner behind him to shuffle double-time in loose linen flats. Joseph skittered past rows and rows of reinforced doors like the one into his cell. They passed another hallway, this one full of actual criminals, so their cells were more like cages than secret rooms. The anguished wails and the incessant shouting never failed to make Joseph quiver all over--a reaction Jilmud relished, which was why he brought the prisoner all this way.

Nearer to the center of the prison building, just close enough to the center yard to get an occasional whiff of fresh air, there was a hallway lined with doors that led to rooms without windows. One of these had been labeled with the number matching the one on Joe’s uniform. Jilmud shoved him into this one and closed the door.

The lone lightbulb in the ceiling buzzed like a hornet’s nest. The only pieces of furniture in the room were an aluminum chair and a table. On the table lay a newspaper with an unsolved crossword puzzle, a blank sheet of paper, and a pencil. Joseph sighed and sat down to begin working.

He studied the puzzle deeply. The clues were confusing, certainly, but at least they provided him with a chance to get out of his cell once in a while. What he still did not understand was why they required this of him. He knew that it could not possibly be that they hunted down a newspaper with the hardest crossword known to man; but what other reason could the prison guards have for shutting him in a room for hours till he had solved the entire puzzle?

Joseph absently perused the text surrounding the puzzle, just to get a sense of direction, or maybe some hint into the events of the outside world. As usual, the articles themselves were jibberish, just strings of random words strung together to give the appearance of newsworthy items, when they were nothing of the sort. Why the charade?

NaNoWriMo 1K-A-Day: Day 1

The Remnant Resonance (Ruth)

Smoke hung in a heavy, visible atmosphere everywhere you looked. From the minute you gave a nod to Fabio—the giant Puerto Rican bouncer who liked to stand in the shadows and grab your shoulders from behind if you didn't acknowledge him first—Club Mo was a wall-to-wall subway car experience, full of elbows and shoulders and bodies brushing and pressing, of way too many smells and constant voices. But the floor was prime real estate, especially when the Black Lily sang. The floor was the only place in the entire club where one could hear her warm, soothing voice. It resonated through the floorboards. It filled the curls of smoke in the air.

She didn’t have to grab the microphone to be heard. She merely pointed her voice at it, the rich rolling tones carrying through the tinny speakers.

Remember the moonlight,

When life sends the rain,

Remember I love you,

Till we meet again;

Look to the stars,

How they shine up above,

Forever and always,

Remember my love...”

The air stilled as the last echoes of the song faded. Those close enough to hear the final cadence sighed in rapture before commencing the applause, alerting those too far away to hear that the song had finished and they should all be clapping.

Marty, the quippy emcee, strode onto the stage in his customary purple suit and paisley tie.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Black Lily!” he shouted into the microphone over the whoops and whistles of the inebriated crowd. The Black Lily took her bow and accepted the applause.

Once backstage, she pulled off the elbow-length silk gloves and kicked off the towering black heels. Black Lily vanished with a tug of a few hairpins, leaving in her wake simple Ruby Corden, child of Harlem. She skirted the troupe of wide-flounced dancers and wended her way between stage trappings to reach the small door with her name crudely slapped on with white paint: “RUBY C BLACK LILY” Slipping inside, she tossed the stiff black hairpiece on the table and shook out the stiffly-curled locks of her own black hair. The glaring lamps on the dressing-room table didn’t quite give her amber skin the same glow as the hushed chandeliers of the main stage, but her round eyes and luxurious, full mouth still bespoke the same regal beauty everybody seemed to listen to.

The door clicked open, and Ruby smiled at the reflection of her friend and accompanist, Ophelia Lake.

“That was some performance tonight, Ruby,” Ophelia noted as she plopped down on the chair beside Ruby, despite the fact that it was draped with gowns.

“Hey, don’t ruffle my closet,” Ruby frowned at the tall, willowy figure currently crushing four of the six gaudy ball gowns she cycled through each week of performances.

