The February Assignment

[James]

FEBRUARY ASSIGNMENT

And we're live! For the first time in five years, the Monthly Assignment is back. For more information about the return of the assignment, please read here:

awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/5003/return-assignment

This first assignment is going to be organised and judged by myself. Future assignments will be led by different people with different formats. For now, though, I'm going to keep the February Assignment simple. Here is how it's going to work:

- You have the entire month to write a story; the end of the month is the deadline.
- I'm looking for short stories. I don't want flash fiction or novellas. As such, the story need to be somewhere in between 1,500-10,000 words.
- You post your story in this thread. Don't post anything else. Head to the discussion thread if you have a question.
- The story must be based on the month's topic.
- As judge, I'm not going to use a numerical score basis. Instead, I'm just going to provide feedback and then declare the winner for February.

The February Assignment's topic is: Thinking Person's Speculative Fiction.

What does that mean? It's actually quite simple. What I don't want are fluffy, fun stories devoid of meaning or boring stories which are vehicles to push a message.

I want entertaining genre stories, whether they're sci-fi, fantasy, horror, or some off-shoot, or some mixture of several genres. I want to be entertained. However, I also want the stories to actually say something. I want them to tackle some sort of idea, theme or issue. I want you to make me think and feel.

[Sekot]

Cold.

Breath filmed upwards, twirling lazily in the dry air. His nostrils flared with each exhalation, clouds expelled outwards. His gaze bored a hole through the closed elevator door as it ascended countless floors. Patience came slowly, if at all. He flexed his fingers, uncomfortable gloves constricting his movement. Shrugging his shoulders, he felt the heavy coat grate against his skin. A tinny voice spoke in his ear.

Now approaching Level One. Government identification required.

He looked up. Lights above the door blinked in sequence. Countdown. He pulled his coat tighter about him, taking in a deep breath. Tension rose with anticipation in the elevator as the other passengers prepared. All five lights blinked together. The elevator came to a stop and the feeling of near-weightlessness ceased. He felt heavy in his seat after hours of travel, his muscles aching as he forced himself to stand.

A few spoke but many remained silent. They filed together, waiting. Without a sound, the doors slid quickly open. A burst of warm air filtered in, humid and loud. His breath disappeared, the dry ache in his chest replaced with a sticky thickness. They all filed out into the bustling body traffic of the Tower. His privacy shade adjusted, muting many of the conversations and muddling his features.

Welcome to Level One, Government Quarter. Please produce your government identification when requested. Curfew is strictly enforced, please pay attention to your allotted time.

A clock counting down appeared in the corner of his vision. A request for his ID pinged just beneath it. With a thought, he offered up the necessary documents. The timer shifted, his time decreased. An accept pinged back. He caught more than a few stares from dignitaries, officials, police, and scripters, lingering judgments sketched on their unshaded faces. He suddenly became self conscious of the coat he wore, of the shoes and pants. These others, above, wore colors and layers comfortably. Their hair was extravagance. His coat was black, his shoes brown. His hair hadn’t been combed, lacked the affectation of chaos so many chose to simulate the empty gravity of space. He did his best to ignore them..

Above him, the Father cast its orange-red light through the expansive glass ceiling. Mixing with the lamps of the Tower itself, everything appeared in an odd shade, much like dried blood. The gas giant loomed, consuming most of the skyline. He felt wary underneath its presence, refusing to look up at it and the tumultuous storms that marked its surface. Ever angry, ever watchful.

He stopped walking, finding himself in the center of a plaza. Others wound their way around him much like a river would a rock. The floor was marbled. Gold was laid within the whites and swirling blacks, glittering like firelight. He bent down, removing a glove so that he could touch the lines with bare fingers. Warmth came back, melted up his fingertips and rising through his hand. The floors were heated. A strange sensation that mixed with the cold air. The closer you came to heaven, the less you could rely on one’s body for comfort, he remembered from the old stories they told him as a boy. The cold reminded them of the Father’s gaze, of their closeness. The man yearned for the warmth of the claustrophobic streets below.

He pressed his palm against it, ignoring the not so muted mutterings of annoyed passersby. He glanced at their shoes, at metallic boots and prosthetic feet. Many were intricately decorated, impeccably crafted, and incredibly delicate. A thick lump swelled in his throat as he rose. A warmth spreading in his body, in his blood, that was not from the floor. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he grasped the small device.

He looked up at the Father, swallowed his fear and stared hard at it. The first of the Five Sisters just began to crest the horizon. Soon they would bear witness. Let the Father watch, let Him judge. These others paid so little attention, cared so little for the object of their worship. His gaze shifted downward, out and across the expansive city that stretched the world. No piece of earth left to set a foot upon. A World of Lights. Home.

Was it his home, he wondered, or theirs?

The device felt heavy even as it fit in his closed fist. He moved his fingers along its smooth surface, tapping in a particular sequence. He let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and shutting out the sounds of the square. It was done.

The First Sister, called Mother, flared. The Father blurred. The Tower faded. There was a wail, a solitary tone. A call made to the faithful for prayer. It became cacophonous, terrifying as his world closed around him. A heaviness settled in his chest. The crowd stilled, turned their faces upward. Acidic tears stung his eyes. He lowered his head, wanted to fall but found himself one with the floor.

He had become stone, petrified. Those nearest him had little to no time. Many froze in place, others had only begun to turn. Silent, without smell, the ripples of the chemical wave tore through the air. A slow quiet settled on the square, only pierced by the chiming bell. But as the call fell silent, screams became its echo. The crowd turned to run, but too many had dwelled for too long. They took their place. Some with heads still raised, penitent statues, while others became permanent reminders of terror, their faces contorted.

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The syringe pulled back. Thick viscous fluid seeped into the vacuum, filling the container to the required measurement. The syringe was dispensed to him. His fingers closed around it, flinging the cap off with a gesture.

“You’ve done this before right?” the patient asked with a neutral smile.

