My Christmas Gift to You: A Free eBook!

 

This eBook is FREE on all international Amazon websites until December 20th, Eastern Standard Time.

Amazon US

Amazon UK
Amazon Canada

Amazon Australia

And, PLEASE, if you download the book, PLEASE leave a review. Reviews are the butter on any writer's bread. Thank you.

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn (Inktober, Tuesday, October 27, 2020)

For Inktober, Tuesday, October 27, 2020. Prompt word: “music.” Tuckerization: Mark Wilson

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

 

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Author’s Note: Yes, I am almost two years behind, but I slog ahead, fulfilling my commitment to write 30 flash fiction pieces for October 2020. I will not stop until I have completed my promise to all the people who desired tuckerization in a Loewen story.

 

The jeep bumped along the rugged road leading up the mountainside. Not that the South Mountain range could be compared to mountains like the Rockies or the Sierras, but in southcentral Pennsylvania, it was the adjective used to describe them.

Mark Wilson steered around a gully that had washed out part of the old, gravel road. Courtesy of Google Maps, he had found a small, isolated mountain pond. It would perfectly serve his purpose.

Next to him in the passenger’s seat sat two large backpacks filled with all that he needed for his project: a tent, food, some light camping gear, some recording equipment, and a Yamaha flute valued more than the Jeep Wrangler he drove. It would take two trips over rocky terrain to get all his equipment to the location, but the exertion would be worth it.

The late September air felt crisp and clean, making the journey to the pond enjoyable. Arriving, he paused and surveyed the area. The forest went directly up to the edge of the water, and the thick detritus of the forest promised a comfortable night in his tent.

The pond was less than an acre in size, and Mark could see no evidence of any presence of other campers or hikers past or present. Birds quietly sang in the trees, and a late-season cricket started announcing the temperature with his chirps. Mark counted twenty-seven chirps in fifteen seconds and added forty. The ambient temperature was a comfortable sixty-seven degrees.

He placed his equipment near a tree and made the return trek to his jeep.

An hour later, Mark set up the small tent and started hooking up his recording instrument to two microphones. Dawn would arrive at 6:30 in the morning, and Mark was determined to be up and ready and catch the background sounds of nature waking up. Back in his studio at home, he would lay tracks of his flute playing over the sounds of wind, birds, and any wildlife he hoped to record. Far away from roads and airports, he hoped to record at least a full hour of the environment free from humanity’s ever-present noise.

That evening, he sat around a small fire drinking tea before sleeping. The moon was full, and the pond glowed with its reflection. Occasionally a small fish would come to the surface to take advantage of an insect’s fatal fall onto the water. Deep in the woods, a green glow revealed a decaying stump succumbing to one of the fungi collectively called foxfire.

Later, as he fell asleep, Mark heard the distant yipping of coyotes and the bark of a lonely fox.

The following day as the east began to glow, Mark uncovered his microphones and began recording. Dawn started with no wind, but the air was filled with bird calls and an occasional splash from the pond, either a fish looking for morning breakfast or a muskrat looking for a meal. The occasional burp of a bullfrog competed with the incessant chirping of last night’s cricket and added more to the morning symphony.

Content, Mark leaned back to enjoy nature’s concert, and after an hour, Mark moved to turn off the recording equipment, delighted for what would now serve as the background of his flute solo.

After a gulp of his cooling coffee, Mark opened up his flute case and lovingly put the parts together. Done, Mark put the flute to his lips and began the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Playing for an audience of none, the solo floated over the pond where the trees swallowed it up.

Suddenly to his surprise, his flute was answered by another. He stopped playing to hear the counterpoint notes stop abruptly as well.

Blinking in surprise, wondering if he heard things, Mark again put his flute to his lips and began to play. Immediately, the music across the pond joined in, and, taken by the serendipitous opportunity of being united in a duet, Mark stood and continued his playing.

For an hour, Mark’s tune was pursued by his unseen companion’s artistry, a weird, haunting air that complemented his playing. When Mark stopped, the music continued, and now he had the opportunity to accompany his partner with an improvised melody made up on the spot.

Exhausted, Mark stopped, and the music across the pond concluded within a few moments. “Thank you!” he called, but there was no response. Waiting for a few moments, Mark reluctantly began dismantling his flute, storing it carefully in its case, waiting for the other player to call out or somehow reveal their presence. That was when he realized that, thinking he had turned off his recording device, it was still running. Delighted, he pushed buttons and grinned when he heard the duet that he thought was lost only because he did not know to record it as it was happening.

Mark again listened to the mysterious duet with his invisible partner that evening in his studio. With a smile, he sat back, closed his eyes, and relived that moment’s joy again. The soaring accompaniment brought back memories, and his senses remembered the aromas of the woods, the feel of a bed of forest leaves where he sat, and the vision of the sun reflecting off ripples on the pond.

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie, and Mark opened the door to find Daniel, his friend, with a pizza box and a liter of soda.

Mark smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “You have got to hear this recording I made.”

After telling Daniel the story of his invisible partner, Mark replayed the music, and both men sat spellbound.

“What do you think?” Mark asked.