Ophelia snorted. “Closet?” Her dark eyes roved around the interior of the whole room. “This room is a closet!” The space hadn’t been large enough for a dress rack like the other performers got, Ruby had been told.
>>>>>>>>>

The Astonishing Adventures of Jonas (Jonah)

Remus Hemptor: Why should you care? Why intervene? Things are happening all over the world. One person can't make a difference.
Deus Maximus: One person can make a difference. All it takes is a single point of a degree of deviation, and a straight line can become a slant. The average difference between the fastest race car and the slowest race car is only about seven seconds. The question is not whether you can make a difference. It is only whether or not you are willing to do what needs to be done and be prepared to face the outcome of your decisions.

The tinny explosion of the alarm clock needled into his sleep with all the tenderness of a live wire jammed into his head. Jonas jerked into wakefulness and fumbled toward the sound. His hand met only blankets and pillows, but he kept reaching till he felt the plastic casing under his fingers. Once there, it was simply a matter of pressing buttons till the noise stopped. He flopped onto his back and yawned, running his fingers through his stringy black hair. Saturdays were for sleeping, everybody knew that; what nefarious influence had prompted him to set his alarm on a Saturday? Jonas opened his eyes slowly. The figurine of Deus Maximus--the almighty leader of the Brave Youth Battle Legion--stared down at him, the miniscule resin fingertip outstretched, calling him to action. Today, the forceful bass voice boomed in his imagination. Today--

Today! Jonas rocketed out of his bed as the alarm whined again, insisting that the young man’s arousal was no accident. Jonas checked his limited-edition B.Y.B.L. calendar. Today was the day! A thumbnail-sized head-shot image of Remus Hemptor--the hero of the series--grinned at him from Saturday’s square, which marked the start of Calaveras County Comic Convention. Today, it would finally happen.

He pulled on his dingy cargo pants and a Captain Original tee shirt. Opening his laptop launched the startup sequence for two other computer modules. On the laptop, Jonas keyed up a new entry in his blog, armed with the video he had made specifically for this event. The news sites opened on the computer monitors at the back of the desk. The protocols for the search program he designed automatically highlighted any mention of “SYRIEN” or “ISRL” in the Breaking News section. One site in particular contained both acronyms in the headline: “Syrien Corp. Goes Head-To-Head Against Independent Servicers and Retailers League in Legendary Lawsuit.” Jonas read the article:

SAN ANDREAS, CA--A record-setting lawsuit by multi-business conglomerate Syrien Corp took an unexpected turn today as internal investigations uncovered a systematic undermining of local businesses with petty complaints, coercion, and in some cases even blackmail threats stretching back as far as fourteen months. Their last attempt at suing a number of these businesses may have succeeded had not the Independent Servicers and Retailers League stepped up to defend the small, privately-owned and operated shops scattered all over the county.

Today the San Andreas Court handed down a verdict in support of the League’s defense, which--among other things--stated that, “Syrien’s goal of replacing the local businesses with mega-stores is in direct conflict with the city’s goal of cultivating a self-sustaining community.” Judge Anthony Morton ruled that, while the law could provide Syrien with the land it needed to build the warehouse-sized “one-stop-shopping” centers, that same law also protected the rights of the private businesses that already owned land, and any attempt by the Corporation to coerce a sale or unlawfully seize active businesses would be considered illegal and risk forcing the Corporation to withdraw from Calaveras County altogether.

Jonas punched both fists in the air. “YES!” He screamed. “YES! We did it!” His hands shook with excitement as he typed out a title for his new post and hit “Publish.” Embedded in the post was a video he had made exactly fourteen months prior, in which he had expounded on the events of the latest issue of B.Y.B.L.: Brave Youth Battle Legion, in which the hero, Remus Hemptor--sent on a mission by the shadowy, omnipotent Deus Maximus--finally ended up getting the upper hand over the diabolical Siren and thwarting her plans for dominating the Faultlands.

Who knew that comic books would end up predicting the future?