He smiled back at her briefly before turning away, putting on the best face despite the shouts and screams coming from the rooms around them. Lights flickered. A momentary pause in the chaos as staff, patients, and family held their collective breath in anticipation. But still they remained on, and activity resumed to its frantic pace. He had kept his attention on the syringe, checking for imperfections in the mixture.

He turned back to his patient. She was missing a small chunk of her arm. Lacerations danced across her chest. Her breathing was quick, shallow, her skin warm and clammy. “This will help with the pain,” he offered to her as he bent down to connect the syringe with the intravenous line.

“You know, up there, hospitals have pills for this.”

He did not look at her, instead keeping track of how quickly he pushed the medication through, “Yes, well, down here we’re still a little bit behind.”


He looked up and met her stare. He was sure, to her, he looked haggard and worn out. He had not had a shower in about a day or two, his hair stuck in many different directions. His clothes were stained and bloodied. It had been a busy week.

Basilisk Bomb….suicide….Hundreds turned….riot...rebels…

The holos were nonstop. Several were visible from the hallway from patients lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to have rooms. All were on just one channel. Around the clock information about the bombing and the subsequent security response. He hadn’t time to think about it. Not when so many victims of that retaliation lay dead or dying in just this hallway alone. Though, after time, their panicked voices became white noise. No different from the victims of the mining accidents, or victims of drunken assaults, falls, or whatever else found its way below.

“How terrible…” she said.

The syringe had emptied itself, but he took a pause. He wanted to say something.

“Don’t you think? Just awful, those poor people turned to stone. I couldn’t imagine.”

He felt her looking at him, waiting for him to agree with her. He placed the syringe on the car next to the bed before looking back. Cold eyes. Metal eyes. Replacements for the supposedly weaker organic versions. Too often eyes were the first to get replaced, more required for the social ladder than their actual effectiveness.

“What brought you down?” he asked. “Pretty unfortunate timing, I’m sorry to see you here like this.”

She waved her hand and smiled, “Business. We have contracts with the mining cooperatives. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hell, if you just wanna get me a few more of those pain meds, I can make it back above and be good as new.”

Her voice was light, cheerful. She had not a care in the world, even as her body appeared otherwise. The pain meds were more courtesy, he gathered, than anything else. He doubted she felt a thing, even before this had all happened. Her smile was unwavering, contagious. Despite the sounds around them, he couldn’t help but share in her attitude. His smile became as genuine as hers.

He patted her on the arm and pushed the cart to the side as he was about to leave. But she grasped his arm with her good hand, her grip stronger than he had realized. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He paused. Looked at her arm, then up at her. Her short hair and strong cheekbones made her look masculine, her thin lips and immaculate teeth almost predatory. “Its been awful, all of it. I wish none of it had happened,” he answered.

She let go, “Well, I think the response is more than justified.”

“If we’re catching innocent people like you, don’t you think these attacks are more than a little strong? I mean, there’s one thing about making sure force is recognized, but this is more reckless retaliation than anything.” The words surprised him, his heart pacing a little too quickly. He felt a tremor in his hands as he busied himself cleaning up trash.

“Like I said, wrong place, wrong time. We have to keep us safe from these terrorists, who knows where they may strike next?!.”


He hesitated, wanting to question that comment. Which us was she talking about? His mouth opened for a moment then shut just as quickly. But he caught it, “You don’t agree, do you?”

“Its not that…”

“Then what is it?”

He chewed on his lip.

“Rave, are you a sympathiser?”

The tone was half mocking, half serious. He felt on edge, his hands had stopped shaking. There was a weird quiet that had fallen in the hall, the screams having been momentarily silenced. Alarms beeped their incessant song, screens flickered and danced myriad bits of data above every bed. Except his, the screen had gone blank. He didn’t remember turning it off. And his tone, the name spoken in a way that had stopped him. He grew cold. Body adjusting to minute changes, sensitive to new stimuli as adrenaline poured into him.

“How do you know my name?” Rave asked, voice flat. He gripped the cart, staring at the tools arrayed in front of him.


“Its on your nametag, isn’t it?”


He looked down at the collar of his shirt where it would normally have hung. If he hadn’t forgotten about it.

Rave didn’t look at him….her? Then he did. The confusion on Rave’s face plain. It had been a subtle change, structure and form melting to a uniquely pleasant one for him. The same metal eyes but somehow different. Harder. Wanting. False desire written upon their chrome surface, a dreammask of want painted over an all too observant creature. All at once the picture faded, and he wondered how he had missed it.

“The reports were right, insurgents hiding in places of healing. Your given name, your real Name: Nekolayv, No Family. Served in Her Highness’ service for…,” their eyes blinked once, “five years.”

The words were enriched with purpose in the heavy, mind numbing way all evocations went from shifters. Rave shivered, his thoughts coming to sudden dead-ends.

“Using...the sick as hostages, as a front for your organization. Who would have guessed?” they said, rising from the bed and dangling from the side. Body poised efficiently, ready to strike.

Their eyes bored into him, their attention weighing him in place. The features flickered oddly, the face becoming many for a moment before settling once more into that which they deemed he found most sexually enticing. A part of him struggled, a strange sense of dysphoria that came with these close encounters. They had caught him unaware. He would not make that mistake again.

They smiled, “Calculating avenues of escape. I am sorry to say but there are not many.”

The lights flickered again. Their eyes glowed fiery neon. Their assessment of him far too accurate for his liking.

“That was an amusing trick you all pulled in the Tower. Foolish, but amusing. Tell me, do you think you’ll get them on your side, in the end? By killing innocents, will you topple Her Highness and her floated crown?”

“We don’t do it for them,” Rave managed to speak, his mind finally working.

“Do you believe your desired end justifies your terrible means?”


“With no hope for an end, does it matter what are our means? We wage war.”

“War? You are fools. This is no war. You sit amongst your dust, amongst your filth, and become jealous of those who are closest to the Father. You wallow in shit and seek to drag us all down into hell with you.”

“Fuck your Father, the Sisters, all of it.”

He had grown angry. His hands had been drawn into fists. But even in their wounded state, they could move faster than him. He wondered briefly how he had missed the signs. The lack of blood from the amount and size of the lacerations. An abnormal parasympathetic response. Their face had changed right in front of him!

The lights flickered again. This time they did not turn back on. Screams echoed through the hallway as air filters and conditioners fell silent. A stillness settled in the air which had become very dry. Their eyes were bright, but there was a hesitancy in them. They searched frantically. Rave grabbed the syringe from the cart and dove at them. Though they were stronger, faster, they could still be caught unaware. The needle bore its way through the socket and bone and pierced the hybrid brain.

They screeched, pushed him away. Flying backwards, he landed hard on the counter behind him and then over it. He gasped as the air was compressed from his lungs, choking on the fine layer of dust on the floor. Rave lay there for a moment, listening. The shifter screamed, more in rage than pain, and was moving frantically. Feet kicked overturned supplies, papers and trash that had been left in a rush. Staff and patients alike shouted for help. They had thought they were safe here, that they would never openly assault a hospital even in the down.

He was wrong. Gritting his teeth, he slipped into combat meditation as easily as if he were still a spacewalker. The aug-eyes activated. A sensation of pulling and pressure caused his eyes to burn and itch. The pupils adjusted, the retina transformed, and in the pitch black of the lightless ward he could see. It was a gradient of greys, a difference in shadows, but he could see shapes and could make a path. His thoughts narrowed, became singular in the autistic trance. A goal manifested itself from the depths, rising as an ash and lava spewing mountain out of the sea of identity and multi-awareness. A path.

He ran. Somewhere he was aware of the pop of projectile weapons, of the hum of plasma bolts. Lights flashed around corners, more screams. He ducked between doors, around hallways, through ducts and cavities. The hospital was behind him, but still he wove his way through the labyrinthine construction of buildings that marked Below. They had come, swift and sure. The image was retrieved as perfect recall, a glancing sight of dark body armor against light grey wall. A death’s head grinning out of the shadows as it took notice of his passage. An arm, a hand, pointing in his direction. The Novaguard, Her personal army.

Rave stopped. Chest heaving, muscles in strange places burning. He had come out onto a sidestreet. A fire burned brightly just outside another door, casting shadows onto the tightly pressed facades of the mismatched constructs. Homes and businesses, indistinguishable from one another, sat on and in each other in a mockery of a civil engineer’s greatest nightmare. The light from the flame caused his eyes to ache. He turned away from it, allowing his body to calm and aug-parts to revert back to a more natural state.

Turning back, he noticed others standing around the flame that he had missed. They looked back, unmoving, watching. Covered in soot and grime, various body mods sticking out awkwardly from underneath ill-fitted clothing. One man’s horn reflected the light as purple rays that danced like tiny dots across his face. The man nodded his head at Rave in acknowledgment before returning to the conversation the small group had shared before the interruption.

His nose tickled with the acrid stench of burning building material. The air was slowly thickening with it, a soft haze filter sliding across his vision. The others around the fire looked up, stopped talking. Without a word they gathered their things and left. Accustomed to the presence of dangerous things, they, like animals of old, knew when to leave. It struck Rave, suddenly, how quiet everything was. In his haste, he had not been able to pay attention. The normally bustling sounds of below were replaced by a silence. The white noise of airfreshners was not there. His heart began to race.

Taking a moment, he looked upward. Only a few emergency lamps still worked, their meager light unable to pierce the shadows that lay like clouds below the ceiling of the level. Retaliation had been expected, this endless dance they had with above was nothing new, but not like this. This was extreme, even for them.

Where was he? No obvious landmarks visible in the darkness. The haze was steadily growing thicker, a fire raged from the direction he had come. This level would burn quickly, the units too close and too flammable. Without airfreshners to filter out the smoke and provide much needed oxygen, they would suffocate, smothered so far beneath the roof of the world. As if to emphasize his thoughts, an alarm began. One solemn, singular wail loudly echoed to signal an evacuation. As quickly as it had begun, however, it was cut short. The line severed, a final nail hammered.

He slumped against a wall, slid to his knees. He squeezed his fists tight, his eyes shut to fight back the tears. His body suddenly felt very heavy, very weak. Shaky, muscles burning, he leaned his head back and once more looked upward.

Are we the bad guys?

A voice rose unbidden out of his memory. He slammed a fist into the ground, pain arcing through his knuckles and up his wrist. He had to go, he couldn’t stay here any longer. Pushing himself up, Rave tore at the bottom of his shirt. He wrapped the strip around his nose and mouth, the dust and smoke becoming irritating to his mucous membranes. Running through the streets, he kept his gaze focused where the buildings met street.

He had only to run a few blocks before he saw it. A piece of graffiti, innocuous amongst the sprawling scribbles that marked nearly every free surface. He knew what to look for, though, and once found he could follow the path it marked. The end destination was an abandoned delivery shaft, a column of ancient freight elevators that connected various levels. This one had been repurposed elsewhere, this level no longer able to produce the material to require multiple such shafts. This was converted, no longer in the service of freight but of special use to his resistance group.

He keyed in the code, doors sliding open to let him through. The air had become unbearably thick with smoke, the light of the fires dying to embers as oxygen levels grew grossly depleted. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath. His head swam, dizzy. The final door lay open, a lightless carriage waiting patiently. Rave fell inward, collapsing on the floor. The doors slid shut behind him. He reached upward, slammed his palm on a button. Slowly he slipped into a dreamless sleep as the elevator pulled him upward.

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“Are we the bad guys?”

A laugh.

“What?”


“Uh, hah, no? I mean...no? Why would you ask that?”

A head talked on a screen. Inoffensive clothes, plain but well-dressed. Unobtrusive. Words he had heard a thousand times before spoken in a neutral, but unequivocally above, accent. News. Updates. More attacks.

“I dunno.”

Rave looked up at the man he was cradled against. His head rested on the other’s chest, the slow rise and fall with every breath a warm comfort. His hand brushed against his upper thigh, but the man did not appear interested in the tease. His gaze stared at the newscaster, but it was obvious to Rave that he was not listening. He recognized that far-off look.

“That’s not like you, you know better than that,” Rave said.

“Do I?”

With a sigh, Rave pushed himself up so that he had a better look. “Maze, look at me.”

Maze did not look.

“Look at me, what’s gotten into you?”

“I’m not sure if I like what we’re doing.”

“We went to one meeting, we haven’t actually done anything!”

“Yet.”

Rave leaned forward and placed a brief peck on Maze’s cheek, “Hey, look at me. You know as well as I do there’s no such thing as a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ guy. This world sucks, we’ve got to do what we can. Otherwise we’re nothing, worse than nothing.”

This time Maze did turn away from the screen. Rave wished he hadn’t. The stare from those black-brown eyes shamed him somewhat. The innocence of his original question belying the mind that had asked it. A period of silence. Rave’s lips became a thin line as he slowly grew frustrated. “I’m not as sure as you are,” Maze finally responded. “A lot of innocent people are being hurt.”

Rave sat up, his face contorting as he tried desperately not to scowl. “Are any of them innocent? As innocent as our parents were, or the non-families we grew up with? We’re--”

“Products of a new kind of slavery, yeah, I get it.”

“Do you?!” Rave said, louder than he meant to. “Do you get it? We’re all slaves in all but name, required to work our lives away chasing some impossible dream of economic emancipation. How many of us have actually seen the Father? Yet we still worship the fucking planet as if it could really see through all the layers of shit and steel.”

“I do get it,” Maze bit back, drawing his body to the opposite end of the couch so that they were no longer touching. “I get that shit sucks right now, but that doesn't excuse what they’re doing! I’m not...a murderer, I don’t want this to be about killing random people just to get back at Her. I…”

Rave saw the tears, the disconcerted look on his face. There was a frantic look to Maze. Legs drawn up, arms hugging them close to his chest. Eyes wide. Practically shaking. “I...can’t do that, I…”


He moved fast, sliding over until he was practically on top of Maze, and leaned in to kiss him. Their lips met and only the words from the screen made any sound. Rave drew back, the pair focusing only on the other. Rave felt a wetness on his cheeks, was unsure if they were his own tears or that of his lover. A solitary lamp was all that was required to light the cramped space they called home. Their couch that was also their bed, large enough to fit three and they were cramped together in a corner. Maze was a ghost, flesh pale as it contrasted harshly with his dark eyes and darker hair. Thin. Stronger of the two. He cupped Rave’s cheek in his hand, his fingers cold as they brushed against him.

“You were in the navy, you’ve got this whole other side of you I’ve never seen. I...I’ve never left Home,” Maze smiled, together they shared a laugh. “I’m not cut out to be a revolutionary.”

Rave moved his head and kissed Maze’s palm, “You don’t have to be, if you don’t want to.”

Maze leaned forward, pushing Rave onto his back. They kissed again, for longer this time and with more passion. “As you like to tell me, I don’t really have a choice. Do I, Nicky?”

Rave rolled his eyes at the mention of his boyhood name. “You chose this for me, remember?”


Maze kissed him again, his cold hands reached up underneath Rave’s shirt and, finding warmth, rested there. “I do remember,” he said, voice quiet. “I remember you running naked through the streets like fuckin’ crazy, screaming and hollering and causing a shitstorm. You deserved that nickname.”

“That shitstorm ain’t gonna be nothin’ after I’m done.”


“Just promise me we’ll make it home every night?”

There was that innocent voice again, the question childish even for him. Rave kissed his nose.

“Of course.”

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He woke screaming. He felt his hand around something. Something soft. He let go, heard coughing. Pushing himself out of his pillow, he sat up. Every sense was on full alert. The room smelled of sex, of sweat, of unwashed sheets. A breeze came from an overhead fan that cooled his clammy skin. He wore no clothes and neither did she. Her top half lay exposed as she rubbed her throat, her expression flat. “You’re awake,” she said.

He ignored her, instead stepping out of the bed. There was a window on one wall that stretched from floor to ceiling. He stepped over to it, looked out. Home stretched outward, forever. Spires rose from the darkness beneath the world, blurry lines of shining light marked with few boundaries as they all began to bleed together. Traffic swarmed in imaginary queues. The Father had not yet risen, the Five Sisters performing their little turn across the night sky, the Fifth not quite above the horizon.

“Come back to bed,” she said.

Again he ignored her, picking up a pair of underwear from the floor and hurriedly putting them on. He stepped out of the dark room and into an expansive living space. She did not follow. Three faces looked up at him simultaneously, nodding before returning to the work of cleaning their weapons. A faint tsk tsk tsk came from the kitchen.

“I’ve told them once, I’ve told them a thousand times, cleaning one’s weapons is best done where oil does not get all over everything.”

A wraith floated from the kitchen, face cast in shadow for the majority of the light came from the backlit kitchen. “You’re awake!” the wraith cooed. “Come, let us get you something to drink.”


A thin hand was offered to him and he took it. The pair re-entered the kitchen where a strong smell assaulted Rave. Spice, rich, decadence. It made his stomach turn. “Poor baby must still be sensitive, you had quite the night.”


Now under brighter lighting, the host appeared less incorporeal. Still thin, tall, dressed in black. Soft features smiled back at him. A knowing eye silently laughed at him.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Well...what did not happen, is a better question. You partied a little hard.”

“Not me! To…”


Silence.

“I have got the perfect meal preparing for you, one that will turn you right-side out!” the host said..

“What did we do?”


An exasperated sigh.

“Nothing. Yet. We have plans in motion. But, for now, we will drink and we will eat.”

Rave resisted the urge to hit them.

“If you’re not going back to her you should probably put on some clothes.”


Rave stepped out of the kitchen and back into the living space. The screen was on, a talking head. An entire level lost to infighting amongst rebel groups. Security forces sent to restore order. Fire that had started in a hospital. Countless lives still trapped. Tragedy. Horror.

“We’ll fuckin’ get ‘em,” one of the three said.

“They hit the wrong fuckin’ group,” another laughed.

The third merely clicked her weapon on and looked down the sight, a predatory smile across her thin face. Rave passed them by and went back to his room. She was sitting up, a light on next to her. She removed her HUD, arcing an eyebrow at him. He said nothing as he climbed on top of her and kissed her.

[Injin]

Giancarlo Rides Again

Deserts suck.

If I had been told twenty years ago, sir, that I’d be forced to watch my mother die just out of my reach in a town deep in the Mojave, I might’ve had half a mind to believe them. Things were bleak then, society on the verge of collapse until, well, it did. You already know that, though.

I was a kid when the efforts to rebuild what had been lost began. Shit time to be a kid. Momma used to tell me that the Mojave was smaller then. That this was part of a paradise on earth a republic called Los something. Now it’s just some derelict buildings and dried up fields.

That part of the desolation’s far behind me now. That was the easy part, on account of the military outposts that still dot the area. Reclaiming the desert will be hard and I don’t have the stomach for that sort of work no more. Got a long way to go to get to where my ma’s holed up.

A gunshot into the air drove my attention away from my thoughts. The air was silent again, save for the sounds of my horse’s hooves pressing against the asphalt, until a cacophony of horses, with riders, rushed over the nearby hill and charged toward me. It was about time for the hard part.

The lead rider soon came to a halt, his men (and women by the looks of things) stopping just behind him. The looks on their faces told me that either they were wary of doing anything he didn’t expressly say or that they were uneasy out here in the open. Whatever the case was, the leader shouted something in what sounded like Spanish? Italian? Foreign languages, ugh.

“Could you speak up? My ear isn’t tuned to vaquero, sir,” I said, my hand gingerly reaching down to the sidearm I carried with me for times like this. Unlikely to do me any good given I was out of practice. A thought. My hand slowly backs away from my holstered revolver and I give the man up front my best relieved smile.

The desert had been a blur behind me as I’d ridden on this forlorn highway, but now I had a better look at my surroundings. In the distance, hills carved with shades of red ochre and tan, sun-burnt rings stood out, as dry as they had been before everything had gone to shit all those years ago. The land between was mostly flat (save for where the bandits had come from), covered in sagebrush, cacti, and little bushes for miles around. If I’d been stopping for a bit, maybe I would’ve hopped one of those little post-industrial fences and found myself some succulents, but there was a time to slake my thirst. Not now.

“I wasn’t speaking- never mind,” the bandit leader said as he shook his head at my words. Perfect. “I’m guessing you know why we’re here,” the leader said, his tone deep and harsh as he twirled around a pistol in his hand. Or a magnum? Some kind of small gun.

“To escort me to the nearest town? How kind of you.”

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘What’? I’ve been waiting for my replacement escort to catch up to me all day. Are you telling me that you aren’t the men the governor sent?” My voice could be rough, but I had to emphasize it. This was a gamble and I had to be careful. If they thought that I might be lying…

“I…what?” the leader said, “you, uh, work for the governor?” Success.

“I’m afraid I’m a little confused, sir. I’ll ask again. Aren’t you the guy who is supposed to escort me to the town up ahead? You know? So the governor can receive my report like he’s expecting?”

“Jesus,” the bandit boss cursed to himself, a ripple of confusion moving through the crowd. The local “governor” was a man of known cruelty. They had to of known the consequences for attacking someone in his employ. Whispers were already breaking out as the leader, gripping his reins tentatively, licked his sweat covered lips and tipped his hat. If he wanted to keep those britches he was in, he’d have to make a decision. “Let, let Giancarlo through,” the vaquero said, waving his gun at his posse.

It was in that moment, that confusing moment, that I became Giancarlo. Or appeared to be him. It was something I could work with.

At the name Giancarlo, the rest of the outriders looked at me warily and averted their eyes as if I was radiating some aura of absolute untouchability. Or I was ugly? Probably not that.

What kind of name was Giancarlo, anyways? It sounded Italian, but I sure as hell didn’t look Italian. I was as pale as a clear night and these vagabonds, these scoundrels, thought I was some kind of Italian?

I could work with this.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” I said with an acid in my tone. Looking back at them with a forced look of tired resignation, I rode hard for the next town over. Wasn’t sure which town was up this road next, but I knew I was going the right way.

Surprisingly, the man and his bandits didn’t follow me all that closely. They fell back to a few dozen yards, slowly dropping further and further back until they were completely out of sight. I’d only seen that kind of reticence to follow through from cowards, liars, and conmen. Right about now they seemed like all three.

By the time I slowed down and gingerly made my way into town, I was starting to regret coming this way. Sure, ma said this was the way in her telegraphed message, but she didn’t say that the town was recently on fire.

As I surveyed the damage, the charred wooden structures exuded a smell of ash and grime. This hadn’t been too recent if I had to hazard a guess, but it still stunk like a manure-fiulled fireplace. Turning my head to the right, the only building that I could see that was mostly intact was some sort of bar or tavern. Like this where we are now. Riding closer, I could hear someone, a woman, inside singing.

“Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
He’ll lie to your face,
Bold as a lion, grinning smile on his face,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
Pale as the night,
He glows in the moment, a marvelous sight,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
He’s always late to arrive,
He’s tough and he’s crude, thanks to him we’re alive,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
Oh, where did he go?
Away to the sunset, so we sing and thus so,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
He’ll be back one day,
And whenever he does, evil will pay”

That answers the question of who the fuck Giancarlo was. Is? Whatever the case, this was my moment. If I could manage to get off my horse without falling. For once.

Securing the horse was the easy part. My feet, however, had been pressing so hard into the stirrups that once I managed to wrench them free, I lost my balance and did a flip over the horse. Thankfully, my feet dragged me down flat to the ground, where I caught myself and stood up as quickly as I could. I’m never going to get that right.
Inside the saloon, the patrons, who had started to stare at me as I approached, suddenly burst out in applause, some of them hollering to high hell about something I couldn’t focus on. Everything was a little too dizzy. Ugh.

The woman who had moments before been singing was the first to rush out the door, helping me straighten up as I staggered toward the tavern. “You alright?” she asked her hand, slick with sweat, grabbing me by the shoulder.

“Could be better. Been a while since I tried something like that,” I lied, giving her that same winning grin I’d given those bandits earlier. If I was to be Giancarlo, I might as well live up the part.

“You look like you rode hard to get here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sit. Not much else to offer but a little hospitality right now, what with the town being the way it is. What’s your name?”

There was my opening. “Why… some folks call me Giancarlo,” I said, straightening up and flashing a grin as I puffed up my chest. I was cocky, but damn did I sell it. “Heard some folks needed help and I came straight away. A bit late, I’m afraid, but…I suppose I might be right on time if that song of yours means anything.”

The look on the lady’s face, tanned from a long life working on a ranch (I’ve seen the types), was priceless. I couldn’t tell if she was shocked by the audacity of my claim, surprised that someone would come all this way to help, or if she was unused to someone who looked like me offering help in the first place. Against my own claims, I didn’t really resemble the man in the song, but I was certainly ready to contest any claim that I wasn’t Giancarlo.

“You?”

“Yes, ma’am. Me.” Had a role to play in this farce. Delays meant time with my mother was lost, but having the chance to play hero? Well, that was something I couldn’t refuse.

“You came to help us, all the way from the land of the sunsets. Quick, I’ll bring you to where those scoundrels are holed up or- wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Sit,” she said, guiding me to the bar and shoved me down into the stool. it was one of those stools that were bolted to the floor, but I still had difficulty staying upright with the strength of her shove.

The lady, Theodora, explained the situation in the town. Theodora owned a ranch about half a mile from the outskirts of this place and some other bandits (not the ones I’d met evidentially) demanded that she turn it over to them and their boss. When she’d refused, they attacked the town in retaliation.

As Theodora continued her story, other people in the saloon chimed in. Some said that their boss must’ve been getting desperate, as had made the same “offer” to the rest of the townspeople. They had all given the same response. And as the old villainous phrase went, “If I can’t have it, neither can you.” They had ridden off to Theodora’s ranch after torching the town, kicking her out of her home and forcing her to seek shelter in one of the remaining buildings.

That was a lot of exposition to take in. Seriously. In the middle of a story? Stupid as hell.

So that was what needed to be done. “You want me to get rid of those men holed up at your ranch, ma’am?”

“However you can,” Theodora said, sighing in relief (for my sake or hers, I didn’t know), “You really think you can do it, Giancarlo?”

“They don’t call me Giancarlo for a bag of hot air, miss,” I said, a confident and completely fake smile on my lips as I stepped out of the saloon. Once my face was away from the masses, I briefly slipped into what I’d like to call my “I’m going to die” panic face.

Briefly.

See, I’d never really been in a gunfight or a showdown or anything like that. My words were smooth and I always slid right past danger. Could I really get out of this by talking at these varmints? Me?

Yes.

The path up to Theodora’s ranch was just as non-descript and desolate as the land before. In the distance, I could see those same mesas, same rocky red hills in the distance. The sagebrush and foliage were a little thinner here, but that was because of her cows. Or so she said.

Our ride to her home was a quiet one. Neither of us said a thing as we made our way up the path and both of us were silent as the gang stepped out to greet us. One of their lookouts must’ve spotted us coming.

“Who the fuck are you?” one bandit asked, starting our conversation with such a great opening line.

“You talking to me, or Theodora?”

“You.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wh-yes! You.”

“Just checking,” I said, my smile wide and as glamorous as ever.

We stood there in silence for a moment before he looked back to the other men. “Are you going to answer me or not?”

I had him off balance. “Giancarlo.” I tried to avoid sounding like I was bragging. I failed.

“What?” he asked. Did I say it wrong?

“Giancarlo. You might have heard of me, haven’t you sir?” It was time to see if I could rustle up some action behind that confident façade. I hoped.

“Well, I have. And, you, you don’t scare me with that name. Anyone could be named Giancarlo. Prove it!” the minion (what else could he be? None of these bedraggled idiots looked like they were the boss or even A boss.)

“If you are really so unsure, why don’t you give me a challenge of some sort?”

The man was silent again. Quiet. Whatever little gears were whirring and clicking around in his noggin were notably steaming along as he searched for something. Smirking, my eyes slowly scanned the surroundings until I spotted a weathercock on top of the house and feigned concern.

He took the bait. As soon as he realized what I was looking at, he sneered, “Hit that vane on top of the house. We’ll believe you if you can manage it from where you are standing now.”

It was then I realized that maybe I hadn’t thought this through. I hadn’t fired this gun since I used it for practice back at my old home. Months, now.

“You can do this, Giancarlo. I believe in you,” Theodora said, turning her head and giving me a genuine smile. Just as she continued, though, her smile shifted just barely, “Besides, if you miss I can always just shove you into these guys and run,” she said. Cold. That implicit threat attached to that last look could DEFINTELY be bad.

“I would hate to disappoint you, madam Theodora,” I said, slowly pulling out my revolver as I considered my options. If I tried to shoot straight, I might not hit the mark. If I purposely missed, they’d probably think something was up. How to solve this riddle…Angles. Had to be creative, right?

“Are you going to fire your shot, ‘Giancarlo’, or not?” one of the other men asked. They all looked on edge, expecting me to do something more than nothing. It was like I had a crowd like back home. If only the target was closer.

“Of course, sirs,” I said, twirling the gun in my hand, “just make sure to watch this closely. They don’t call me Giancarlo the Bold for shits!” With one last display, I aimed the revolver and fired.

And missed the target by about thirty feet.

Before the men could guffaw or Theodora could kick me into them, the bullet ricocheted off the side of a metal grating, hit the metal side of a barn, bounced against the rusted metal mailbox to my left, and cut right through the post that held the weathercock up. As the men, and Theodora, stood agape as I walked over to the cock and kicked it. “There, that count?”

One of the men fainted.

Yep, that counted. And yes, that was how it happened.

The bandits rushed off in a hurry after that. Blowing the smoke from the muzzle (Note, gun smoke tastes like shit), I turned to Theodora and smiled. “I’ll take that as a job well done, wouldn’t you say?”

I won’t describe the next few moments because really, no man should describe what is, in essence, supposed to be a private act of love or affection.

I lied. She kissed me right then and there.

Really, it was fucking perfect, that moment. Then she had to ruin it by telling me that “Giancarlo has to leave, he always leaves,” and promptly put me on my horse and sent me away to resume my journey. She was right to do so, but she could’ve waited until after I had at least one drink from the bar. Right?

Ow. Maybe we should move spots. Getting kind of swiss-cheesy here.

I barely had time to consider my next course of action before the sun went down. The road could be quite beautiful in the moonlight, but after a day like that, I wanted to not ride for the rest of the night. In the distance was smoke. Where there was smoke, that meant that someone was setting something on fire. I could only hope it was a campfire and not just some bush.

The closer the camp ahead became, the louder and more pronounced the strums of a guitar rung out. As my horse slowed on the approach, so too did the playing of the guitarist. He was playing to the beat of my horse’s cantor. It would’ve been unnerving if the man in question didn’t look like he was passed out as he played. No, wait, still kind of freaky. Barely aware of anything but the shattered silence of the night, he finally stopped playing as I face-planted off the horse.

“You alright?” the man drawled out, raising the hat off his eyes so he could see me for just this moment.

“Used to it, sir.”

“Heh. Haven’t been called sir in a while. Guess you couldn’t get a place in town before they got all full up, huh?” God this asshole just sounded so please with himself.

“No, not quite.” There was no need to share that embarrassing tidbit.

The man looked like he was appraising me as I spoke. Something in his eyes twinkled of a sort of prankster’s spirit, but he didn’t look like he was about to act on it quite yet. “Well, sit down by the fire. Warm as you’ll get out here.”

The silence lasted for what felt like forever. Beneath the man’s hat, I could sense his eyes trained on me, expecting me to make a move.

“Another Giancarlo, huh?”

That took me by surprise. Maybe I should’ve expected that some shifty old man would have an attitude, but the accusation cut deep. I couldn’t even try to lie to him. “Should I ask you the same thing?”

“Pfeh. Funny guy.”

I ignored that, “What do you mean ‘another Giancarlo’? Are you saying that it’s a common thing around here for people to run with that name?”

“One at a time, usually. Same sort of men, the lot of them. Heroes when they want to be.”

“What do you think I want to be?” I asked, daring him to go on to some long winded lecture about my destiny.

“Up to you to define yourself, Giancarlo. Doesn’t matter what you were before. Just be.”

The silence filled the space between us once more, only interrupted by the crackling of the campfire.

I slept.

By the time I woke up, the old man was gone. It wasn’t like he’d never been there at all, old people always had the tendency to wake up before I did. Not my fault that ten am was the best time for me to wake up.

Deserts still sucked.

The rest of the ride to my ma’s town was brisk and uneventful. Aside from the whole, that same old man playing guitar mirthfully as I passed him and his little ranch further up the road, thing, there was nothing else to really speak of. And…that’s how I -

----------------------------------------------------

“Look, I said I wouldn’t interrupt but enough is enough, right ‘Giancarlo’?” the sheriff asked, a bullet whizzing by his head, “did you have to explain practically everything?”

“You arrested me,” Giancarlo said, “and I skipped over the whole debacle so be thankful. Why do they want you dead so bad?”

“I’m the goddamn sheriff, what other reason do outlaws need?”

“Fair point, sir,” Giancarlo said, twirling his revolver carefully, “but that doesn’t explain why they have my mother hostage.”

“Wait, she’s your mother?”

“Yeah? That’s what I was trying to say earlier.”

“Look, I don’t have no time for your excuses. Where the hell is the cavalry that you said you were expecting.”

“You… listened to my story and still didn’t realize I was bluffing?”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?”

“I’ve lied to people and had everything work out before. Multiple times!”

“Look, how the hell are we going to get out of this,” the sheriff said, firing over the table they were slouched behind, “if we ain’t got reinforcements on the way?”

“Things have always just worked out, at least those two times I told you about,” Giancarlo said back, peeking over the table only to get his hat shot off.

Then it went silent.

Again looking over the table, Giancarlo perked up, waving to the posse that was coming into town. “Giancarlo saves the day again,” he whispered to himself, barely concealing a brash smile as the bandits who’d been firing at them rode out of town fast.

“You have got to be shitting me,” the sheriff said, wiping the sweat from his head, “it seriously, really happened?”

“I must be the luckiest man alive, sir. It is a beautiful day to be a hero.”

“Oh god, you are insufferable.”

“And alive. Now, let me greet my friends,” Giancarlo said, leaping over the table only to crash down hard and fall out of the town’s saloon and into the mud in front of their saviors.

“Do you always have to do that?” Theodora asked, yanking Giancarlo up from the mud. “I swear to god I have no idea how you’ve gotten this far in life like this.”

“Luck, dear,” Giancarlo said, earning a smack across the face back into the mud.

“After what you pulled, I wouldn’t be so cheery. You’re lucky we came to town to purchase some supplies. Armed.”

Pulling his head back out of the mud, Giancarlo cleaned himself off and straightened up. “Wait, where’s my mother?”

“Oh, you mean the well-dressed lady that the bandits had with them?” Theodora asked, looking over to the remains of the battle. “Probably taking a nap after falling off the horse she was being kept on.”

“That’s my ma,” Giancarlo said with a chuckle, shaking his head. He walked over to where Theodora pointed next and soon he was with his mother in the town’s doctor office.

“You look so pale…” Giancarlo’s mother chuckled, leaning up from her bed, “thought having you come all this way would have you looking like some roasted pig.”

“Managed to find a big as hell hat, ma,” Giancarlo said solemnly. “So what are you sick with? The letter said you were dying.”

His mother assessed the look on Giancarlo’s face before sighing ‘that dumb fuck’ to herself before talking normally again. “It should’ve said I was dying to see you again. I’m happy living all the way out here, but it’s been years since I’ve seen your face. You’ve grown into a good man, I think,” she said, caressing his face, “a dumb one. But a good man nonetheless.”

“Ma,” Giancarlo said, tears welling up in his eyes, “you ain’t dying?”

“Not yet.”

With that confirmation, Giancarlo began to bawl, placing his head in his lap to cover up the tears.

Outside, the sheriff and Theodora were peering in, both with looks of confusion on their face, shaking their heads.

Later, as Giancarlo left to return from whence he came, a familiar song reverberated through the town.

“Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
He’ll lie to your face,
The cowardly lion, whining with grace,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
Pale as the night,
He trips into each moment, a hilarious sight,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
He’s always late to arrive,
He’s weak and he cries, thanks to him we’re alive,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
Oh, where did he go?
Away to the sunset, so we sing and thus so,

Oh Giancarlo, Giancarlo,
He’ll be back one day,
And when he does, evil will pay”

[James]

Sekot
Because it was so recent, I’m still comparing new stories posted on AWR with the Arena set of stories. Which I probably shouldn’t do; they were different prompts and a different time frame. However, this would have easily fitted in at the top level of stories written in the Arena. It’s a really strong piece of work and I enjoyed reading it.

The whole thing was beautifully written, but particularly the first scene, which really shone. Your writing always has a great aesthetic quality to it, but it was nice to see that directed into a more traditional story. One thing I would say, though, is that being able to set such a clear scene means you need to make sure you get everything in the right order. For example, the first paragraph is beautiful and provides a clear image of a man inside an elevator. Then we later find out that there are other people in the elevator with him. I think that fact needed to be slid in earlier because it threw me because I had such a clear picture of this man alone in the elevator.

I enjoyed the setting. It felt lived-in. The Father and the Five Sisters were really cool things to drop into the story and just give it a background and flavour, and the same can be said about the Basilisk Bomb. You also didn’t forget about characters. Rave was given time to be a real person and not just a plot device. The whole story was just an enjoyable read.

Two areas, though, that I wonder if they could have been handled better. First, I felt you were close to being dangerously on the nose. The wealthy living high above, everyone else down below. It works, but it feels a bit of a cliché. Further, while I appreciate the self-awareness of revolutionaries trying to figure out if they’re helping or hurting, the “are we bad guys?” line just felt a little too obvious. It also made me think of the Mitchell & Webb Nazi Sketch, but that’s not your fault. On the other hand, this “on the nose” approach was evened out by the ending, which was a lot more subtle and ambiguous, so that was nice.

Secondly, I would have loved Rave’s interrogation by his “patient” to be just a little more impactful. I think the tension could have been built better and that would have led into the well-written escape scene that came after it. At the moment, I think the scene with Rave and the “patient” went too quickly to “are you a sympathiser?” Let the moment breathe. Let the reader slowly get a sense of dread.

Oh, also, there were just a few tiny mistakes, like missing words and so on, which I feel duty bound to mention as a judge.

But small quibbles. I really enjoyed this one, Ian.

Injin
Okay. Okay then. I felt like this was a better written Paliomembus story. And I still don’t like it, to put it mildly.

What do I mean by that? Well, I felt the fundamental writing, at its most basic level, was solid. Your writing is a lot cleaner, crisper and has far fewer mistakes. You’ve shown a massive improvement over the last few years. As an example, the paragraph starting with “the desert had been a blur behind me” was perfectly serviceable description. You had good writing throughout the story. Also, I thought your dialogue was a lot better than usual. Not perfect, but it didn’t catch my attention as it sometimes can for negative reasons. It’s just…

In my opinion (and others might disagree, like they did on Paliomembus), this story was completely misguided. The tone was all wrong. This was a light-hearted, slightly comedic Western story. And it wasn’t funny. Nothing made me smile or laugh. Instead, things irked me. That “exposition in the middle of a story line” was so bad that I actually stopped reading for the night. It felt insulting to the reader. The fake smile turning to the “I’m going to die” panic face is just immature. The “it turns out I was telling a story while we were fighting” was just not done well.

Man, I don’t know. I feel mean for this review. But fundamentally, I didn’t like this story at all. I also don’t really know what to say anymore because I’ve written this review to you, in various forms, at least three or four times now. You write a light-hearted or comedic story, it’s not funny, I tell you comedy is hard to write and maybe do other things, you come back to me with another light-hearted or comedic story. I don’t know if that’s bad? Maybe it’s perseverance? But, this isn’t getting any better.

Look, comedy is subjective. And maybe there are people who would find Giancarlo and Paliomembus funny. I don’t, though, and I reckon I have a pretty great sense of humour, so I end up judging these things harshly. Comedy is hard to write, man! And I don’t know, I feel like there are two paths you can take. Adam tried writing comedy several times, got middling reviews, and kind of went “guess I haven’t got a handle on comedy, I’m not going to write it anymore.” And you go “gosh darn it, I’ll get it right next time.” And I want to say your way is the better approach. But then you write this story and, ugh. Maybe just don’t write these stories when I’m the judge is the compromise, because we clearly have vastly different senses of humour.

So, to sum up, the writing is solid. I have no problem with the technical aspects of how you crafted sentences and scenes. The higher concepts, though, just did not appeal to me in the slightest. That might just be a subjective viewpoint, but I’m not too sure it is.




Unlike my indecision during the Arena final, I felt there was a clear winner here today. The winner of the first Assignment in years, is Sekot. Congratulations!