"The Captain's Solution" a space opera, sort of

For Story Sunday, I give you a mild-mannered space opera/space fantasy, about a space ship captain who takes his duty seriously. (Science fiction fans be warned, we don't need no stinkin' science in this story....)

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The Captain's Solution
by Camille LaGuire

THE, UH, INCIDENT occurred when I was mate on the North Current. And, of course, there was more to it than ever came out at the competency hearing. Even the court knew that. It really started when we were rotated from our usual patrol to temporary escort duty. It was a reward. We had a good record of dealing with the Galactic Commerce Authority with neutrality and diplomacy.

We ended up on Iria, a little backwater planet that held the distinction of being home to the only humanoid non-humans anybody'd ever heard of. I mean, the Irians seemed human to me, but they claimed not. They evolved on that planet, they said, from some goddess and a tree, I think. Or maybe a grape vine. They insisted they couldn't be related to us, and they were stubborn about it, even though it would have been more convenient for them if they gave up on it. If they were human, they'd have some rights.

We were in a bar on Iria, drinking Irian wine, which is so much tastier than our Peschian seaweed beer. Captain Arkeesh had been gazing into his glass for nearly an hour. He was always a quiet one. Always watching, always listening, always thinking. People like that usually make me uneasy, but not him. I think it's his sad eyes and droopy mustache. Whatever it is he sees and hears and thinks seems to weigh heavily on him. It gives him an air of responsibility. He was gloomy just now because we had been approached by an illegal wine merchant who had two cases to sell. They were not supposed to approach officers. Officers are under strict orders to turn them in, and the captain takes his duty seriously.

"I'm not going to report him," he said suddenly. No need to explain who he meant. "We are, after all, representatives of a neutral planet. We shouldn't enforce Commerce Authority rules. Nor should we consider ourselves subject to them." That meant we should buy the wine. I nodded in agreement. A quiet voice came from behind us.

"You don't fight them either."

A woman was standing at the captain's elbow. Whether she'd been listening or just walking by, I don't know. The captain turned to her, looking even sadder than usual.

"No," he said. "We don't fight at all. We don't think killing is a good thing."

"So you accept the killing that goes on around you."

"Killing on both sides."

The woman slipped in between us, and shoved me off my stool. She was a small, wiry woman in mechanic's overalls, who was attractive enough that I let her have my seat, and I bumped Kallos off his. Kallos grumbled and bumped a drunk Tertian pilot off his seat. The Tertian dropped to the floor and stayed there.

"You are a Planetary Guardsman." She pointed to the insignia on the captain's sleeve. "Wouldn't you kill to defend your planet? Self-defense?"

The captain sat back and studied her a second. He gave her a slow, cautious nod. She sat back, mimicking him.

"You have such high ideals," she said flatly. The captain simply shrugged, took a drink and waited for her to go on. "You say you're against war," she continued. "Yet you allow CommAt slave ships through your space every day."

"We allow no aggressive actions, no weapons shipments, or prisoners-of-war...."

"Slaves are prisoners of war."

The captain paused, looked into his drink, and then looked up again squinting a little.

"You cannot make war on animals."

He watched the woman closely, and just as she gathered herself for a reply, he raised one finger for emphasis.

"And as long as the Irians insist that they evolved here, then they can't be Human and they are legally accepted as animals. If we Peschians claim otherwise, we damage our neutrality."

"Your precious neutrality."

"It is our self-defense."

"You are using their twisted logic."

"No. We are used by their twisted logic. We don't like it, but we don't have much choice. The Authority nations are strong, and they surround us. The only reason they haven't swallowed us up yet, is that it isn't popular, and it isn't popular because their people see us as neutral."

"I know." The woman leaned on the bar and kept looking at him.

"We can't take chances."

"But you do take chances. Not as a nation, but as individuals. Underground."

"Not underground," said the captain, shaking his head. "We're Fisherfolk. We go underwater."

"All right. Underwater, then. Everyone knows that a slave is safe on Pescha. And that you planetary guardsmen are the chief smugglers of Irian wine. And you can do anything you want on your planet if you bribe the right official."

"An outsider can't fish. No bribe will get you that."

"But it will get people to look the other way from political activity. The official stance is neutrality, but individuals can and do take sides."

"We don't...."

"Don't say 'we," say 'I.' What do you think about Irian slavery?"

"I'm against any slavery. Including the conscription of soldiers into your army."

"It's not necessarily my army."

"Still, you call them allies."

"Some do, but I don't," she said crossly. "I don't think the people fighting my enemy are necessarily friends. Sometimes we are closer to those who aren't fighting our enemies."

"Maybe so. Maybe not." He turned to face his drink. He was still looking at her sidelong, however.

"A friend of mine was at last year's Captain's conference on Pescha," she said conversationally. "She pointed you out to me. You spoke up in support of the bill to redefine 'humanity.'"

"What do you want?" He was still looking at his drink, but now he spoke very quietly. She lowered her voice too.

"We think we can get a few dozen of the Irians out of the enclosure, but we need a way to get them safely out of the area."

The captain let out a moan of pain and shook his head.

"An ordinary ship would be shot out of the air immediately," she went on quickly. "They've got the sky too well covered. But a Peschian ship is submersible."

"No."

"We'd slip right into the ocean, and they'd never be able to track us, because nobody uses submersibles here."

"We would be spotted."

"It will be at night, and we will be making a very quick get away."

"Then you might get the Irians into the ship, and you might make it to the water. But we're bound to be recognized as a Peshian Guard ship. You are not asking us to help you. You're asking us to join you. You haven't thought this out yet, have you?"

"No," she admitted. "The idea occurred to me when I saw you come in."

"I have had escort duty to this port many times. I can tell you, mass escapes from those enclosures are always bloody and pointless. Your submersible idea might work, but you don't have a ship. And you can't have mine." He paused to tug at his mustache. "On the other hand, small escapes happen all the time. If you can bring me one, at the most two, adults. I'll put them in uniform and try to pass them off as crew members."

"We don't want to get them to Pescha; we want to get them home. And we want to get more than one or two out."

"They'd be safer on Pescha, and it doesn't seem to me you have a choice."

"And why adults, anyway? If we had to choose, I'd rather get out children."

"I can't pass a child off as a crew member."

The woman chewed her lip and looked at the captain for a moment. The captain gave her a helpless shrug. I was still leaning over her shoulder to listen, and she shoved me away.

"Thank you anyway," she mumbled, and barged off.

#

We waited for the woman to show up again, a pair of confused Irians in tow. We were sure she wouldn't bring one if she could bring two, and they'd probably be straight out of the Irian forest, not knowing the first thing about a ship. We hoped she would think to bring men, since Fisherfolk do not have women in the guard. Our women do just about everything, whether we want them to or not, but they do not fight.

The captain scanned local news constantly. He was probably looking for news of an escape, or a failed one. The woman never came, however. We lifted off with our assigned freighter, two crates of wine and a feeling of relief. We thought we'd never see her again.

We were wrong.

About three months later we were back at our usual patrol duty. We came across a small ship, drifting at our perimeter. Its identification markings were smaller than standard, and partly obscured by what looked like rust. When we hailed them, they moved off quickly, but before the captain could give orders to pursue them, they slowed, and answered us.

The woman met us at the docking bay.

"When I saw the North Current, I hoped it was you," she said quickly. Behind her stood the crew, three men and four women, heavily armed, but not threatening. Their expressions were uneasy, but determined.

"Put away those weapons."

"Listen to me. A slave ship will be coming out of lightspeed to go through Peschian space at any time now. We're going to stop it."

"No you're not. Put the weapons away."

The woman started to argue, but their captain, a large woman with gray hair and yellow eyes, put the butt of her rifle on the deck, and the others holstered and otherwise put aside what they carried.

"This is Peschian space. Any aggressive action is a violation of our neutrality."

"Not if you consider it a theft of cargo."

"Then it's a criminal action. We have strict piracy laws here."

"But it isn't really a criminal action, is it? Slaves are not really cargo. They're people. You just call it piracy so no one will accuse you of taking sides."

The captain took a breath and studied her for a minute. He shook his head.

"You like to argue, don't you?"

"I like people to recognize when I'm right." The captain wiped his hand over his face and looked at the deck, shaking his head again. The woman went on, ducking to get into his line of view. "Captain Arkeesh, the slaves aboard that ship are all children." When the captain didn't answer, she added hopefully. "They are headed for Tertia."

"Slave barges are very well armed."

"What if they sell them to perverts?"

"You'll just get them killed. And yourselves, and the crew of the barge, and probably us too."

"We don't need you to help us. All you have to do is go away. Pretend you never saw us."

He shook his head slowly and pulled at his mustache, so she continued, leaning in closer.

"You don't have to worry about it being an armed slave barge. It's an ordinary freighter carrying wine and lumber. They just happen to have twenty-five children aboard."

"All Commat ships are armed. You'll never even get aboard," the captain said absently. "No. We'll meet the ship when it comes out of lightspeed. Just as usual. You'll come later."

"You'll help?"

"No. We're just going to do our job." The captain's mustache twitched, which was as close to a smile as he ever got. Then he immediately sighed and looked as if another planet-size weight was put on his back. "I don't like this."

#

When the freighter came out of lightspeed, we called it to stand to and boarded for a quick inspection, which is not all that uncommon. Usually, when a ship is not destined to land on Pescha, the captain just glances over the manifest, asks a few questions and gives a few warnings.

As we boarded the ship, Captain Arkeesh straightened and frowned. Instead of his usual politeness, he growled his demand to see the manifest. When they showed him to the screen, he squinted at it and examined it as if it were a contract he was supposed to sign. He questioned the volume of the wine, the weight of the lumber, where they had come from, where they were going, whether the proper papers had been filed. When he came to the slaves, he grunted.

"Irians."

"That's right," said their captain impatiently. "We have twenty-five Irians."

"What does it mean by 'immature?'"

"They are all under sixteen standard years."

"How much under? Are they old enough to be away from their mothers?"

"It isn't really your business, is it? We have a treaty. You can't interfere with our trade."

"I want to take...."

At this point their communications officer interrupted. Our ship was calling Captain Arkeesh.

"Sir," came Kallos' voice. "We have a small private craft approaching. They have a serious medical emergency aboard."

"Have them dock at the port bay, and send the medic aboard," snapped Captain Arkeesh, as if he were annoyed at the interruption.

"You've seen our manifest," said the captain of the CommAt ship. "Perhaps you had better shove off and see to the emergency."

"My medical officer will see to that. I want to inspect your Irians."

"We have a right to carry our cargo through your space."

"It is my duty to see that they really are Irians. They could be prisoners of war."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"It's harassment!"

They went on arguing for a few minutes, our captain saying whatever officious thing would most irritate their captain. The argument had the attention of everyone present. Then several armed, masked figures entered carrying laser rifles, it took everyone by surprise.

Their captain started to call for an alert, but one of the masked figures shoved a rifle in his chest, while another threatened the communications officer.

"You won't get away with this," declared Captain Arkeesh. "This is a violation of our neutrality!"

"Shut up," said the bandit leader. She addressed their captain. "You have wine aboard? And prime Irians?" Their captain didn't answer. "Don't worry. We'll find them."

She left one man to watch us. Captain Arkeesh grumbled about neutrality, and gave the evil eye to the man guarding us. The freighter's captain was giving the evil eye to Arkeesh.

"They came through your ship."

"They won't get away with an act of war in our space."

"They're pirates, you idiot!"

"Then we'll drown them."

When the "pirates" were through, they called their man from guarding us, and slipped off through our ship to their own. We started to move after them.

"Hurry up and shove off so we can give chase," snapped their captain.

"No!" said Captain Arkeesh, stopping to lecture him. "You stand to. We give chase."

"You've messed this up enough. I'm not leaving it to you."

"This is neutral space...."

"Your neutrality be damned!"

"...we will not let a Commerce Authority ship go armed after an enemy."

"Then shove the hell off and chase 'em yourself!"

Their captain had recognized that the argument was giving the pirates time to escape. Arkeesh couldn't justify staying any longer. We hurried without hurrying back to our ship and uncoupled from their hull. We sped ahead, as if in chase. The CommAt freighter, as we all expected, did not stay put.

"Down and to starboard," said the captain, as we came up to the bow of the now moving freighter.

"What?" said Kallos.

"Down and to starboard. Now."

Kallos took a deep breath and down we went, right across the freighter's bow. We could argue later that it was, at least, the right direction to chase the bandits. The freighter kept coming, and we slid along their hull with a jar and a screech.

"Get the hell out of our way," called their captain.

"Stay the hell put," our captain replied. Then he added to Kallos, "Stay in their way." We stayed in their way. Kallos did a masterful job of stupid piloting, while Captain Arkeesh argued with their captain. He aggravated the man enough that they stayed pretty much in our way too. Over all, I thought it was a convincing display of incompetence. The bandits made lightspeed, and the chase was over.

"They'll have us back on the water for this," said Kallos.

"I like the water," said the captain. "It's where a man belongs."

"They left us the wine, you know."

"What?"

"Twenty cases. They only took it so they'd look like pirates."

"That's all we need," said the captain, shaking his head. "If we are caught with that wine...."

"They'll think it's a bribe."

"They'll have us back in the water."

"Don't worry, captain," said Kallos. "We'll sneak it off before anybody knows anything."

"Well, it'll be good to be home with the women," I said. Everyone seemed to be in general agreement with that.

"We should have women in our guard," said Kallos. "Their captain seemed competent."

The captain was gazing at the spot on the viewscreen where the bandit ship was last seen.

"I hope so," he said. "Or that other one will get them killed."

I could see he was going to worry about that. He'd worry until he'd figured out a solution, which wasn't going to be likely, down on the water. On the other hand, with our Captain, you never know. That worries me a little.

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In tomorrow's story notes, I'll talk about how I don't write science fiction. I write something else.

"The Pie Maker" - a fable for writers

For the Sunday Story this week, I give you "The Pie Maker," a new fable which I have been trying to write for ages, but it keeps coming out different from my expectations....

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The Pie Maker
by Camille LaGuire

ANNETTE'S GREAT GRANDMOTHER had been the greatest pie maker in the county. And her daughter, Annette's grandmother, was the second greatest. Their pies were legend, not only for their quality and tastiness, but for the sheer quantity. They had baked for lumberjack camps, and in busy restaurants, and for church events and for charities. Pie after pie, beloved of all.

Annette herself, though, was the youngest of many in her generation, and she had been raised in a modern kitchen by an in-law mother who never baked. Her great grandmother had died when she was just a baby, and though grandma also baked great pies, bad luck and poor health took her too, and Annette was left with mostly stories, and a memory of the sharp and sweet taste and the tender flake of crust.

Every year there was a charity event back in grandma's home town. It included a pie contest which was in honor of Annette's great grandmother. They always invited Annette to join the festivities, and enter a pie. They even offered her the use of the church kitchen, because she was coming from so far out of town.

Up until now, Annette had refused in embarrassment that she couldn't bake a pie.

It wasn't that she hadn't tried. Frankly, Annette was determined to recapture the glory of the family honor. She took classes, and had all sorts of baking books. Every week, she worked very hard to bake a perfect pie. She generally failed to recapture the flavor and texture she remembered of grandma's pies, but she knew she was getting better.

Then one day, going through some old letters, she found her great grandmother's recipe for pie crust. Just amounts, no instructions. It called for so little water, Annette could hardly believe it would hold together. But there is was, THE original recipe. It was like magic. It even smelled a little of coffee and lard -- the predominant aroma of grandma's kitchen.

Here it was only one week until the competition, and now she had great grandma's recipe! That was kismet. She could reclaim the family honor!

The night before the contest, she gathered her groceries -- the finest apples, and good pastry flour and real lard -- and picked up the key to the church kitchen. She brought a scale and measured the flour to the gram, and did the same with the lard. She stuck the lard in the freezer to make sure it would be good and cold and prepared ice water for mixing.

When she cut the lard into the flour, and made sure she cut it to the exact size of peas. Then she spooned in the very cold water, a teaspoon at a time.... and found it was not enough to hold the dough together. With a sigh, she added a bit more, until it was just barely enough to hold together. It was still less water than she had ever used before.

The dough broke when she rolled it out, and crumbled when she assembled the pie. She was afraid to handle it too much, because that would make it tough. Still she managed to get the pie together, and she stuck it in the oven. She set to cleaning up while it baked, and suddenly realized someone else had come into the room.

An old woman stood near the door with a basket full of flowers. Annette jumped back. Did she forget to lock the door behind her when she came in?

The woman acted like she belonged there, though. She set the basket down on a bench and fussed at it a bit. She was wearing an old-fashioned flowered dress, which was worn and a bit stained, maybe from gardening.

"Oh, hello," said Annette, feeling awkward.

The old woman just looked over and said "Hmmmf." Now Annette was sure she did belong there. Church ladies can put so much disapproval into a little sound.

"I have permission to use the kitchen tonight," said Annette firmly. She meant to claim her right to be in the kitchen alone, but somehow she felt as if she were merely excusing herself. The old woman looked critically at the scraps of dough on the counter. "I'm just cleaning up!" said Annette.

She began to gather the scraps, and the old woman came over to look at what she was doing, as though speaking were an invitation.

"You're Mina's granddaughter, aren't you?"

"You knew my grandmother?"

"I knew her very well."

The old woman stood back and waited, looking sternly as though Annette were forgetting something important. Annette looked around and wiped her hands on her apron. The old woman sighed.

"You'd better check on that pie," she finally prompted.

"Oh, I just put it in. It's got at least a half...."

The timer on the oven rang. Annette realized she must have set it wrong. Oh, no. How long had it been? How much longer should she leave it in? She hated things to be inexact. Baking pastry was soo fussy. She'd get it wrong.... She peeked in the oven, and by golly the pie was already golden brown and done!

She pulled it out, and though it was a little lumpy and lopsided, it smelled wonderful. Annette set it on the rack and the old woman scowled at it.

"Well, looks aren't everything, and it smells good. May I have a piece?"

"What?" Annette couldn't believe the old woman's gall. "It's for the contest tomorrow."

"Really," said the old woman, looking at it doubtfully. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"Hmmm," said the old woman. "I'm hungry. I would like a piece, please."

Maybe this woman wasn't a church lady after all. Maybe she was just a bag lady who was good at pretending she belonged. Annette looked a little closer, and she noticed that the dress was faded, and had been neatly mended. Should she call someone? Or....

The old woman looked at her expectantly. And Annette recalled herself to the fact that it was a charity event. And her grandmother never would have turned away a hungry person. But she couldn't give away her good pie. Especially not to a woman who might be conning her.

"It's too big for one person," said Annette. "Why don't I make a smaller pie, just for you. I've got all this crust left, and some apples."

"All right," said the old woman, and she settled down to wait. on the bench by the kitchen door with her basket for flowers.

Annette found a slightly smaller pie tin and quickly rolled out the remaining crust and mixed up some apples and seasonings and popped the small pie in the oven. The old woman fiddled with her flowers and waited, and Annette started to clean up... and the timer on the oven went off. Almost instantly.

She peeked in, and the pie was golden. Was it a convection oven? She grabbed her pot holders and pulled out the pie.

When she set it on the rack, she paused to stare. It was bigger than the previous one. And it was nicer. She looked from one pie to the other, and blinked. The old woman got up and looked at the pie.

"Well, this one looks better," said the old woman, she she picked up a fork.

"No!" said Annette. "This is the pie for the contest. You can have the other. It's cool enough to eat by now anyway."

"I'm not eating that," said the old woman. "It's too big for me, you said."

"But this one's bigger."

"True," said the old woman. "I'd never be able to eat either of them. But I'm awfully hungry, so I guess I'll try."

She reached for the second pie, the nicer one, and Annette pulled it away.

"No, I've got a little more lard and more apples--"

"Good idea," said the old woman. "Why not make a little pie this time, rather than one fit for a lumberjack?"

"But I did make a little pie," Annette protested.

The old woman looked expectant, and so Annette sighed and grabbed her measuring cup and made a half batch of crust. She didn't weigh it this time, because she figured the old woman would get what she deserved for being so pushy. She just did a rough measure and cut it in fast and sloppy, and threw in enough water to hold it together. She rolled it out and threw in the filling and stuck it in the oven.

The timer bell rang almost instantly. The pie she pulled out of the oven was aromatic, golden... and bigger than either of the others.

"That's big enough for a pair of farmhands!" cried the old woman. "I thought you were going to make a small pie."

"I did!" said Annette. Something was very wrong with that oven. It was enchanted, or haunted. And the pie was beautiful. The old woman hovered over it with a fork, and Annette pulled it away. This one would definitely be better for the competition.

"I'll make you a pie for you!" she declared. And she wasn't going to be defeated by an enchanted oven either. She glared at the appliance and then threw together more crust. She found a stack of pot pie tins in the cupboard and made a pie as small as she could manage.

It came out bigger. So she tried again, and the next came out even bigger.

She kept trying until she came to the last of the pot pie tins, and that one came out huge. Enough to feed a football team.

"You'd better make another," said the old woman. "I can't possibly eat all that."

Annette let out a scream and this time she didn't even measure at all. She just scooped the lard into some flour and cut it together until it looked right, and sprinkled in the water. She pulled together the dough and rolled it out and put it in a tiny tart tin. She threw that in the oven and set the timer.

She leaned against the oven door and glared at the old woman, and as expected the timer went off quickly.

And this time she pulled out... a tart. The old woman got up and examined it.

"Now that looks tasty," she said. And she was right. The pie this time was well formed -- oh, not perfect like a pie press, but it was beautiful in an irregular hand-made way. The old woman picked it up, not waiting for it to cool. She glanced over her shoulder at the left-over crust on the counter. "You ought to make one more for the sale tomorrow. You've got all that crust."

Annette saw that she had just enough to make one more pie -- a regular sized one. There were just enough apples left in her bag, so she rolled out the crust and made yet one more pie. This time, she noticed that the pie rolled more easily, or maybe it was that she had been rolling out so much of it, that she was better at it. She found she wasn't afraid of handling it too much, either. She was used to the feel of the dough by now and she slipped the crust into the tin easily. Then she filled it, and laid on the top crust. As she fluted the edges her fingers did not fumble.

She put the pie in the oven and set the timer, and then sat down. She was so exhausted, she started to doze off.

And then the timer went off. She jumped up, not sure of how long it had been, and grabbed the oven mitts.

The pie in the oven was normal sized and beautiful. It was the best pie she'd ever seen. She pulled it out and turned to show the old woman, but the old woman was gone. She'd only left a small tart tin and a fork on the bench. Annette set the pie on the rack and looked around.

It wasn't a dream, at least not all of it. The kitchen was filled with pies, but they were all normal sized pies.

After a moment Annette heard some footsteps outside and she went to see if the old woman was there. It turned out to be three ladies from the event's organizing committee. They just stopped by to see how she was doing.

When they entered they looked around in amazement.

"Just like your grandmother!" said one.

"No, like her mother!" said another, the eldest of the three. "There must be a dozen pies here. These will auction off nicely. These are for the charity auction, aren't they?"

"Um, yes," said Annette. "I guess I got carried away making pies."

This eldest woman shook her head, and circled to look at the pies. She closed her eyes and sniffed the aroma.

"This is like the old days," she said. "You know, I used to help your great grandmother make pies for the fair. A very long time ago. But I can still see her in that old flowered work dress. Rolling and mixing and pinching that dough. Nobody ever made as many pies as she did. Seeing these here, well, it's like she's still haunting the place!"

You don't know how true that is, thought Annette.

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I'll tell you more about the writing of this story tomorrow in the Monday Story Notes.

You can read more of my fantasy fiction in The Bellhound, Four Tales of Modern Magic at all Amazon Kindle Stores: Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon DE. (If you hurry, you might still find it offered for free at Amazon -- though that should cange to 99 cents soon.) As well as at other ebook retailers: Smashwords, Barnes and Nobel, Apple iBookstore, Nook, and Sony.

Vote Early, Vote Often - a bit of flash fiction

For the Sunday Story this week, I give you a little flash story about Lily and Grace, a pair of continuing characters who usually get themselves into trouble. But this time, they have justice in mind....

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VOTE EARLY, VOTE OFTEN
by Camille LaGuire


Lily sat next to her best friend, Grace, and watched the other ladies of the Silverton Ladies Hostess Club munch the appetizers, and whisper among themselves.

"They've eaten all the crab puffs," whispered Grace. "And the curry triangles. They're certainly going to vote for you."

"I don't know," said Lily, biting her lip. She so wanted to be elected to host the winter party, but she was new to the club. Her only friend was Grace, who was only a member because Lily was. Grace was not a cook, although she assisted wonderfully on decorations.

The club president, Irene Tackert, rang the silver bell and called everyone to order in the meeting room next to the reception hall. The fourteen members filed in. Lily hung back, but Grace pushed her along after, and they took seats at the end of the table.

"Time to vote for hostess of our winter party, ladies," said Irene holding up a cloth bag and a small box. She handed the box to the woman to her right. "As most of you know, there are fourteen blue and fourteen silver marbles in the box. Take one of each color, and hold it up to show you don't cheat!"

"Cheat?" harrumphed Grace, under her breath. "She's one of the contestants, and she's running the vote!"

Lily kicked her under the table, then smiled and chose her marbles and held them up. Grace grumpily did the same.

"Now," said Irene, as the last woman put the box on the side table, "before we actually vote, I'd like to congratulate our new member, Lily Allen, for being nominated in her very first year of membership! It must be quite an honor for her to run against me!" Somehow the smile on Irene's face did not look genuine. She held up the bag. "If you vote for me, put the silver marble in the bag. The blue marbles are for Lily. Remember, this is a secret vote, so don't let anyone see which marble you drop in the bag."

She went around the room, and one at a time the ladies put the marbles into the bag. When Irene came to Lily she smirked again.

"And it's all right to vote for yourself, dear," she said.

"Of course," said Grace. "One should always vote for the best!"

Lily kicked her under the table again, and they placed their marbles in the bag. Irene moved on to gather the rest of the votes, and Lily leaned close to Grace.

"Don't antagonize her. I don't have a chance anyway."

"I don't like the way she smirks. It's like she knows who is going to win."

"She does know, because she knows all the other ladies like her."

"They liked your curry triangles."

It was true. The ladies had eaten every one of the fried treats, and they'd gobbled the crab puffs too. Lily allowed herself a moment of hope. But now the voting was done, and Irene poured the contents of the bag out into a plate where all could see.

A dozen silver marbles glimmered on the plate. Only two blue marbles rolled among them. Lily took a breath and held her disappointment. Only she and Grace. Not one other person voted for her. Not one.

"Well," she said. "I told you."

The entire room was quiet, as the other ladies seemed to sense her disappointment. One of them stopped and patted Lily on the arm.

"Well, you know, you're new," she said. "You'll have a better chance next year, when the rest of them are used to you."

"Yes, you'll do better, I'm sure," said another. "You have honor, and that counts for a lot here. You really could have voted for yourself, you know."

"Thank you," said Lily, and she got up to follow the other women to the side table and drop off the unused marbles. Grace jumped up and hurried after her.

"She acted like she thought you voted for Irene," said Grace. "Why would she think that?"

"I don't know...."

"I'll tell you why! Because she voted for you. Everybody knew I voted for you, and there were only two blue marbles, so she assumed you didn't vote for yourself."

"But I did vote for me, so she couldn't have."

"Unless Irene cheated."

"How?"

"She switched the bags," said Grace, and she pushed past to catch the woman. "Excuse me. Did you vote for Lily?"

"I can't say," said the woman. "It's against the rules."

"The votes are private," said Irene sharply.

"Well, we'll tell you who we voted for," said Grace.

"No!" said a chorus of ladies. Then one explained: "If anyone tells, that puts pressure on everyone to tell, and then it will never be a private vote, and then it will no longer be a fair vote."

"It wasn't a fair vote!" said Grace. "I'll tell you...."

Oh dear, thought Lily. Grace will get us kicked out of the club. She cast about desperately, and he eyes fell on the box where the marbles were kept.

"I know!" said Lily. "We won't tell! We'll stick to our sacred honor."

"But Lily...."

"Now listen Grace. It really isn't necessary. We can prove whether the vote was fair without anyone telling who they voted for."

"How?"

"By un-counting them!" Lily pointed to the box. "Everyone put their non-votes into that box. It should be exactly the opposite of the vote--twelve blue marbles and two silver ones."

"We can't do that!" said Irene.

"Why not? It's the same as counting the votes in the first place."

Grace picked up the box and dumped its contents onto the table. There were thirteen silver marbles and only one blue.

"You see?" crowed Grace. "I told you they liked the curry! Everyone voted for you but her!"

===========

Tomorrow I'll tell you a little about the writing of this story.

In the meantime, if you would like to see more of my short mystery fiction (most of it longer, some of it much darker), you can check out my short ebook: Waiter, There's A Clue In My Soup! Five Mystery Stories.

It's available at most online retailers for 99 cents: Amazon's Kindle, Kindle UK, and Smashwords as well as the Apple iBookstore, Barnes and Noble's Nook store, Sony, Kobo and Diesel.

Two Very Short Flash Stories

Here are a couple of microfiction stories. They are VERY short - written to meet the 100 word limit on stories at Flashshot.

The first story was actually published at Flashshot, but it went up right around when my father died this past fall, and I completely missed it when it was on line.

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MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER
by Camille LaGuire

THE BODY LAY beside the lectern, dead of three gunshot wounds. Overhead a banner proclaimed "No One's a Loser - Your Path to Success and Happiness."

"He called ME a loser," said his wife. "You should have heard him. The man who encouraged everyone else! He never had a single nice thing to say to me. Then he said he was leaving me for that bimbo."

She sniffed and looked into the detective's eyes.

"For the first time, he said something that really motivated me."

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THE CORONER'S LINE
by Camille LaGuire

DETECTIVE WINSTON WAS gorgeous. The Coroner was completely smitten with her, but she was always all business. He could never think of anything to say. He'd get his nerve up, but then he'd just say, "Where's your corpse?"

She pointed him to the bag. He noted that the hands were bagged, the clothing preserved properly. Oh, and there such interesting bruising, and that wound on the forehead....

"I'd like you compliment you on your body," said the coroner. "I hope you will feel free to hold it against me."

========

Yeah, yeah. Bad jokes are all very suited to the ultra short microfiction. I won't be doing a Story Notes on this one, though.

Tomorrow, I'll post a call for beta readers for my work-in-progress. If you think you might be interested in reading The Man Who Did Too Much before publication, check out the info page (where the beginning is available for download -- 5 chapters, 15,000 words or about 40-50 pages).

The Curse Of Scattershale Gulch - an excerpt

For Sample Sunday this week I give you an excerpt from my latest novelette -- a Mick and Casey Mystery with a little ghost story mixed in.

In the first chapter, Mick and Casey expected to meet a friend, Oren, who works as a "messenger" for a stagecoach company. But Oren has died of a fall from his horse....

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Chapter 2 of The Curse of Scattershale Gulch
by Camille LaGuire

=======

I WENT OFF to the saloon, a dark little place with a couple of little rickety tables and a long bar. Casey and Turcotte the lawyer were standing at the bar. In the corner was a couple of guys playing checkers, or maybe taking a nap. I couldn't tell.

I told Casey about Oren's misfortune. She took off her hat and slapped it on the bar and raised her glass. Distracting as it was getting a rare glimpse of her bare forehead, I found myself watching Turcotte, who had turned pale and was now staring at me.

"Died? He...fell?" he stammered, and he turned to the bartender, who appeared to already know about it, since he was nodding. "In Scattershale Gulch?"

"Yeah," said the bartender.

"That's the same as...." Turcotte finished his drink instead of his sentence.

"Same as Bronco Annie," said the bartender, filling Turcotte's glass again. Turcotte leaned over his glass and looked pale, but then tightened his fist around it.

"Damn recklessness," he announced, like it needed a label. "That's what it was." He looked at me, and licked his lips, and then looked at Casey, like it was her fault. "Bronco Annie was reckless, too. Like that one," he said, and he pointed at Casey. "You should have seen this girl jump off the top of that stage. Damn recklessness. That's the trouble."

I picked up my beer and stepped back to be out of the line of fire between Casey and Turcotte, but Casey wasn't sure she should be offended. She put her hat back on and tilted it back and then leaned on the bar, which was a little tricky since she's so short.

"How'd this Bronco Annie die?" she asked.

"You having second thoughts about recklessness?"

Casey took a drink of her whiskey and shook her head.

"Nah. Wondering if it's how we want to go," she said, and she wagged her thumb at me to include me in her plans for a wild demise. I didn't mind. I was willing to go where she went.

"It was nothing to aspire to," Turcotte snapped. "I was here that night. She was drunk, and in a brawling mood, and it was dark, and cold and wet outside. And then somebody brought word that her favorite mare was in foal, and she jumped on that half wild stallion of hers and went tearing back to her place. She took a short cut, down a gulch with a steep trail. The footing was bad and the horse took a misstep, and they both went down and broke their necks."

We paused in silence a moment, and then Casey set down her drink in disgust.

"Well, that's not much," she said. I had to agree. As stories went, it was short and dull. Casey was clearly in the mood for something more embroidered, especially about a woman like herself, and she scowled. "That ain't much at all. Anybody could die that way."

"Sure, and anybody did!"

That came from behind us, a female voice as Irish as my Aunt Fiona. We turned and saw a young woman, maybe my age--early twenties--but she looked as young as Casey. She had hair as pale as sunlight, which rippled back to where it was gathered with a black ribbon, and her skin was flushed with sunburn and scattered with freckles across porcelain. Her eyes were a pale blue, almost silver, like maybe they were washed out by the sun like her hair.

And I thought, she's the gal Oren was coming to see.

She had a plate in each hand, with steak, eggs and potatoes. They were nothing special, but they smelled good. Casey, though, was not as easily distracted as I was.

"You mean Oren?" she asked. "When you say anybody?"

"I mean more than Oren." She went over to the rickety table and set the plates down. Then she held out a pair of forks toward us. "Mr. Smith thought you might be hungry, working as messengers and all."

"Thanks," I said, and I took the fork from her before saying, "but we ain't messengers."

"No?" she said, and she looked pointedly at the guns slung on our hips. "And what are you?"

"Range detectives," said Casey firmly, and she shoveled a big fork of eggs into her mouth.

"And there's a difference?" she asked.

"A messenger's got a steady job," I said.

Casey swallowed her eggs, and narrowed her eyes at the woman.

"Who else died riding wild?"

"Perhaps not riding so wild," she said, "but down that very same trail there were a few. Bronco Annie was the first. Then Mr. Turcotte had his own little accident, didn't he? Scared him so bad, he left town."

Turcotte took a deep breath. "As you can see, I'm alive."

"After that it was a rancher named Ben Lattimer, and a year later it was his brother Luke. And now it's Oren. All down the same trail into Scatter-Shale Gulch."

"A dangerous trail," said Turcotte. "Bad footing."

"Dangerous in the dark for sure," said the lass. She looked toward the window. "And so I had better be going while there's still daylight. Wouldn't want to be on that trail at night."

She drew up her black shawl and headed for the door. I noticed that her dress was patched and, plain. And black. She turned as she got to the door.

"If you're range detectives, perhaps you'd be interested to know," she said. "When they found Annie's horse, he'd been shot. Through the breast."

She laid a hand on her own breast to illustrate, and then she went out. I stared after her for a minute, and then I turned back to Turcotte and the bartender.

"Is that so?" I said.

"I don't know, I didn't see it," said Turcotte. "And I went to Johnson City soon after that."

I looked at the bartender. He nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "Ben Lattimer said he'd shot it. Put it out of its misery."

"Lattimer is the guy died on that same trail later on."

"Yep."

The bartender didn't look too comfortable about that. I didn't blame him.

=============

Tomorrow I'll post some notes on the writing of The Curse of Scattershale Gulch.

The Curse of Scattershale Gulch is an 8500 word novelette, available for just 99 cents at Amazon's Kindle Store, as well as Kindle UK. Smashwords has multiple formats for all kinds of e-readers -- including just reading it right there on their site. (It should be available on Apple's iBookstore, and Barnes and Noble's Nook store within a week or so.)

Alphabet Soup - a little fable for writers

This week for Story Sunday, I give you "Alphabet Soup." I wrote this originally as a children's story but, like a lot of my fairy tales, this really seems more like a fable for writers. Sometimes stories really do act like this.

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"Alphabet Soup"
by Camille LaGuire

THERE ONCE WAS an author who ate a lot of soup. Like many authors and artists, he lived in a garret, which is a cold little room in an attic. In his garret he had a bed, a chair, a table, a stove, a pot and a shelf. On the shelf he kept the books which he had written.

He had written a lot of books, though nobody had read them. The words inside the books felt they were quite special anyway. After all, none of the other things in the room could think. The words could think a lot, and they thought mostly about themselves.

"We are the most important things in this room," they thought. "Words make up ideas, and ideas are the most important things ever to exist."

They were very proud of themselves.

The author, however, was not very proud of himself. Nobody ever read his books. Every time he showed them to someone, it seemed like the words had moved around, and the story was not as good as when he wrote it. People did not buy many of his books, so he was very poor. He never had much to eat.

One day he had nothing but some broth. It was very thin broth, almost all water. He heated it up on his stove and took a sip to see if it was ready. It was so thin that it did not have any flavor.

"This soup is just going to make me feel worse," he said, and he decided to go to bed without eating it.

The words inside the books were worried. Why was the author so poor? Why, they wondered, did no one buy them and make him rich? They started to talk about it, but soon they began to argue. (Because, after all, arguing is what words to best.)

"Our book is the best book ever written," said the words in the first book. "The rest of you are so bad, it must be your fault that nobody wants to buy us!"

The other books, of course, all said that they were the best books ever written. They argued and argued. Then the chapters within each book started to argue with each other, each saying it was best. Then the paragraphs began to argue, and then even the sentences. Pretty soon each word was arguing with every other word. They got so noisy, that they woke the author up. He sat up in his bed and looked around. He could not tell where the noise was coming from.

Then the words began to break apart, and the letters began to fight with each other. They couldn't really argue anymore once they weren't words, but they could make a lot of noise.

"Rrrrrrr!" growled the r.

"H h h h," panted the h.

"T t t t!" tisked the t.

Then the capital A kicked the small h with its foot, and the h swung its top around to hit the A back. It missed and knocked the dot from the top of the small j. Suddenly every letter was fighting with every other letter. They poured out of the books and onto the shelf, piling into a great battle that amazed the frightened author.

The shelf began to shake, but the letters didn't even notice. Then the shelf broke and spilled all the books on the floor. The letters fell into the pan on the stove.

The author jumped out of bed and picked up his books. The pages were empty. Not one letter had stayed in the books. He felt terrible. He had spent his whole life writing those books, and now they were gone!

His stomach growled, and he remembered how hungry he was. He looked at the soup on the stove. That's when he saw where all his letters had gone. They were in a thick jumble. He would never get them back into order.

But now his thin broth was thick soup.

He was hungry.

Oh well, he thought. I might as well just eat it. At least I will have a full stomach. He ate the soup, which was very satisfying, and then went back to bed. All night he digested the letters, and when he woke up he began to write the books all over again.

This time the books really were the best ever written, because the letters had learned their lesson, and this time they stayed where the author put them.

========================

I hope to put a few more of these fables for writers together, and maybe make a collection some day. In the meantime, read my Story Notes about "Alphabet Soup" tomorrow.


You can read more of my fantasy fiction in The Bellhound, Four Tales of Modern Magic at all Amazon Kindle Stores: Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon DE. As well as at other ebook retailers: Smashwords, Barnes and Nobel, Apple iBookstore, Nook, and Sony.

The Burglar's Dilemma, a short crime comedy

For Story Sunday, I offer a new flash story, written last week, and still not polished. I've always liked crime stories about likable crooks, like Lawrence Block's Bernie Rhodenbarr stories or Donald Westlake's Dortmunder stories. I may make Rod into a regular character....

* * * * * *

The Burglar's Dilemma
by Camille LaGuire

ONE NIGHT, WHEN Rod was making his exit from a jewelry store, where he had acquired some heavily discounted diamonds, he cut through a another shop on his way out.

This shop sold costumes, and they had a whole rack of uniforms; cops, security guards, soldiers. And since it was night and there was nobody there to stop him, he paused to check them over for one that looked kinda like a cop, but not too much, so that he couldn't get in trouble for impersonating an officer.

Because he didn't want to impersonate an officer. Rod was a burglar, not a robber. He liked acquiring things, he didn't like scaring people. He didn't even like talking to them, really. He was shy.

So this idea of wearing a security uniform when he went on jobs seemed just right for him. People avoid looking you in the eye when you're an authority figure. Most of the time, they don't look at you at all and all they saw was the uniform.

Rod liked not being remembered.

A couple of days later, Rod waltzed right in to an old apartment building, behind somebody with a key to the security door. They glanced at his chest, not at his face.

The apartment itself was full of nice things, but he didn't touch most of them. Rod wasn't greedy and the plan was not to draw attention to himself. Fact is, most people don't check their safes every single day, so if he was careful, they wouldn't even notice he'd been there until a long time later.

And besides, what would a cop or security guard be doing hauling down a bunch of electronics or art objects? Then people would look at him. But if he just walked out the way he walked in, nobody would remember a couple days later.

So Rod cracked the safe and only took the best pieces of jewelry and some cash; things that would fit in his pockets. Then he shut the safe and cleaned up after himself. There. Perfect.

As he got to the door, though, he heard a sound.

The sound of a key in the lock. Crap! The people had come home.

The door was already opening. He had no time, so he ducked into the closet beside the door and hoped they weren't wearing coats or carrying tennis rackets. If he was lucky, he could slip out when they went into the bedroom or something.

The people, however, stopped right there in front of the door and talked. An argument. Rod sighed and realized he might be in for a long night. He held still, and tried not to listen, but of course he had to, because he needed to know if they were going to open the closet or go in the other room and have make up sex....

The thing was, they weren't really arguing. The guy was using a voice like you argue with, nasty and mean. The woman, though, she didn't say hardly anything.

Then he heard a smack, like somebody got slapped. And the woman made a sound then, like she was the one who got smacked, even if the was the guy who was saying things that should have got him smacked. There was a sound like she fell against the closet door, and he could hear what she said next clearly.

"You won't get away with it," said the woman. "They'll know you did it."

"I'll blame it on a burglar," said the guy.

Rod stood up straight. No! He'd done such a good job of covering his tracks. And this guy.... Wait a minute, this guy was talking about killing the woman!

"I've got to tie you up first," said he man. "They'll know if the rope burns came after death, after all."

"No!" cried the woman.

"If you fight it will just help my story," said the guy, and he pulled her away from the door and Rod heard them go into the next room. Rod reached for the door knob, and pictured the position of the main door. He could get out fast.

The woman was crying now.

Rod didn't like hearing people cry. It bothered him. And you can't afford to be bothered about people's feelings when you're a crook.

But what could he really do? If he jumped out and intervened, the guy would still kill the woman after he left. It's not like he could wait around for the cops to arrive, and now the guy would have a real burglar to blame.

No, he'd have to hurt the guy, and help the woman escape. Then she could testify and the guy couldn't kill her. Just the word testify gave Rod the heebie-jeebies. He clutched at his belt as he thought how he could end up testifying too.

And he felt the gun in his belt. It was fake, but it was a pretty good fake.

He took a breath and lept out of the closet. He drew his weapon and roared like the voice from his own worst nightmares:

"Police! Drop it, asshole!"

The guy was so startled he not only dropped the rope, he fell right over. He started to get back up, but Rod shoved him back down.

"Hands on your head! Cross your ankles!"

He had the guy down like a pro. The handcuffs were fake too -- they just had a button you could use to release them -- but they were metal and probably felt right to fool the guy.

"You, lady," he said as he snapped them on the guy's wrists. "Go down stairs. Call 9-1-1- for back up!"

She scrambled to her feet and started to run for the door, but then paused to look at him.

"Wouldn't it be faster to use your radio?"

What do you say to that? Claim it's on the fritz? And now she was looking closer at the gun, and the cuffs, and his uniform. Rod was a fast thinker. He had the guy restrained now.

"Uh, I can't," he admitted. "I'm not really a cop, I'm a... a stripper."

"A stripper?"

"Yeah, I saw you in the hall and I didn't like the look on his face so I followed you up here. Maybe you'd better go to a neighbor's to call the cops in case this guy gets away from me."

The woman looked him over, and Rod was grateful that he had been working out lately, because the way he had looked last year, he would not have passed for a stripper.

She picked up her purse and pulled out a card and wrote something on it. Then she handed it to him.

"Call me," she said. "I may want a stripper for my divorce party."

She left the apartment while Rod used the rope to tie the guy up good. He considered putting the money and jewelry back, or slipping it into the guy's pocket, because frankly, that divorce party sounded interesting.

But he was shy, and they'd expect him to take that uniform off, so he kept the jewels and made his exit.

THE END

* * * * * *

Stay tuned for tomorrow's Story Notes on "The Burglar's Dilemma."

In the meantime: you can read more of my (published and award nominated) mystery and suspense fiction in the short ebook collection: Waiter, There's a Clue In My Soup! Five Mystery Stories. For 99 cents!

Available at the Amazon Kindle Store, Kindle UK, and in multiple formats at Smashwords. Also available at the B&N Nook Store, as well as the Apple iBookstore, Kobo, Sony and other e-retailers.

Sea Sprite - an Excerpt From The Adventure of Anna the Great

Today we have another excerpt from The Adventure of Anna the Great, a story of adventure, intrigue and horses.

Context for Today's Excerpt: Anna disguised herself as a boy, Albert, and set off looking for adventure. She found it and a job in the royal stables. Sea Sprite is an angry and dangerous horse whom the rotten head stableman, Wilhelm Bloch, uses to "punish" the stable boys. Anna has been watching the noblemen have tournaments and competitions all day long and is itching for some action, when Block decides that she needs to be taken down a peg... and he tells her to exercise Sea Sprite.

* * * * *

An Excerpt from Chapter X - Sea Sprite
(In which Anna and the meanest horse in the stable agree wholeheartedly on their next course of action....)


I REALIZED THAT I was supposed to be frightened at the prospect of riding Sea Sprite, but I could not help but be thrilled. Sea Sprite was a gorgeous horse, and I could not imagine anyone keeping such a horse at the royal stable, in a loose box no less, if he were not a great horse.

“Hi, Sprite. Want to go for a ride?” I called. Sea Sprite dashed his body against the wall and raked his teeth across the bars. Even with the solid wall between us I took a step back. Maybe I was wrong about being thrilled. Aunt Elfie always said I was too impetuous. Oh, well. I went to get his bridle and my saddle.

When I returned I thought I ought to get his bridle on him first thing so I could control him. I opened the top door of the stall and held the bridle in front of me like a shield.

Then a remarkable thing happened. Sea Sprite’s ears came up. I had never seen them up before.
He came forward and lipped the bridle, practically taking it out of my hand. That was a good sign. He liked his bridle.

He did not try to bite me at all while I bridled him, and only once when I saddled him, and that when I pulled the girth up too tight too fast. Otherwise he was very cooperative.

“You want to go, don’t ya boy,” I said, scratching his neck. I think boredom affects horses more than people. People, after all, are not usually shut up in a little stall all day. No wonder he had been so grumpy. He wanted to go.

I wanted to go too, and I have to admit, when he resisted going into the ring and pulled for the park and its long trails, I gave in to him. I did not want to ride in a boring old ring either.

I also gave him his pace, a fast, big striding trot. Even at that pace he pulled. He wanted to run. There were still a number of people in the park, so I held him back as long as I could. Then when we got into the open I let out a whoop and we charged across the field.

It was a fast full exhilarating gallop. There was a breeze off the mountains, and our speed made it seem a gale force. Wind made my shirt flap and my hair swirl. That was a good feeling, being away from the barn, and my hair was short and could not get into my mouth and eyes.

I rose out of the saddle and let out another whoop of encouragement. I grabbed a handful of mane and closed my eyes, riding on feel as we flew over the gentle dips and rises of the park. I had been right in the first place. It was thrilling to ride Sea Sprite. Even if it was foolish, it was thrilling.

I urged him on some more and opened my eyes. A small knot of people had wandered out onto the green. They were standing with their backs to us, admiring the scenery of the mountains.

I sat down hard and pulled on the reins. It made not the slightest bit of difference. Sea Sprite galloped on unchecked. Most horses avoid trampling people, but I was not certain about Sea Sprite. I let out a yell of warning and pulled on one rein, bracing my other hand on his neck, in hopes of turning him, or at least getting him off balance. It did slow him down, for two paces. He galloped sideways a moment and then shot off in a new direction.

Well. First crisis overcome. It seemed we could come to a compromise. We would go where I wanted, but at his pace. That was a relief, since I really wanted to go fast myself anyway. Unfortunately, while I made sure we trampled no pedestrians, I failed to notice where I had guided him. I looked up to see that we were but one stride from a dense bit of forest.

I flattened myself against his neck to avoid low branches and we plunged in. Something hard struck my knee, and all parts of me were whipped by leaves and branches. The denseness of the undergrowth slowed Sea Sprite considerably. He broke stride and settled into an excited trot. It was the ideal time to gain control, but I was afraid to look up for fear of the branches. It was hard to regain the reins too, since the twigs kept snatching them away, and my hands were soon covered with scratches.

I finally did get a proper hold on him, and at that moment the forest began to clear and I could sit up. We had reached one of the cross country trails. We cantered to the left, this time with me firmly in control. I wanted to be sure, however, and when the path widened out to a clearing I put him through some figures at an easy trot. Sea Sprite was no dressage horse, and he had no will to become one. Running was all he really liked to do, it seemed.

I pulled him to a halt and patted him on the neck. His ears pricked up, and he looked down the path. I heard the pounding of hooves. In a moment two horsemen, galloping neck and neck, appeared on the trail, then disappeared over a fence further on. One of them was the marquis, and the other I thought must be Captain Kohlman. The horse race. I had forgotten.

Sea Sprite jumped to go after them, and I did not hold him back. Although there were no silver spurs waiting at the end of the race, the whole day of longing to win something had got competition into my blood.

We raced after them, no question this time about control. Horse and rider both wanted the same thing. My heart seemed to pound with his hooves. I hardly noticed the first jump as we flew over. My attention was on the two tails about twenty-five paces ahead. I urged Sea Sprite on as the trail swerved left onto a downgrade. He laid himself flat out, not letting up around the curve, or even on the downslope, which said a lot for his courage. Horses do not usually like to risk going head over heels. We were closing the distance.

Near the bottom of the hill was another fence. I do not much like jumps on a downgrade—it is a little like running down stairs and skipping a step. Sea Sprite, however, took it smooth and fast. He wasted no energy jumping up, but out and long. We were at least another stride closer, and he laid himself out again.

On the flat we could not gain much, but over each jump and around each bend we shortened the distance. Sea Sprite jumped big, and long, and he threw himself around the curves. He seemed experienced at this kind of race. Soon his nose was up with Captain Kohlman’s flank, the marquis having pulled a length ahead. They both must have known that another horse had joined the race, but neither looked to see who it was.

Over one more jump and we were up with Kohlman.

“Go, Sprite, go!” I hissed and urged him on. Sea Sprite could not increase his speed much, but he tried, and we began to pull away from the captain, and up on the marquis.

We were heading back toward the palace now. There were spectators lining up in the open spaces. I caught sight of Hans and Philip up ahead, waving, or perhaps gesturing. I was not sure and had no time to notice. I was just about up with the marquis.

“Go!” I said once more to Sprite. The marquis glanced back. Then he sat up straight and looked back again, as his pace slowed and he fell back.

“Good God, it’s Albert!” he said, and he urged his horse on again. Sea Sprite was too far ahead now, though, and it was irritating that we had got there because the marquis had let up. We would have been ahead by our own efforts over the next jump, if not before.

That next jump lay ahead of me. It was a water ditch with a bank in front of it. I did not know much about the strategy of taking a water ditch. We had a creek at home and that was as far as my water experience went. Sea Sprite had seemed to know what he was doing so far, though, so I gave him his head and grabbed a handful of mane, prepared to follow whatever he did.

As we got closer I saw that the water was too broad to jump. Apparently we were to jump off the bank into the water, and gallop through. That seemed straightforward enough. I prepared myself for the downward plunge as we approached the bank.

Then something white flew by, just in front of us. A lady’s parasol, caught by the wind. Sea Sprite started sideways, but I kept going forward. I tried holding his mane and hooking my knee on the saddle, but as the momentum carried us both up the bank I found I could not stop our parting. I rolled through the air, slamming flat on my back on top of the bank and skidding over and down.

Splash!

The water was muddy, and I got some in my mouth, but I could not cough. All the air had been knocked from my lungs by the impact. I struggled to my feet, wheezing a little. Hans and Philip were already there, pulling me out of the water. The marquis was just behind, flinging aside his reins and running to help.

I rolled over on the bank and lay a minute. It seemed as if the whole city were there looking at me in a crowd of concerned faces.

“Are you all right, Albert?” asked the marquis.

I was all right, perfectly all right. Never better. But when I tried to answer, the sound that came out of my throat was rather like a long dead frog’s ghostly death curse.

“Crooaakk!” I said, trying to sit up.

“No, no, no,” said the marquis. “Lie down.”

“He’s all right,” said Tybalt, casually poking his one unconcerned face in at me. “Just got the wind knocked out of him.”

I nodded and pointed to him.

“I think he’s right, your grace,” said Philip, looking me over. He started to feel my collar bone and poke my ribs.

“All right,” I said, my voice beginning to come back to normal. I pushed his hands away. “I’m all right.”

The marquis breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, Albert,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the stable.”

“Wait a minute,” said Tybalt. “He should get back on the horse and take that jump again.”

“Really, Stenbau,” said the marquis. “I think that if Albert gains a little fear from this experience, he could use it.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the boy,” said Tybalt with a grin. “It’s the horse. He’ll never take that jump again it he doesn’t go over it now.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. I was feeling a little stiff, but I could ride a horse. I could always ride a horse.

“No,” said the marquis and Philip together.

“I’m okay,” I said, getting up unsteadily. “I can ride.”

* * * * *

Tomorrow, I'll post a little more about the writing of this clip.

If you'd like to read more of The Adventure of Anna the Great, you can find it in ebook form at Amazon's Kindle Store, Kindle UK Store, Smashwords. and Barnes and Noble's Nookstore. Look for it at Apple's iBookstore, Sony, Kobo and Diesel, too.

The Real Unexpurgated Story of the Baby Shoes Which Were Sold Unused

I told you why I thought Hemingway's six-word story -- "For Sale, Baby Shoes. Never Used." -- does not qualify as a real story. Here's MY version of the story....


The Real Unexpurgated Story of the Baby Shoes Which Were Sold Unused
by Camille LaGuire


THE YOUNG WOMAN who entered the offices of the Poolitstown Gazette was of a strapping height and firm demeanor. She was dressed all in stern black, which set off her pale skin and blue eyes. Mr. Bandiwilt, the editor of the Gazette, looked her over and came to the conclusion that she was a woman of strong opinions, and might be there to sell him on the concept of temperance, or perhaps woman suffrage, or perhaps both.

"I wish to place an advertisement in your newspaper," said the young woman.

"Ah, yes, of course," he said with some relief. "Please sit down, Miss...."

"Whitley. Olivia Whitley," she said, and she sat. He picked up a pen and leaned forward.

"And the advertisement is for...?"

"Baby shoes," she said. "I have some baby shoes to sell. Several pair. Never used. The ad should say that."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mr. Bandiwilt, realizing that he must have missed the meaning of the severe black clothing.

"What?" said the woman looking confused.

"For your loss," he added indicating her dress.

"Oh, that," she said, looking down at her own skirts. "Yes, it was a loss, I suppose, but she was very old. Eighty-six, and every bit a bossy old bother to the very end. Still we will miss her--"

"Ah, I thought--"

"You thought what?"

"Well, that you'd lost a child."

"Of course not! Heavens, if I had lost a child I would have corrected you when you called me Miss."

"I... yes, I suppose."

"Really whatever were you thinking?"

"Well, if they're shoes meant for a child, and you're selling them new...."

"I didn't say they were new. I said they were never used."

Mr. Bandiwilt sat back for a moment and considered whether to ask and compound his offense or to simply apologize and take the ad down. She didn't, however, seem to be offended, and he was a newspaperman.

"Pardon me if this is none of my business, but how did these old shoes come to never used?"

"Oh, that was simply a question of whether my father had large feet or small feet."

"They were your father's shoes?"

"Oh, no. No. These are girl's shoes. Besides why would my father not wear his shoes?"

An aggravating woman. Mr. Bandiwilt paused and considered again whether he ought to press on, and decided he might as well.

"Would you mind, then, explaining to me what the size of your father's feet had to do with a set of girl's baby shoes?"

Miss Whitely cocked her head and gave him a surprisingly sly smile.

"It's a long story, and my poor departed aunt would be very upset if I told it to you," she said. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"I am a newspaperman," said Mr. Bandiwilt. "I love to hear long stories which upset elderly aunts."

* * * * *

THE MAN GENERALLY considered to be my father (said Miss Whitley) was named Johnny Whitley. He was the only son of a wealthy man, the owner of Whitley and Oshman Textiles. Now just Oshman Rugs, but I'm sure you've heard of them. The Whitley family has always been rather small-boned and weak. Johnny's mother died in childbirth, and he himself was a sickly child.

Now, Johnny married a woman named Sylvia when they were both very young. She was a sweet thing, but taller than Johnny, and I've heard tell the marriage wasn't a great match, but it never had much chance to blossom. Johnny went off to serve in the war, but of course he was rejected for being too scrawny. He was so offended that he went east to the big city and took a job as assistant to one of the war photographers, just to prove he was valiant and useful.

As it happened, the riverboat he was on in traveling to the battle lines never reached its destination. The war came up to meet it, and the boat was sunk, losing all hands. Johnny was never found and it was assumed he was dead.

Except he wasn't.

He was merely terrified and humiliated, and he swam ashore and headed back for the city. He didn't want to go home. He wanted a new life, and he so made one for himself as a photographer, and did quite well for himself.

He had a mistress whom he very much loved. She was an acrobat named Laurentina, and very charming. I'm told she was able to clean her ears with her toes, although she never did it in polite company. They were very happy together, and he intended to make an honest woman of her. Of course, there was the issue of his previous marriage, but he had left that life behind, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

Laurentina was a great reader of newspapers. She read them from front to back including all the advertisements, and she particularly liked the odd little ads put in by individuals. Everything might have been quite all right for everyone, if she hadn't read them so closely. But one day she saw an ad which changed everything.

* * *

IN THE MEANTIME, back home, Johnny's widow Sylvia was not left in dire straits. She was taken in by Johnny's father, and Aunt Eve, who was the father's sister, and who was happy to look after the girl. She'd always wanted a daughter, and Sylvia was very young when they had been married.

Everyone considered her to be a widow now, and sometimes young men would pay court to her, and lately there was a young Adonis named Charles Meckler. He was a very handsome man, and tall, and strong, and of extremely good health, and he was also very intelligent and well-mannered. Aunt Eve was very pleased with Charles. Since the family now considered Sylvia to be a daughter of the house, it seemed to Aunt Eve that if she were to marry Charles, it would bring some healthy new blood into this sickly and undersized family.

But there was a problem. Unlike Johnny, no one in the family or the town forgot that Sylvia was married, and there came the question as to what to do about it. They could go to court to have Johnny declared dead -- which his father simply could not bear to do -- or they could go to court and declare that he had abandoned Sylvia after so many years, and then they could dissolve the marriage.

Aunt Eve thought that latter was simply unacceptable. She hated scandal, and the very idea that they should declare publicly that Johnny had behaved so abominably toward his young wife...well, that would be a horrible mark against the family. And since they were sure he was dead, it would be pure defamation to say he had run away.

Sylvia didn't care which they chose, because she was eager to marry her beloved Charles. However, her father-in-law and aunt argued so vehemently about it that the man had a heart attack and died.

Which put the kibosh on the wedding plans. At least for a bit.

But then there was the trouble with the textile mill. Mr. Oshman, who was partner to Johnny's father, did not like leaving things unsettled. He needed to know if Johnny was alive to inherit half the mill, or if there was some other person he should deal with. And if he had a partner, he wanted to deal with him face to face.

Mr. Oshman did not give the shake of a lamb's tail about scandal or not, and he went straight to court to get the matter settled. The judge, however, did not think there had been a proper search to be sure if Johnny was dead or alive, and he insisted that some sort of effort be made to find out.

So Oshman put advertisements in all of the major newspapers in all the big cities back east.

And it was one such ad that Laurentina found that morning, while sipping her coffee.

* * *

JOHNNY HAD NEVER changed his name, so Laurentina saw at once that the ad referred to her beloved Johnny. And after he told her his story, it was very clear that answering the ad would be of benefit to both of them. After all, if Johnny inherited a fortune, they could marry and live in comfort.

So Johnny returned home to face the music, and collect his inheritance. And it all seemed to go quite well at first. He and Sylvia hardly knew one another any more, if they ever had, and he had no objection to the idea of a divorce. Quite frankly, he just wanted to settle all the legalities, sell his share of the business, and leave.

But there was a problem.

Sylvia was showing certain signs which Aunt Eve recognized. The girl was expecting a child. Aunt Eve was horrified, scandalized and outraged. They could not possibly get divorced now. That child had to be born in wedlock. There could be no question about timing and legal confusions. And there certainly could be no moral confusions. They would have to pretend that Johnny had come back to town somewhat earlier than he did.

After much discussion, it was agreed that the divorce should be postponed. Johnny, after all, had a great deal of business to settle and would not be leaving soon anyway. However he did not want to be away form Laurentina, so he sent for her so he would not be lonely.

Sylvia was less fortunate. Aunt Eve was adamant that Charles could not come to visit. It was one thing for Johnny to behave in a scandalous way, but a lady could not have any scandal associated with her. Aunt Eve began to stew about it all, and soon she was convinced that there could be no divorce at all, ever. It was simply impossible. How could a couple with a young child split up? The courts wouldn't allow it.

"Of course they would," said Johnny. "I'll just be sure that Laurentina and I are seen gallivanting around--"

"No no no," said Eve. "Not with a baby on the way! The court would not allow a split, no matter how bad the behavior."

Which is when Laurentina revealed that they might well be two babies to consider if it came to that.

Aunt Eve nearly had apoplexy, but she had to give in. She could not have a scandal of that magnitude. She set about doing everything she socially could to ease the way to a quiet divorce.

I was born several months later, and the divorce was finalized and soon my mother Sylvia married Charles, who adopted me. Johnny married Laurentina just in time to see that their child was also born in wedlock. It was quite the happiest ending for everyone.

* * * * *

MISS WHITLEY STOPPED and leaned back with the air of someone who had just told a whole story.

"How very...bohemian," said Mr. Bandiwilt. "But what has this to do with the pair of unused baby shoes?"

"Fourteen pair of unused baby shoes," said Miss Whitley. "That was Aunt Eve's fault. My feet, you see, were much too large for ordinary baby shoes, and that was quite clear from the day I was born. Aunt Eve was horrified that someone would realize that my feet were too large to come from Whitley stock. Johnny, of course, had tiny feet. So Aunt Eve kept my feet covered up, and she went around buying baby shoes in every store in town, the tiniest size she could get. She commented loudly on how tiny my feet were, and made sure everyone knew it."

"And none of the shoes fit," said Mr. Bandiwit.

"Couldn't even get them over my toes. Of course, if only Aunt Eve had bothered to look, she'd have realized that Charles had tiny feet himself. Some big men are quite dainty in the extremities you know."

"Indeed," said the editor.

"Yes, and my mother, bless her, had feet the size of seat cushions. In any case, Aunt Eve bought all those shoes, and hid them away. Last month when she died, we found the shoes among her things. If only we'd known she was doing that, we could have sent them to Johnny and Laurentina, but it was too late, so now I should sell them. Aunt Eve spent a great deal of money on them because she wanted people to notice she was buying them. They are excellent shoes. Someone should wear them!"

The End

***********

And that is my explanation of the story behind Hemingway's story. (Tomorrow I'll post some Story Notes about how I came to write the story.)

In the meantime: you can read more of my short fiction in one of my two 99 cent collections:

Waiter, There's a Clue In My Soup! Five Mystery Stories. Available at the Amazon Kindle Store, Kindle UK, and in multiple formats at Smashwords. Also available at the B&N Nook Store, as well as the Apple iBookstore, Kobo, Sony and other e-retailers.

Or The Bellhound, Four Tales of Modern Magic at Amazon Kindle, Kindle UK, and Smashwords. Soon this should be available at B&N, Apple and other stores.

Away He Run - a family tale of modern magic

For Sample Sunday this week, I give you a short story I published a long time ago in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine. It's in the collection I just published: "The Bellhound, Four Tales of Modern Magic."

* * * *

Away He Run
by Camille LaGuire

TOM HATED RAIN. The cold, wet rattle of it muffled the sound of his parents’ voices. He crouched on the top step and listened.

“Tom?” called Dad. “Come on, Tom. It’s time to go!”

They were putting on their rain coats, and neither had looked up yet. They had not seen him, but they would look up at any moment. If they saw him, he would have to come. He felt the old panic begin. He’d been wrong to put off thinking about it. Now he couldn’t think at all. He just wanted to run.

His mother turned, about to look up. He scrambled around the corner and pressed his back against the wall. Her voice came to him softly from the bottom of the steps.

“George,” she was saying. “He just ran away.”

“Oh, Christ,” said Dad. “Not again.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. The fourth step creaked. Tom pulled open the linen closet and slipped in backwards, not quite pulling it shut behind him. He did not want the sound of the click to give him away.

“Tom?” His father was halfway up the stairs. “I thought you were over this.”

“George, wait. Maybe...he doesn’t like the treatments.”

“Who would?”

“Maybe we should postpone the appointment....”

“No!”

His father’s voice was near and loud. Tom cringed into the sheets. He wished he could flatten himself to nothing, slip under the sheets and never be found.

“He can hear us,” said Mom.

“I’m sorry.” Dad’s voice was quieter, but there was still an edge to it. “I just don’t want to have to go through this again. It’s the last appointment.” Mom was silent, and after a pause, Dad continued. “Dr. Minas is right, and we’ve got to make a man out of him....”

“He’s young yet.”

“Not all that young, and he’s getting older all the time. Look, I’ll check out the bedrooms, you watch the stairs.”

“Let’s both just sit here and wait for him to come out.”

“He’s not going to come out.”

“Yes he will. Come on. Sit down. It calms him to hear our voices.”

Dad let out an exasperated sigh, and neither made a sound for several seconds. Tom leaned ever so slowly to see through the crack. Mom was sitting on the top step, facing down. Dad was leaning on the railing with an air of dejection.

“He hasn’t done this for three visits,” he said softly.

“He just couldn’t take it anymore, George. It must be very painful.”

“You think so?”

“Honestly, George!” said Mom, looking at him sharply. “How insensitive can you be? Of course it hurts. Why would he act this way if it didn’t hurt? Tom, honey? Tom, I’ve got your Mr. Mouse. He’ll be there and so will we. Tom?”

She was looking in the wrong direction, calling for him down the hall toward his bedroom. Her lilting voice cracked as she held up the cuddly gray mouse. Tom felt a sudden coldness. If he was to be a man, he would not want a toy like that anymore.

“I wish we’d never started this,” said Dad, to himself. Mom turned to him angrily.

“Well, I don’t!”

Now they were going to fight. Right in front of him. And he was trapped in this closet. He half rose up from the sheets, looking for a place to go.

“How could you say that? Don’t you love him?”

“I was thinking of him when I said it.” Dad’s footsteps moved down the hall, away from both of them. “I’m going to look for him.”

Tom felt that jittery panic. Now he was going to be trapped in that car in the middle of a cold angry fight. He had to get further away, to the attic.

Dad would be looking under the beds by now. Mom never chased him. She would be watching the stairs anyway, maybe sulking. She wouldn’t even see him if he didn’t make noise. He pushed the door open slowly. She was looking the other way, sitting on the step, leaning forward. He carefully set one foot down, and then the other.

She suddenly sat up, throwing her head back with one sharp shuddering sob. Tom jumped. Mom turned and saw him. She tried to smile. A little crooked half smile.

“Tom? Oh, Tom.” She rolled to her knees. Tom turned and dashed for the attic ladder. “George! He’s here!”

Dad came out of the bedroom. Tom glanced down to see him stop, helpless anger on his face.

“Christ, Janice, you know shouting scares him.”

“What about your shouting?”

Tom slammed the trapdoor shut and sat on it. Their voices were muffled. Were they arguing? Sometimes they shouted but got over it. And sometimes, even when they talked normally, they just got worse.

He wanted to get higher, further, not just out of sight, out of reach. He looked at the trunks and boxes. There was a tall wardrobe by the window. He could climb the curtains to get to the top of it. That was stupid. The rod couldn’t hold his weight, and what kind of a hiding place was it anyway?

He tried to be reasonable, but the voices below had stopped, and he could hear the ladder creak. He looked out the window. The rain blurred the view of the backyard. It was a gable window, and though he could not get down, he could get onto the roof.

He pushed up the window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it was cold. He hesitated. The trapdoor behind him moved. He scrambled out, ignoring the dirty water and crawled up to sit beside the gable.

It was only a second before he heard the window open further. He started to sidle up higher.

“No, Tom. I won’t chase you!” said Dad. Tom could see his fingers wrapped around the corner of the gable. Then his father’s face appeared, strained and already wet, as he leaned out to see the boy. “I promise I won’t come any further.”

Tom stopped. The drizzle was getting through his clothes and hair now, and besides, he believed his father. Tom hugged himself and crouched where he was. Dad waited a moment.

“Are you all right now?”

“Yes.”

Dad let out a small sigh of relief. “Will you come down now?”

Tom did not answer.

“What’s wrong?”

“I....” Tom didn’t know how to say what was wrong. “I’ll change.”

“But it’s a good change.”

“I can’t remember how to purr!” Tom shouted and shook the water off his hands. He wanted to hiss and spit. Dad looked like he had been hit in the face with a cold bucket of water. He swallowed, and opened his mouth to reply, but at first no sound came out. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Tom.” He said it so quietly that Tom calmed down. “I never would have started this if I had known what we were putting you through. It’s just that...we wanted a child so badly, and you were such a sweet little lost kitten. When Dr. Minas said she could change you.... Do you really hate being a human?”

“That’s not it,” said Tom. “It’s better to be a human. Really. But this time... I’ll forget everything, won’t I?”

“No, Tom. Of course you won’t forget everything.”

“What kind of cat was I, then? Why can’t I remember that?”

“You were brown tabby kitten, with green gold eyes. You were only three weeks old. That’s why you don’t remember.”

Tom wiped his hand over his fine brown hair. It was still the greyish-brown color of a cat.

“Will my eyes still be green gold?”

“Yes. You’ll still be you. You’ll just loose some of your wilder urges. You won’t be so mean to Jimmy Stimpson.”

“I won’t ever be mean to him again. I...I didn’t know better. I know now.”

“But if you were fully human, it wouldn’t be a matter of what you know. You wouldn’t have to fight it.”

“And I won’t like to play with Mr. Mouse anymore.”

“Of course you will.”

“You sure?”

“You’ll play with him more. You’ll know how to love him, the way your mother and I love you.”

Tom shook the water off his hands and fidgeted. “But how do you know I love you when I can’t purr?”

Dad laughed. “Humans have other ways of purring,” he said. “Maybe you can’t see that until you are fully human.”

“I know you love me,” he admitted.

“That’s right,” said Dad. “So come on down now.”

Tom started to move, but froze when he looked down at the roof, sloping away to the backyard so far down.

“I can’t”

“Come on. You got up there. You can get down.”

“I’m scared.”

“Turn around and come backwards. That’s it.”

Tom slowly backed down the roof. Dad slipped an arm around his waist when he got close enough and pulled him in. Mom was waiting right behind him. As soon as Tom was inside, she grabbed him and hugged him.

“That’s a purr,” said Dad. Mom looked puzzled, so he explained. “Humans purr in lots of ways.”

“Oh,” she said, “Like laughing. Maybe after this you’ll be able to laugh.” She looked down at Tom with an expression of pained hope.

While Tom changed into dry clothes, Mom and Dad kept whispering and signaling to each other. The fight was over, and they were trying to discuss something behind his back. He batted at Mr. Mouse while he waited for them.

“Tom,” said his Mom all of a sudden. “You don’t have to go through with this. We could keep the appointment just to ask questions, or maybe we just won’t go at all. What do you think?”

Tom looked down at the stuffed animal in his lap. The black plastic eyes stared back. He wrapped his arms around the mouse and squeezed, resisting the urge to kick and bite its ears. