Prologue / Epilogue

Just after Mom died, I had grandiose ideas about writing a book on dealing with the aftermath of a family death. I thought I might guide others through it, help prepare for Daddy's (surely-soon-to-come) death, and tell about their lives so they wouldn't be forgotten. While I soon became way too busy caring for my dad, who lived 34 months longer, and the grandiosity drained off, I did write and preserve the following.



Prologue


The girl started, quickly coming to full alertness. Something, somewhere deep in the vessel within which she dwelt, had CHANGED.

A quick inspection confirmed her suspicions. The bindings holding the great circuit breaker up, already worn and weakened by long age, had broken. It had started slowly, inexorably, to close.

It was too soon. There was still usefulness left to this vessel, still a strong purpose to fulfill. But no matter, she knew, for once started, there was no stopping it. The only thing left was finishing her last duty, emptying its last compartments, a job she’d been working on for years now. Once completed, she would leave, return to her beginnings, there to wait for her companion vessel to finish as well.

She marked the movement of the circuit breaker, judging its speed. Likely she had just over a day to finish everything.

It was time to hurry.

- Click -



Epilogue


The boy stirred, feeling his vessel shudder slightly, veer off course again. It had been happening more often lately, since he’d felt his companion vanish. The two had made a great team, each supporting the other, assisting each other around obstacles, keeping each other on course. He unfolded himself from the corner where he had paused a moment to rest, arms hugging his knees for warmth, something unpredictable these days. His vessel’s navigation systems were damaged, and propulsion was faltering. Now his vessel, proceeding on its own, was starting to founder.

- Click -

Other vessels approached, offering guidance for a time, trying to offer companionship. It just wasn’t the same.

- Click -

He moved into the next compartment, emptied it out, flipped off the switch. He’d already been doing this for years. He was very efficient.

- Click -

He had become busier than usual since the companion left, wandering the long and tangled corridors, emptying out the compartments, storing the contents, flicking the switches, moving on.

-Click -

More compartments were getting shut off, some still flickering off and on a bit first, but the shutoffs were growing in frequency. He was keeping very busy.

- Click -

He wasn’t sure how long his vessel would continue, alone. The companion had been there so many years, he almost couldn’t remember the time before she was there.

- Click -

But of course the memories were there. He was the collector and keeper of the memories. That was his primary job these days.

- Click -

- Click -

He stopped occasionally to look at the bindings holding his vessel’s great circuit breaker in the up position. The sudden vanishing of the companion had upset the equilibrium of his vessel, and that had caused some of the bindings to snap, others to grow ragged. Soon they would fail and it too would start its descent. There was no telling if it would be fast or slow, only that it would be soon, and his job was daily bigger. There was much preparation before that time.

- Click -

- Click -

He was getting better, accomplishing more, traveling further distances each day. He understood the distress of the vessel, but that couldn’t be helped. If he managed to empty enough compartments before the great circuit breaker fell, the distress would ease as the vessel would slowly quit attempting to navigate and begin to simply drift.

- Click -

- Click -

He nearly stumbled with the vessel’s next shudder. It hadn’t quit yet. That was good. He still had so many compartments to empty, so many bits and pieces to store. The wait would soon be over. Then it would be his time to leave his vessel, just before it too vanished. It would be time to rejoin HER.

- Click -

- Click -

- Click -

He hurried.

-Click -

- Click -

- Click -

- Click -

3-Minute Story #2

The following is not a submission to the contest. For one thing, it breaks the rule about publication anywhere else. Then there's the only-one-submission bit. But the theme stuck with me, and this also popped out.


Night School

"Some people swore the house was haunted." Mr. Miller pointed at the words on the board. "Write this down, verbatim. It's your first sentence for your story. Not only is this going to be your final for this course, it's an actual contest. Any stories getting a "B" or better will be submitted." Pointing again, he continued, "This is the website with all the rules. Read them this weekend, and follow them exactly. Failure to do so affects your grade. And don't forget the writing rules we've been learning."

He looked around at his class. Some he actually had hopes for, beyond getting their high school diplomas. Others, well, he told himself every year they just needed more teaching. Sometimes they surprised you.

"Bring your first draft in Monday night. Then we'll go through each one, making them better stories. Don't worry if you go over 600 words on your first try. We can deal with that next week. By Friday night, the best ones will be submitted, just before contest deadline. Class dismissed."

Monday's class produced the expected results. Most had starting ideas, and could develop into reasonable stories with tough editing. But when Joey finished reading his aloud, it was hopeless. Not that he hadn't tried.

"What did you do, sleep with a thesaurus under your pillow?"

The class, having been impressed by the story’s sheer vocabulary, was startled. Someone laughed, quickly silenced.

"I give you points for trying to be creative. But what you have is word salad. There's no plot, no theme, and obviously no interest in the subject matter. 'Boy meets ghosts, ooooh, scary-in-87-adjectives' does not a story make. You don't even believe in ghosts, do you? This is straight from 20 episodes of bad TV. There's absolutely nothing of you here. Remember the first rule of writing: write what you know. If all that you know is cooking, make this into a cooking story. Now start over, and bring it tomorrow. Give it a plot this time!"

Joey thought it over. Mr. Miller was right about his not believing in ghosts. He'd seen too many dead people, and not once did one ever come back. But cooking? What kind of crap was that? Write what you know? There were few things Joey knew well. "How do I turn that into a story?" he wondered. Hmmm....

Some people swore the house was haunted. "Huh! Some idiots will believe anything," Jesse thought as he surveyed the trashed interior. He'd let himself in past the same broken lock that numerous vandals, junkies, and couples too poor or too cheap for a hotel had used. Perfect, just perfect, he observed in satisfaction. He had a juicy, ripe mark lined up, ready for the plucking, and this was just the location for his scam....

Joey smiled as he wrote, smiled at the class reaction, and smiled as he clicked "submit". And nothing was ever the same again.