“That was amazing, especially since the instrument we hear is not a flute.” Daniel restarted the recording. “Listen very carefully.”

Mark listened intently and smiled. “Pan pipes,” he said. “And masterfully played. I’ve never heard pipes played with such range and depth.”

“It’s a pity,” Daniel said, “you don’t know the artist. This is worthy of a release on a recording label. You have to find out who this is and talk to them. See if they’ll agree to release the composition with you.”

The following day was blurred with activity. Once again, Mark examined the area around the pond on Google Maps but found no residence within a reasonable distance. Furthermore, he confirmed that his trip to the pond and the resulting hike was the only realistic path.

The only logical thing to do was to travel back to the pond and see if he could reencounter this fantastic musician.

He emailed Daniel about his plan, and he once again journeyed to the pond the following day.

Two weeks later, Mark’s parents reported him missing. With emails and telephone calls unanswered, his worried parents traveled to his apartment to find it undisturbed, with Mark nowhere to be found.

The police found his jeep in the South Mountain range abandoned near a gravel road with deep ruts, but the vehicle worked perfectly. An intense search by 200 volunteers failed to turn up any sign of the missing man. After five days, the search officially ended.

It was October when Daniel decided to walk the area where it was assumed Mark had disappeared. The sun, still below the horizon, turned the eastern sky into a riot of salmon and pink. Daniel parked his jeep where Mark’s car had been abandoned. Walking up the mountainside, he followed a dimly remembered description of the location Mark had mentioned in his last email.

The sun had just peeped over the horizon when Mark found the pond. He stood at the water’s edge and mourned for his friend.

Within seconds, the sound of a flute floated over the water, and Daniel’s jaw dropped open in shock.

“Mark!” Daniel shouted. “Mark!”

The flute continued as if the player was unaware of the interruption. Within a few minutes, the lone flute was joined by another, creating a haunting duet with the sounds of a forest greeting the morning.

Daniel listened for a few moments longer, mesmerized by the song.

Then, running as fast as the uneven ground would allow, he jogged around the pond to find his friend.

Daniel chased the flute players, but they remained invisible to his eyes. Calling out his friend’s name, the music never stopped, and the players always seemed just a few yards ahead of him behind a tree or boulder.

After a fruitless search, Daniel collapsed near a tree and allowed the music to wash over him. Tears ran down his face, but he did not know if they came from the ethereal hymn that plucked at his heart or the grief that he knew Mark was forever lost.

After a while, the music ended, and the forest was again abandoned to the normal sounds of wood, wind, and its denizens. Daniel struggled to his feet and slowly returned to his car.

Content that Mark still lived though in a plane or dimension he could not see, Daniel slowly drove down the mountainside. He sincerely hoped his friend was happy.

Resigned to the reality that his friend had been spirited away, Daniel never returned, leaving Mark and his unseen partner to greet the dawn with otherworldly music until time ended.

THE END

I Have Seen the Future and the Future Is Diesel, Part 2 (Inktober, Monday, October 26, 2020)

For Inktober, Monday, October 26, 2020. Prompt word: “hide.” Tuckerization: Carol Pelligrino

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

I Have Seen the Future and the Future Is Diesel, Part 2

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

(Note: This story is a sequel to I Have Seen the Future and the Future Is Diesel, published in my short story collection, Worlds of Mystery.)

The Ruins

Nurse Pelligrino tried to breathe through her mouth to keep out the ever-present stink of diesel. Here in the Ruins, the smell of diesel mixed with blood, used bed pans, and the various odors of the sick and dying. However, as a nurse, Carol had to leave the surface and do a two-week shift thirteen levels below in an artificial hell where even further, the ever-present hum of the diesel extractors kept the planet working for its masters.

When American scientists found a way to create cheap diesel fuel from elements deep within the earth, an unholy marriage of mechanical engineering, nanotechnology, and affordable fuel collapsed the government to make way for corporations, the true purveyors of power. The Middle East went bankrupt, the dollar soared, pollution went out of control, and life spans dropped. The Age of Diesel reigned supreme.

A robotic nurse’s aide wheeled by, leaving a thin sheen of lubricant on the floor from faulty hydraulics. “Nurse Carol Pelligrino,” its speaker rasped. “Director Manson wishes to see you in his office right away.”

Carol sighed and looked at the clipboard in her hand, listing dozens of patients that needed attention. She shrugged in resignation. They were all used to waiting.

Carol walked into Manson’s office without knocking. He didn’t deserve consideration. True to form, he sat glassy-eyed behind his desk, flying on whatever he could sneak from the pharmacy.

“Director Manson? Director Manson!”

Some form of sentience came to the director’s eyes, and he mumbled something.

Carol leaned closer. “Repeat that,” she ordered.

The director screwed his features in concentration. “Room 744,” he mumbled. “Rebel. They caught him. Roughed him up. Fix him up for …um ... interrogation.”

Carol shook her head, turned on her heels, and left the office. She wondered if this one would be alive when she saw him. With their computerized brains, the so-called Custodians didn’t practice restraint when chasing those who stood against the Corporation Hegemony.

