# February 2014 - LM - Ten Minutes



## Fin (Feb 1, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread


*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Ten Minutes​



The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*lasm*; *Leyline*; *Folcro*; *Pluralized*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.

Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Friday, the 14th of February at 11:59 PM GMT time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Ghosts of the Maze (Feb 1, 2014)

*"Ten Minutes Late" *Warning: Some swear words.**

“When’d they leave?”
        “10 minutes ago.”
 	Lonnie rubbed the week old scruff on his face.
	“Connie told me she wasn’t driving him up until 4:30.”	
	“I know but, I think he wanted to see you for more than 15 minutes.”
	“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve been meaning to swing by. This summer… it just went by like nothing, you know.”
	Lonnie sighed and leaned against the pillar on the wide front porch. Philip wondered if the grit off his flannel jacket would mark up the white paint that he and Connie had applied earlier that summer. He saw him walking up the street a few minutes ago, and was relieved that Connie had already left with Jessie, but would have felt better if Lonnie had just flaked out and forgotten to show.
	“Listen, do you want to come inside for a minute.”
	Lonnie looked around and nodded.
	“Yeah, don’t see why not for a minute.”
	Lonnie hadn’t been inside in years, and the house looked completely different. New kitchen with an island countertop, new paint, new bathrooms. New hardwood floor in the hallway, new carpeting in the living room. New weatherized windows. New family portraits on the walls. Connie had finally fixed up the fixer-upper. He stepped into the living room before Phillip could tell him to take off his boots, and walked over the stand. He smiled when he saw she kept the old photo from Christmas 15 years ago. He was still in the house, smiling, clean-shaven, holding onto their son like a hostage. It probably killed Connie to hold onto the picture, but she couldn’t throw away the one of her baby boy wrapped in the blue bunny sweater and clip on tie. He didn’t bother to look for another picture. Phillip wouldn’t have allowed more than one exception. 
	“Do you want something to drink?”
	Lonnie walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer.
	“Thanks.”
	Phillip slid out a chair, but watched Lonnie rest against the low-set window frame that overlooked the manicured back lawn. 
	“So how are things?”
	“Good. Good, good, good. Got a spot above the pool hall. It’s nice.”
	“Working?”
	“Yeah. Well no. I’m still waiting to see if I can get a conditional license, but the judge keeps pushing the court date back.”
	Lonnie took a swig and exhaled.
	“Anyway, that could be a good thing. I’m doing all the meetings and shit. And my lawyer says I’ve got a reasonable chance of getting the charges lessened. Hell, who knows, maybe he’ll just drop them.”
	“Well, good luck.”
	“Yeah, thanks. You and Connie doing all right?”
	“Yeah. Work’s good. She’s good. Little bummed about losing Jessie for a few months, but he’ll be back after midterms.”
	“Hey, do you have his dorm number? I might mail him a little something. I’d call and ask him, but I’m out of minutes.”
	“Sure.”
	Lonnie took another long pull from the bottle.
	“I’m really hoping I can get that business with the license wrapped up, so I can get up there and visit him. Maybe get up there for a game. Maybe during Michigan week if I can score tickets.”
	“You know Jessie hasn’t really been into football lately.”
	“What? Since when?”
	“A few years.”
	“Shit. I knew I should have gotten up here earlier. Man.”
	Phillip thought he heard him mutter ‘Fucking Connie’ under his breath.
	“You know, for what it’s worth, I’ll tell him and Connie that you stopped by.”
	Lonnie finished his beer and stroked back his hair.
	“I appreciate that. Ought to surprise the shit out of Connie anyway.”
	Phillip nodded.
	“Well, I’ll be sure to let her know.”
	Lonnie nodded and lifted himself off the window frame and stretched.
	“Anyway, guess I’ll let myself out. Give Jessie my best. Connie too.”
	“You should give him a call. When you buy minutes.”
	“You know I will. Have you got his number?”


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## Potty (Feb 1, 2014)

*Ten Minutes*

  Dr Mitchell looked up from the chart. “I'm afraid the Fugu wasn't prepared properly.”

“So, how long do I have left?”


