Death of Blue Babe

(“Blue Babe” is a steppe bison that was killed by a lion, frozen and buried by silt some 36,000 years ago. He was found by a placer miner near Fairbanks, and rests today in the museum at the University of Alaska Fairbanks.)

The bison sniffed the frosty air, his head swinging back and forth as he scanned the snow-covered steppe. Vigilance was part of life, but within the herd it was a shared duty. Here, alone, he felt exposed and vulnerable. He lowered his head and pawed at the wind-crusted snow, uncovering a batch of browned grass, but he took only one bite before jerking his head up to look around.

The dead grass was harsh on his tongue, but it would be the only food available for months. And how could he feed, without others to keep watch? In the herd, at least one or two individuals at a time were always looking around, ready to sound a warning if danger approached. He swallowed the first bite, and lowered his head briefly to snatch more of the poor feed.

The wind tugged at his thick coat, but could not penetrate to his skin. He spread his nostrils and swiveled his ears, seeking warning of any predator, but the hiss of the blowing snow covered other sounds. Again he turned. Where was the rest of the herd? Sheltering from the wind? Perhaps in the valley to his left?

The narrow stream valley provided little shelter from the biting wind, and no other bison. Instinctively he knew the danger of being alone, but until he found the rest of the herd, he had little choice. Again he paced in a tight circle, seeking the source of every imagined sound.

What was that? One eye caught a blur of motion, and he bolted farther into the little valley. But the snow had drifted deeper here, and as he started to turn back, a sudden weight almost collapsed his hindquarters. Bellowing wildly he bucked and spun, the musk of lion rank in his nostrils. For an instant he was free, plunging though the snow for the mouth of the valley, but out of the thickening storm came another lion, leaping for his head.

His nose was pulled down, and again weight came on his hindquarters. He hardly felt the pain of claws and teeth. All his attention focused on the demands of his lungs for air. He tried to shake his head, to throw off the weight clamped to his muzzle, but his legs would no longer support even his own weight, and buckled under him. Redness fading to black washed across his world. He never knew when the lions began to feed.

Win a Free Book!

I just realized I’m approaching 500 posts! In fact, this one is number 484, and a celebration seems in order. So I’m hosting a little giveaway.

The rules?

1.  Leave a comment on any of my posts on http://HomecomingBook.wordpress.com, from 1 though 499 (which will be Friday, November 18.) Yahoo should inform me of new comments, regardless of how far back the post. Comments must be on the original blog, not on clones (facebook, Amazon, Goodreads, SheWrites etc.)

2. The comment must include the words “contest entry” so I can check my spam folder for legitimate entries. (I’ve had legitimate comments flagged as spam before, as well as unflagged comments I suspected were spam.)

3. You may comment on as many as 5 different posts, but no more than one comment per post. Also, these must be new comments, dated after this post goes live. No person can win more than one prize.

4. All comments will be entered in a drawing, using a random number generator (probably Stat Trek) to determine the first place and four runner-ups.

5. The Prizes! First place will be a trade paperback copy of Homecoming or Tourist Trap, winner’s choice of which. Second through fifth place will be a PDF copy of either, winner’s choice. If the first place winner has both books, he or she may opt to receive three shorter, unpublished SFF pieces in PFD. These are “Horse Power,” a 6700 word short set several years after Tourist Trap, “The Only Good Werewolf”, a werewolf story set today (8800 words), or “Useless,” a 4500 word colonization story. Second through fifth place winners may opt to receive any one of these stories.

Spread the word!

Conversation Piece

This is a bit of flash fiction, written in the Summer Arts Festival. The assignment was to write a conversation between two people who don’t understand each other, one of whom has some kind of dominance over the other. I’d call this a dysfunctional school, but this sort of incident can happen–we’ve had similar accounts on the insulin-pumpers e-group.

The small office was too warm, but Cyril never thought of shedding his coat.  Instead, he straightened his tie, pulled himself up in his chair and glared at the student standing in front of him.  “Well?”

The boy–what was his name?  Jerry?   Jimmy?  Jimmy, that was it–refused to meet his eyes and scuffed his right foot on the floor.  “I ain’t done nothing.  What you want to go pickin’ on me for?”  He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his head, pretending to study the books on the wall.

“Speak properly, boy, and stand up straight.”  Damn kids today.  No respect.   Snotty twelve-year old, thinking he knew more than an adult.  And his hands were tied.  Couldn’t touch the little bastards, no matter how much a good spanking would straighten them out. “Trying to use a cell phone in class isn’t nothing, boy.  Now hand it here.”

Jimmy backed up a step, and his hand tightened around the phone in his pocket.  “Don’t have a cell phone.”  Sweat began to bead on his forehead.

Cecil stared at the boy, outraged by the lie.  “So what’s that in your pocket?”

“None of your business.”

Cyril stood up, lips compressed.  “Give it here.”

“No!”  Jimmy backed away another step, his eyes flickering to the closed door.

Furious, Cyril lunged toward the boy, grabbing the object the youngster held and pulling it away.  It was tethered by a cord to the pocket, and he jerked it free and threw it down.  He heard it smash as it hit the floor.

Jimmy screamed.  “You bastard.  He ran to the broken plastic case and picked it up, crying openly now.  “My mom’ll kill me.  I made her promise not to tell.  New school–I thought the other kids didn’t need to know.  And since the divorce…”

Cyril took the smashed electronics from the boy’s unresisting hands, and suddenly saw the words in the back of the case.  Insulin pump.

