Practical Demonstration

Jack walked to the center of the stage. The lights went low, focused on him. The audience quieted as much as the audience at an elementary school talent show ever truly became quiet.

"My talent... um..." Jack began. He hesitated. "I kill monsters."

There was a pause. A baby wailed in the silence; true silence, now.

"With this." Jack brought his hand out from behind his back, revealing a dented and notched baseball bat.

The first nervous titters went up from the audience. They kept laughing right up until the first thunderous footstep rattled the fluorescent lights in their sockets.

First of Many

The Wisest Stone is still suffering from amnesia. I think I'll wrap up this pseudo-continuity next month. Taku is starting to show the strain of having to be the master for so many stories in a row. In the meantime, happy sort-of-beginning of the month! Only two more shopping months until Mirrorshards' second anniversary. What are you getting for YOUR friends and family to celebrate?

"Why is the Weed King so intent on capturing us?" asked the Wisest Stone.

Taku grimaced, sweat rolling down his face. "You called him a wastrel and a mendicant, and demanded restitution for all of the stone and mountains his roots have destroyed."

"Ah," said the Wisest Stone. "And was I correct?"

"Technically," Taku admitted. "But also unkind."

"Hardly relevant."

"One can be truthful without being cruel. Do you not see this?"

The Wisest Stone considered. "If we are honest, we cannot help but be cruel. Life is harsh."

"That is why the first lie we tell is to ourselves."

Que Sera Sera

The wheel spins... slows... stops.

"Fire," the priest announces.

"Thank you, Lord!" the parishioner says. He stands, smiles wide and unfeigned. "Thank you!"

The next steps forward. The wheel spins.

"The spikes."

"Blessings upon me," says the parishioner.

Outside, the chanter leads those still waiting for justice in the noon prayer: "We live in the best of all possible worlds, for how can it be otherwise? The dice fall where they must, and we rejoice, for in their faces we glimpse the Divine. Blessed is the Judge. Blessed is the verdict."

Inside, the priest closes his eyes. The wheel spins.

Tracks in the Sand

When he woke in the morning, the tattoos were gone. He couldn't say he was surprised. Even through the hours spent with gritted teeth, cringing from the needle in the overheated back room, he'd suspected what would happen.

He munched a piece of toast and idly doodled on his hand with a permanent marker. He wrote his name, and watched as that, too, faded into his skin

The steak knife, dirty by the sink, caught his attention.

No. He'd find a way to leave a mark. He glanced at the knife once more on his way out.

Not yet, anyway.

The Secret of the Stradivari

Luthier sawed furiously at the chain, but his bow was not up to the task. He'd prepared for locks, not welding.

A long vibratto laugh from behind froze Luthier in mid-stroke. Nicholas "The Authentic" Stradivarius strode in, the light catching his polished brown wood beautifully. Luthier was more concerned with the brash pair of trumpets who flanked Nicholas.

"Idiota. The secret is mine," Nicholas sneered. "Give it to him fortississimo, boys."

The skylight overhead crashed like cymbals as Big Red the double bass rappelled down to block the thugs. "Move, Luth!" he thrummed. "We can't try again if we're dead!"

Consensus

Ron's right hand opened negotiations unilaterally with a casual wave to Liz, for which it was harshly censured. The offers and counteroffers grew into a dispute when Liz' left eye and mouth staged a protest, unwilling to risk renewing diplomatic relations so soon. Her right eye pleaded with Ron's face for time to resolve the conflict, but Ron's eyebrows filibustered acceptance of the proposal.

Chaos broke out in Ron, and three fingers were ejected for rowdy behavior. Ron regained order and looked up to signal acceptance, but by the time he did, Liz and all of her parts were gone.

Loyalty

"He's dead..." Garif clutched at the crumbling cliff edge.

"Most likely," said This-Cat.

"It's terrible!"

"I agree. There's no way to recover the body. He'd pad our stores by days."

Garif goggled at This-Cat. "You'd eat him?"

"Of course. Just as I'd eat you." This-Cat stared at Garif levelly. "I hope you'd eat me, if it came to it. More efficient, really; you can carry my meat, where I'd have to leave you after eating my fill."