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## rockoo315 (Feb 3, 2014)

I stood on top of the 54[SUP]th [/SUP]street apartments, hitting golf balls into the beautiful scenery of endless rooftops and wonderfully smelling smog from the cars and factories.  Twelve stories below was a poorly maintained piece of road, laced with metal trash cans, drug dealers, prostitutes, and teenagers ditching school to smoke pot.  This was paradise for a school teacher with a hopeless dream of educating the underprivileged. Every time I struck that golf ball, I prayed some reject would get knocked out.  

The golf club was put down on the ground with a great big sigh being unleashed from my lungs. It was a simple reaction, but was indicative of a far more complex issue.  Right around the corner from today, a simple wake up to tomorrow, would be my anniversary to a woman I'm not sure I loved.  And the fact I referred to Sheryl as a “woman” in my thoughts doesn't support the case of love.  I wasn't going to mind the dinner, which always entailed my favourite dessert of chocolate cake, or the jewellery and low cut dress she would wear.  Sheryl was an attractive woman and often made me overlook the constant nagging and criticisms from her.  She played perfectly into the “Crazy/hot” scale made popular by Neil Patrik Harris on “How I Met Your Mother”.  And that thought gave way to my dilemma.

“I'm only going to last ten minutes in bed with her,” I thought to myself.  Damn!  The one redeeming quality of Sheryl, the one thing holding this marriage together for only ten more years before she turned 40, would give way to my underperforming production in the bedroom.  I tried multiple times learning how to improve my drive.  However, the seemingly reliable sources of porn, bar talk, Youtube, and romance novels failed to yield any measurable improvement from my end.  And the worst part was laying on top of her afterwards and having those devil eyes cast judgement upon my pathetic soul.  

I looked down onto the street and searched for the big Samoan drug dealer that made our apartment entrance his office.  “He seems nice enough.  I wonder if there's such a thing as a sympathy joint?”

Quickly realising what a foolish question that was, I made a quick phone call to an old and reliable friend.  Without allowing the first ring to finish, he picked up the phone.

“Go for Big Mike,” the voice said.

“Hey, stud.  How are you doing,” I asked.  

Big Mike didn't say anything at first.  His heavy breathing and coughing got in the way of a response.  And his run in with a tampered cheese product last week didn't help his already failing health.  The story made the local bar scene, rehashing the accounts of the ambulance driver hearing, “I'm a cartoon character. The show must go on!!!”  

“Well, the PCP the disgruntled employee put in the cheese had me in a high for a long time.  But since coming down, I've been in an even deeper slump.  So, how can I help you kind sir,” Big Mike asked in an almost jovial tone.

“Well, here's the thing,” I said with an instant sigh of relief.  I told Big Mike of my dilemma with Sheryl and asked for any advice.  Big Mike didn't offer any real solutions at first.  But the thing with Big Mike, the quality that had me coming back to him for years, was his ability to talk to me like I was the most important person in the world.  Every time I called, no matter the hour, ended up being a long discussion about anything and everything.  And at the end of the calls, I felt okay with myself and the world.  That's all I needed for today.


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## Fin (Feb 3, 2014)

*A Tale from the Rosewood
Anonymous Entry*​


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## Fin (Feb 3, 2014)

*I'm Not Human
Anonymous Entry*​


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## stephpend (Feb 4, 2014)

The Call


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## InkwellMachine (Feb 5, 2014)

*Devil's Maw*

Ten minutes. Ten minutes howling, hurtling through the dark. That’s how long they told me it takes to reach the bottom of the well. No one knew for certain, of course, but that was their best guess.

         Some people were convinced the well was a tunnel straight to hell, and I guess that’s how we got around to dropping our mischief-makers down there. Others said there was no bottom at all—that it just kept going and going, until whoever’s falling starves to death.

         Personally, I didn’t really feed into all that. I figured it was already as cruel as anything without all the religious nonsense and hoodoo. People make up stories, and not all of them are worth believing.

         That was until I saw my first execution.

         I guess this fellow was caught doing things with his horse best left to a man and wife. I couldn’t care either way what a man does with his animals, long as it doesn’t hurt me any, but the tribunal didn’t see things that way. Maybe they wanted to pull him out of the gene pool before half the village was trying to partner up with their livestock. Or maybe they were more afraid of their god than they were of the guilt. Don’t know. Didn’t ask.

         Like the rest of the crowd, I just stood by and watched them dangle him over the well’s mouth with a cloth over his eyes and a rope around his chest. They spent so long “condemning his heathen soul” that by the time they finally cut the rope it must have been a relief.

           They’d scream on the way down. All of them. They’d scream until they were too far down for us to hear them anymore. The horse-lover was no exception. And when the scream was only an echo we’d all leaned in, waiting for the _crack_ that meant they hit the bottom and died.

         It never came.

         The well was only the beginning of things. The tribunal got so red in the face over pagans and witchcraft and anything that could possibly make someone a “heathen” that they became better killers than leaders. For a while it was only an execution every week, sometimes more. Burning, hanging, beheading—they had a punishment for every crime they could think of, and there were many.

         We were god-fearing folk, but before long it wasn’t god that we were afraid of. There was talk of people being dragged out of their homes in the night. There was no trial, as there had been in the past. We never found out what they did wrong. Instead, we found their bodies on the trees outside of town, arms stretched into a T and nails in their wrists.

         There was blood. More and more of it all the time. People had started barring their doors at night. Some left town. I remember laying awake, listening to some little girl scream and cry as her mother was taken from her.

         And at the center of it all was the well. The Devil’s black maw.

         I was with the men the night they decided that they were more angry than afraid. We all figured it wasn’t god’s will that we should die for crimes we didn’t commit, and we agreed that it needed to end. So there, in the wee hours of the morning, we dragged the tribunal and their men out to the center of the village.

         We bound them up, covered their eyes, and condemned them to hell the way they’d done over and over. They didn’t fight us. One of them even wept.

         Ten minutes. Ten minutes I waited, even after their howling had ended, even after everyone had gone to back to their homes.

         And I could swear, leaning over the lip of the well, that I heard the faint sound of bones cracking between teeth.


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## thepancreas11 (Feb 5, 2014)

*THE LAST HUMAN*​ (649 words)

http://www.writingforums.com/threads/144699-February-2014-LM-Ten-Minutes-Workshop?p=1697544&viewfull=1#post1697544


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## M. Cull (Feb 9, 2014)

[h=2]The End[/h] 				   						 						 							 						 				 					 						"I'm so sorry, Mr. Wallace." The doctor's eyes are sad as he  looks at me, and I can tell that he's done everything he could even  before he says it. I look over at the bundle of wires, tubes and  blankets, and my eyes fill up with silent tears. Again. 

_No_. I shake my head and clench my fists. There has to be...but  even as that thought tries to live, tries to burn in my mind, cold  reality crushes it.

"Is she in a lot of pain?" I ask, keeping my voice as neutral as I can.  Neutral, like I'm asking if the forecast calls for rain. She can see me,  life support equipment notwithstanding. If I break now...

"No, the morphine is managing. But it won't be long, and she'll be in so much pain that she'll probably fall unconscious."

"And after that?" I ask, still trying to ask about the weather, not  about the woman of my dreams dying on the other side of the glass.

"After that..." the doctor hesitates as he looks into my eyes, then drops his gaze. "After that she won't wake up."

"I see." I say, and my throat seizes. My lips twitch with the effort of  not bawling outright. For the thousandth time I wonder how in the world  it came to this. And like all those other times, I come up empty.  There's no reason. None at all.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to take one last look at her results. I’ll come inform you as soon as I have any more information.”

If I say anything, I feel like I might break. So instead, I just nod,  and try to swallow the watermelon-sized lump in my throat. With a quiet  click, the doctor’s gone, and it’s just me. Me and my memories of a  better time.

Spring is her favorite season. She told me that when we first met,  during finals week. Both of us needed an excuse not to study for our  biology final, so we just started talking about life. We’d never met  before, but the connection was instant. And complete. Springtime of the  year after that found us on our honeymoon – camping in the Rockies. I  smile despite myself, despite the agony. She loved being outdoors almost  more than anything else.

Her favorite movies, strangely enough, are all about city life. John Q,  Stand and Deliver, Lean on Me…never anything about the outdoors. She  told me once that for her, movies are her chance to touch ways of life  she’d never live herself, to experience the slums of LA with the comfort  of an eventual ending that leads back to real life again. After a while  I started to see things her way.

She’s never insisted on that, though, seeing everything her way. In  fact, she's always open to let me see things my own way as long as I  felt like it. What I discovered after a few years of being married to  her, though, was that her way really was usually smarter. It’s never  been easy to admit that, of course, but she doesn’t insist on that  either. Just a genius waiting patiently and graciously for the rest of  the world to catch up. I still don’t think I’ve caught up, but I still  love that about her.

Then it all changed. She got sick all the sudden. At first it was just  little stuff, headaches and nausea, far enough apart that neither of us  really thought much of it. But we were so wrong.

I look through the glass at my wife. I can’t quite tell, but it seems like she’s trying to smile at me. That’s just like her.

Just then the door clicks, and the doctor walks in. His face is grim. “Mr. Wallace? I’m afraid the results aren’t good.”

“How long, doctor?” I ask, steeling myself.

“You have ten minutes.”​


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## midnightpoet (Feb 10, 2014)

Ten minutes

                 Word count:641



The vampires hung out on street corners, fangs bared.  The solids drove by in their Fords and Buicks, hollow eyes staring straight ahead, sweat beading on their foreheads.  The foggy air rolled in on soft shoulders, smelling of rot and dead fish. Boats in the nearby river sounded throaty whistles. People rolled down ice-slick sidewalks, stepping carefully over the street guys wrapped in blankets.  Shamu glanced at his watch.  Ten minutes to two.      He cradled the silver plated .44 magnum pistol as if it were a small child.  His hard belly hung heavy over a pair of red and navy blue jogging pants. 

Ten minutes to kill time.  His job was to take out the Beast, the most dangerous man on the street. The Beast liked to do his drug deals in the afternoon.  Two o’clock was his favorite.  The cops didn’t bother him, they knew better. Despite the cold, sweat poured down his back and legs.
He rubbed the skull-head tattoo with his fingers. The gang banger insignia had long, sharp fangs that protruded from the bony jaw.  His mates had already vanished.  Even they were afraid, but Shamu stood his ground.  He knew that the Beast had killed his mama, and he hated the man with all his passion.  The crowd began to clear.  He remembered the last time someone crossed the Beast.  The man was found cut to pieces in a back alley, right behind the police station. The Beast wasn’t afraid to make a point. 

Then he saw him. He didn’t know if he had the courage to pull the trigger. Others had tried, and all they got for their troubles was a hole in the ground.  He peered around the corner of the alley where he was hidden and watched the Beast walk toward him.  He was a big man, although not as tall, and swayed as he walked like he was on the deck of a ship. Shamu smelled the trash in the alley, rotting fruit and places where dudes had pissed on the faded brick walls.  A hard wind rose and rain drops like icicles mixed with snow.  Shamu clicked back the hammer, muffling the sound by doing it under his coat.  The beast was almost on him.    

The hammer caught in Shamu’s coat. He tried to disengage the weapon.  Too late, he felt the Beast’s knife thrust plunge into his hard belly. He grabbed at his attacker’s arm as he fell back against the side of the building. He saw the Beast’s grim smile as he plunged the knife again and again before Shamu got off the first shot.  The blast rang in his ears as he fired again and he dropped the gun and grabbed the Beast by the throat. Shamu felt hot and cold at the same time and the pain in his guts weakened his body but not his resolve.  The two men locked in a deadly embrace as they fell to the cold concrete.  The knife made one more plunge.    

Shamu grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted with all of his strength.  He heard a crack and the knife fell to the pavement.  They rolled over it, each man choking the other, each trying to end the other’s life. Shamu’s hand slapped the icy ground as he scrambled for the Beast’s knife. He found it. With all the anger he could muster he plunged the instrument into the neck of the Beast. He heard a gurgle as he thrust again and again. The Beast was finally silent.

Shamu had trouble breathing without choking.  He felt dizzy, and vomit rose in his chest as he fell to the ground beside the Beast. As life ebbed from his giant frame he gently put his hand around the hand of the Beast and said one word as life left his body.
“Papa.”


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## Fin (Feb 10, 2014)

*Ten Minutes
Language Warning
Anonymous Entry​*


 It is bad enough that I have to squander my valuable time slaving for a pittance when I could be wasting it in my own way. I have only so much life and I'd rather spend it writing. It is galling that some idiot keeps carving ten minutes off it just for their own entertainment.  


 This cretin has a lovely working day, far from the boss's failing eyesight. He has been reported dozens of times for slacking, personal abuse and worse, but modern management seems to be hamstrung by over regulation and frontal lobotomies.  


 My co-worker, no, the non-worker that everyone hates has taken into his tiny mind that hiding things is a great way of reducing his boredom levels. My mug being a prime example, come tea break it takes me ten minutes to find it.


 Additional: Mr R. Sole has taken a few days leave, so I cleared all the debris from around his work station and found his mug, also a stack of pornographic magazines, a mobile phone and some other bits and pieces. When some of my co-workers spotted me hiding his mug they decided to join in. His magazines had their pages glued together and then got placed plain view. The mobile spent ten minutes in the microwave and then  was hidden. Everything else got squirreled away in difficult to reach places. Everyone seems remarkably happy.


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## Dictarium (Feb 12, 2014)

I Honestly Can't Think of a Title that Doesn't Sound Overly Pretentious

560 words​


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## Pidgeon84 (Feb 12, 2014)

Oslo (Heavy religious content)

Oslo

  “Alright, light it up. We have 10 minutes to watch before somebody shows up.” Whispered Kristian even though no one was around for miles. The smell of gasoline thick in the air, and their clothes.

  “Are we really gonna do this?” asked Erik, sounding scared and excited at the same time. 

  “You’re not getting flaky are you?” asked Kristian.


  “Nah man, just seems so crazy to actually be doing it.” Eric stated wistfully.  In the back Thomas stood nervous, shivering in the cold. He thought about running into the expansive forest behind him but didn’t want to seem weak to the others. He looked out suspiciously on the expanse. Around the boys laid a beautiful land open space in the middle of a dark Norwegian forest. Snow on the ground and frost on the tress certainly set the mood for the night. However, in the middle of this clearing stood a beautiful building. Hundreds of years old. As truly a gorgeous building it was, but the boys despised it, abhorred everything it stood for. Everything it stood on. It laid on top of Nordic holy site. The history the boys felt so connected to was defiled by its presence. Erik emptied out the red plastic can and tossed it back at Kristian. 

  “It’s ready.” Said Erik. This statement made Thomas’ heart pound in his throat. He really didn’t want to be there. The other two looked back at him and saw his concern.

  “You okay back there?” asked Kristian. “You’re sweating off you’re corpse paint.” They used it as sort of war paint as those who had inspired them wore it.

  “What? Yeah. I’m good. Just burn the damn thing down and let’s get out of here.” He wiped his forehead of sweat and his makeup came off on his hand. 

  “Alright, you heard him.” Kristian signaled Erik. Erik smiled and walked up to the church with his match book. Quickly he laid lit matches at the wall of the church. Turning the corner and dropping the rest making sure not to be too slow as it would spell disaster for him, and surely the others when police asked what happened. The grass that shadowed the building lit ablaze and moved in towards the building. When all the matches were down he ran back. He and Kristian gazed upon what they had done. They reveled in their as it warmed their faces. Up and up, the old wooden building was just kindling. The smell of gas was drowned out by the smell of campfire. They stepped back as the smoke began to burn their eyes. Meanwhile, Thomas didn’t know what to feel. He began to hyperventilate and as the smoke cleared the tree line he decided it was time to leave. He sprinted into the forest as fast he could. Erik and Krisitian looked back at him and Kristian scoffed. 
  “I knew he would.” Said Kristian. 

  “He’s just a kid man, take it easy on him.” Erik said defending him. “He’s only 15 after all.” 4 years junior to the other two. 

  “Whatever man, as long as he doesn’t squeal.”

  “I’ll talk to him later. For now, just take in the glory. Tonight, the Nords take it back.” Erik said proudly. The boys watched as the fire reached the top and their pride came to a climax as the effigy at the top of the church lit ablaze. They had more time but they had seen all they needed to see. Watching the tower fall to ruin was their crowning achievement.


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## Fin (Feb 13, 2014)

*The Question
Anonymous Entry*​


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## J Anfinson (Feb 14, 2014)

Something Natural - 633 Words


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## TheWriteStuff (Feb 14, 2014)

*Trading Disruptions*​


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## ppsage (Feb 14, 2014)

*Ten Minutes on the Weyline with Sheila: Tangl3, a synoptic tale.*
"Do the research!" Luke 1:1-4​
Poised for a daring jump into the Empty Quadrant, Galactic Trader Joe Stone begs of the ship adjunct sentience, "Sheila sweet, my valor seems low. Send me once more on the Weyline, for old times’ sake."

"Time is indeed pluralized," says Sheila, "but _oldness_ does not compute, on any axis. What destination pleases our ship's biological? Perhaps Oz, to find a heart?" 

The supraluminal vessel, which partners a Trader, is a tentative bubble poised in ordinary space. Sarcasm from the interface never bodes well.

"The heart of the matter is Terra," says Joe. "Send me to the Shrine of Transcendence, in the Desert of Burning Soul." 

****************

Because the bubble forms an interface section, where Sheila's 6d penetrates Joe's 4d, Weylines are tempted near. Also, in empty space, even tiny gravity wells attract. "Of course," Sheila says, "the only _real _mass here, is Trader carcass." 

She finds a nearby Weyline and inserts Joe. 

"Riding the Weytrain beats a sliming hands down," exclaims Joe, who prefers always the narrow view. Sheila sometimes immerses him wholly, in her timeless prescience; he calls this _getting slimed._

****************************

The desert station manifests as an elegant, enlightenment-era salon. Montesquieu (1689-1755), draped in a red toga, sits portrait in a corner—he gesticulates nonetheless: a difficult anachronism decrying honor’s decline. Mademoiselle de Scudéry (1607-1701), the renowned salonnière and putative Stone progenitor, approaches. She has herself popped out of a court painting, in spit curls and fulsome décolleté and wearing blue stockings.

"Just call me Sheila," she says, extending for kneeling smooch, a jeweled finger. "I suppose you're here to see the shrine? Or are you _les intellectuel errant?"_

The bubble rocks a bit; Weyline parallels flair. The infinity of channels appears overhead, like fibers in a tube. Joe tightropes just the one. He doesn't stare, and he keeps his mind empty. The ceiling closes back in.

"A small shock, Mlle," explains Joe. "You reminded me of someone. But yes, the shrine. And I don't have a lot of time. My ride goes pretty fast."

*************************

Outside is desert plain, with circling rim-rock and stratiform clouds banding cowboy-indigo sky. Crepuscular rays—such as demigods climb to Valhalla—highlight a massive, golden brick.

"The first bymytheum, from which all supraluminal flowed," quotes Mlle Sheila. She's become a khaki park-ranger, with Mountie hat and modest bust. "Excretion of the Philosopher and as scorching of meta-physicians as original fire. Initial fuel, for all Galactic Drives."

As they approach the brick, it's magnificence diminishes with each step and they are quickly looking at something of ordinary proportions, albeit sparkling a bit. 

"Excreted from the transcending body of the Philosopher," repeats Joe, who's a bit disappointed not to sense his supposed ancestor. "Still, looks somewhat big. Even for demigod droppin's."

Mlle Sheila is bored with her guest. "My husband's dying," she says, "in ten minutes, and my baby after that. Can't you hurry up with your foolishness?" She's got tits again, popping out of a silver evening sheath. Condolences could get pretty sweaty, thinks Joe. I wonder what Philosopher Stone would do? 

There's really no question, for the Philosopher never misses a trick. Joe's of weaker stuff.

********************

While Joe's away, Sheila's rearranged the cabin. Back to a P. I. office in noir L. A. He punches the bulky intercom. "Any messages?"

"Usual stuff," says a deep, sexy voice. Female, needless to say. "Oh, box came—from a Mr. Wizard? About a heart?"

Outlined in the door's frosted glass, the specter of lost companion-ship. The inner sanctum portal opens, and the new holo-skin interface enters. A woman, taller than Joe. Very thin. Wearing wool. Grey hair pinned in back. Sheila, at her most didactic.

Joe sighs. "Forget the heart," he says. "We'll take the Empty Quad job. Make the jump."


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## godofwine (Feb 14, 2014)

No Justice - By Godofwine (648 Words)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...tes-Workshop?p=1700350&viewfull=1#post1700350


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## Fin (Feb 14, 2014)

*Ten Minutes 
Anonymous Entry
Language Warning*​


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