As she entered the room, she first saw the Custodian standing in a cloud of exhaust, its diesel engine purring inside it. An ambulatory ball of metal and hate, it had its weapons ready and pointed at the human on the bed.

“Stand down,” she ordered and was not surprised when the Custodian ignored her.

Amazingly, the man on the bed was conscious. “I’m Nurse Pelligrino,” she said. “I’m going to check you over for injuries.”

The man nodded, pain evident in his eyes and on his features. “I have a broken arm and maybe internal injuries.” He nodded at the Custodian. “Those things aren’t known for their gentleness.”

“I’m going to give you something for your pain,” Carol said. She walked over to a counter and opened it with her handprint. She was surprised to find painkillers in the drawer. Usually, the nurses and doctors permanently stuck working here sold them on the black market.

After the injection and the patient visibly relaxed, Carol took the portable scanner out of her pocket and ran it up and down the man’s body. “You’re lucky,” she said. “Your arm is a greenstick fracture. Your spleen is bruised but not bleeding. What’s your name?”

“Nick Weaver,” the man said.

“And you think being a rebel can solve the world’s problems?” she whispered.

Nick smiled. “If I was the only one, most likely not.”

Carol shook her head. “Gotta love that idealism.” She turned to the Custodian. “I need an InstaSplint for this man’s arm. I have none in this room. I will return.”

Striding down the hallway, she returned to Director Manson’s office and walked in. He lay face forward on his desk, snoring away whatever drug he had taken to ease his misery of presiding over the Ruins.

Fifteen minutes later, Carol walked back into the rebel’s room carrying a box bearing the label InstaSplint. Opening it, she took a plastic wrap out of the box, wrapped it around Nick’s arm, and three minutes later, it had hardened to create support for the fracture.

Carol turned and addressed the Custodian. “I need to access the cabinet behind you.”

The Custodian obediently stepped forward, allowing her to work behind itself. A few minutes later, Carol returned to the bed.

She stood smiling at Nick until the Custodian started a loud clicking. Garbled speech suddenly came out of its speakers while a large puddle of diesel formed on the floor. With a burst of static from its speakers, it slumped forward, obviously inactive.

Carol shook her head. “What a pity it broke down.”

“What did you do?” Nick asked.

Carol laughed. “Little old me? I’m a nurse. How dare you say I did something to a Custodian? That’s rebel talk.”

Her face turned grim. “Now listen carefully. I will leave the room under the pretense of needing different painkillers. That will take about fifteen minutes.

“You will leave this room, turn left and then turn right. Walk right into Director Manson’s office. You have exactly three minutes to relieve him of his lab coat, ID card, and anything else you find interesting. He is sleeping and will not wake for at least a few hours. I made sure.

“You will then use his card to access the elevator to the surface. Nobody will stop you because nobody cares about anything happening in the Ruins.

“You will ditch the coat and ID and then hide. When you see the streets are clear, usually around 10 at night, you will head to the Robert Morris hotel at 10th and Arch. Tell the concierge you need a key for Room 453. Remember that number. The Resistance will help you past there.”

Nick’s look of surprise never left his face. “You’re a member of the Resistance?” he said

“Me? Carol asked. “I’m just a regular nurse doing her bimonthly shift in the Ruins. You have fifteen minutes before I return to this room and raise the alarm about an escaped prisoner taking advantage of a Custodian malfunction. Good luck.”

With that, Carol left the room and never looked back.

There were no repercussions from the rebel’s escape.

This place was, after all, named the Ruins for a reason.

THE END

Worlds of Mystery is available in both print and Kindle eBooks.

Worlds of Mystery (US Amazon)

Worlds of Mystery (UK Amazon)

Worlds of Mystery (Canada Amazon)

If you purchase the work, please leave a review. Thank you.

A Story in 66 Words

 

A New Release for February - In Search of the Creators

 

Just in time for 2022, here is February's offering of short stories for the price of only 99¢ US.

When humanity discovered they were alone in the cosmos, they returned to Earth and uplifted their animals, seeding them throughout the Milky Way. They then waited for their creations to evolve and relieve the loneliness of humanity.

But then the humans disappeared.

In Search of the Creators is coupled with Canticle of the Wolf, an SF retelling of the legend of Saint Francis and the wolf of Gubbio.

Enjoy these two parables of humanity's responsibilities when they uplift animals.

And please, if you purchase the eBook, please consider leaving a review.

Amazon US site and it will be available in all foreign Amazon markets on Wednesday, February 23rd if not before.

Patterns: Release of a New Short Story

Amazon has released my newest work for the Kindle eBook Reader: Patterns, a dark urban fantasy.

Ryan Williams won what everybody thought was a Go Board at Walt’s Cards and Games, but when he took it home, he discovered it was something very different. It was a relic from a long-ago past that could alter one's mind and eventually act as a portal to a very dangerous place. And what can one do when an addictive game threatens your sanity as well as your life?

Please consider investing 99¢ in my work and enjoy a tale that you can read over and over again.

All I ask is that if you do purchase any of my work, I would be grateful for a review. Thank you.

American Amazon
Canadian Amazon

British Amazon