He walked on. When Garif failed to follow, This-Cat glanced back. "Our ways are not your ways, ape. Honor the dead by living."

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

"...and your daughter, how is her thesis coming? She was doing something in discrete mathematics, yes?"

"Graph theory."

"Ah, so. I was never one for the abstract fields. Give me something I can touch, taste, see."

"Max, we've been chatting for almost an hour. What is it you wanted to show me?"

"It is already all around us. Take a moment, my friend, and listen to the night."

"I hear mosquitoes. Crickets. Frogs. Wind in the trees."

"Listen more closely still. Here, I will hum along for you."

"Good God!"

"I call this one, 'Fugue in D Minor for Mosquito.'"

Would you believe there's no sound out there for a mosquito singing music? If I still had my SNES, I could doctor something up with MarioPaint...

Everyone is the Hero of Their Own Story

Long one today. I figured that the whole point and joy of this snippet is the cheerful verbosity of the central character, so I gave him a generous two hundred words to be as charming as he can. Tip of the hat to David Steffen for the prompt today; I'm always happy to write a story for any of my fans, followers, or friends if you have a phrase or idea that you'd like to see my somewhat cracked version of.

---

"You mischaracterize us grievously," said the tick. "A truly successful parasite is subtle and harmless, taking so minimally of Nature's bounty that not a one could begrudge us our modest sup. Symbiosis is messy; predation is downright barbaric. Parasitism, proper parasitism, is as clean and easy as tossing a quarter to a homeless man on the street corner. Mercy blesses both the giver and the receiver, after all.

"What use to kill or main one's host? One who is gracious enough to give once may well give again and again. Rising up through violence to take the whole wallet, while potentially more immediately rewarding, is ultimately self-defeating. No, I think everyone would be a parasite, if they only knew how."

"My human is going to burn you with a match if I ever get home," the dog informed him.

"As is certainly his prerogative," the tick sighed. "Your blindness and gross insensitivity is, I have found, typical of canines. You lack understanding."

The dog paused to scratch vigorously, but to no avail. "I hate it when they get on your ear," the dog announced to no one in particular.

"Quite mutual. Dreadfully waxy. Still, needs must," said the tick.

Dark Side of the Middle of Nowhere

Anyone know what happened to Saturday's post? I know I wrote it...

---

"It's solar-powered. Just forget it."

I ignored him. It took most of my concentration to handle the tools in my bulky gloves, anyway.

"It's not like you're going to find a way to make it run on darkness. And the battery packs wouldn't move that hulk a centimeter, even if we juiced them all at once."

I kept working. I could feel the cold, a little, though maybe that was just my imagination. The suits wouldn't last forever, and these rocks had never known a sun's light.

"Why are you even bothering?"

Everyone reacts differently to the inevitable, I guess.

Idea Man

Hey, ya'll! Didja miss me? Finally caught up, mostly, and trying to keep things moving forward.

So I feel like I should have a blog where I can announce Exciting News, but I don't want to put such things on Mirrorshards itself. Should I resurrect my hoary old Livejournal account? Get a second Blogger blog to run in the sidebar? Start actually making use of Twitter and Facebook? Inquiring minds want to know, and you guys are basically my fanbase.

Let me put it this way: if I ever become successful, Mirrorshards will likely remain the heart of whatever website I create. Should I start encrusting it already, or is one (sooper sekrit as yet) publishing credit and a lot of love from the Drabblecast not enough to justify that kind of thing? I don't want to be That Writer, y'know? Am I overthinking this plate of beans?

BTW, today's story does have some antecedents. That one made it all the way to short story status, and is actually under review right now. Further updates on that as they arise.

---

"Three hours!" Onsler groaned. "Why did I even agree to this? I'm no good at parties. I can't even obsess about what to wear because I've only got three outfits. What am I going to do?"

Gremlin's tail lashed thoughtfully. "Can you set it on fire?"

Onsler didn't lift his head from his hands. "No."

"Hit someone in the face?"

"No."

"Hit someone in the face and run?"

"No!"

Gremlin shrugged and flopped onto his back, gnashing his fangs. "Out of ideas."

"You added a new one to the list, I noticed."

Gremlin grinned. "Learning. Much less complicated back home."