Jarn’s Journal Day 353

This is another (fictional) excerpt from the journal of the alien supposedly behind the modern human race (at least in my science fiction!) He was stranded in Africa about 125,000 years ago when his ship crashed, and has just rescued a child of the early human tribe he has found. For the earlier parts of his Journal, see my Author Website.

Day 353

It’s a good thing I have spied on the sentients enough to have learned a little of their language, as the child seems unable to learn mine. Hers is a pretty simple one: specific sounds for specific objects, more specific sounds for specific actions, various other sounds that describe objects and actions. R’il’nian might have been that simple, early in our evolution, but her brain does not seem wired to understand R’il’nian as it exists today.

They do have individual names, and her only difficulty in understanding me when I tapped my chest and repeated “Jarn” seemed to be that the particular sound meant nothing to her. Her own name is also the sound her people use to designate a small bird, dull colored but a beautiful singer. I find myself thinking of her as “Songbird.”

In some ways she is remarkably quick. She rapidly grasped that I did not understand her language very well and set about teaching it to me, and demanding that I give her the names for things strange to her in the shelter. Rather a turnaround from what I expected, but a surprisingly pleasant turnaround! In the day and a half since she awoke, we have established far better communication than I have with Patches.

Oh, Patches.She was afraid of Patches at first, but once she understood that Patches was friendly to me and willing to be friends with her, she managed to tell me that her own people now and then tamed young animals from the wild. In fact, they seem to have a religion of sorts, and the shamans always have some kind of tamed animal – or claim to. I must confess I have my doubts about invisible animals no one but the shamans can see!

Physically the leg appears to be knitting rapidly, and all signs of infection are gone. In fact, once she was convinced that my splints would hold, it was impossible to keep her lying down. I have managed plumbing, although rather primitive, in my shelter, and a system for disposing of bodily waste. I have to say she is far more fascinated by these than by the recorder or the computer!

So far I have managed to avoid asking why her people left her to die, telling myself it is because I still do not understand her language well enough. This is an excuse, and tomorrow I will ask her.

Or perhaps the next day.

Kipling Trivia

This past week onTwitter it’s been Kipling, with quotes from the two Jungle Books. I have both together in The Jungle Books, but I’ve indicated the story and which book it’s in.

“And what is a man that he should not run with his brothers?” Kipling. Context? “Mowgli’s Brothers,” from The Jungle Book. Mowgli is defending his right to stay with the jungle folk.

“When a snake misses its stroke, it never says anything or gives any sign of what it means to do next.” Kipling. Context? “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi” from The Jungle Book. Nagina has just missed her strike at Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the mongoose.

“The dark never hurt anybody yet.” Kipling. Context?  “Her Majesty’s Servants” from The Jungle Book. Billy, the breech-piece mule of the First screw battery, to a recruit mule, after they have been waked up by stampeding camels.

“With Death has come Fear.”  Kipling. Context? “How Fear Came” from The Second Jungle Book. Tha, the elephant who made the world, is speaking to the First of the Tigers, who was originally a vegetarian but has just killed for the first time.

“We all say so, and so it must be true.” Kipling. Context? “Kaa’s Hunting,” from The Jungle Book. The Bandar-log (monkeys) are telling Mowgli how great and wise they are. Remind you of any politicians?

“Yonder I shall sit down and get knowledge.” Kipling. Context? “The Miracle of Purun Bhagat” from The Second Jungle Book. Purun Das, the former Prime Minister of an Indian state, has retired to become a wandering mendicant. Seeing the Himalayas on the skyline, he decides to make them the place where he will stay.

“Esper and empathic talents are rather unpredictably correlated with each other.” Bowling. Context? Homecoming. The talents inherited from the R’il’nai are not inherited as a whole, and in particular esper talents (telekinesis, teleportation, telepathy) are inherited separately from the empathic talents (experiencing another’s senses and feelings.) The distinction becomes an important plot element in Tourist Trap.

Random Thursday–Lion Cub’s Eye View?

I haven’t written much in Homecoming from an alien’s or an animal-eye view, and I really don’t know how one could ever document it. But this is about as close as one could come to what would be visible to a lion cub being carried by its mother.

(I do have a short-short, “The case of the Incompetent Police Dog” in Crafty Cat Crimes, and if I ever publish the trilogy there is a good deal from a dog’s eye view, not to mention Maungs and dolphins as characters.)

Where’s Mommy?

How should I know what happened last night?  I was in my bed, I tell you!  I didn’t even get up for a drink!  Did I hear anything?  Oh, you mean the firecrackers?  That was neat!  Johnny set one off once, but I’m not allowed to.  I guess Mommy and Daddy get to do what they want, though.  Wish they’d let me set one off.  Hey, I’m not supposed to talk to you.  Mommy said never talk to anyone I didn’t know.

You’re a policeman?  Wow!  Can I see your gun?  You’re not wearing it?  Boy, if I was a policeman I’d wear it all the time.  Bang, bang, you’re dead.  Is it really loud?  As loud as a firecracker?  Huh.  I bet it’s not as loud as the ones I heard last night.

Voices?  Why would I hear voices?  Oh, were Mommy and Daddy talking about the firecrackers?  I don’t think so.  Yes, they were talking, but I didn’t listen.  Honest I didn’t.  Johnny listened when his parents had a fight, and now he only gets to see one at a time.  Now I put my head under the covers when their voices get mad.  Well, yes, they did sound kind of mad last night.  That’s why I didn’t listen.

Where’s Mommy?

This something I wrote for Summer Arts Festival. The Assignment? Write a story that will fit on a postcard.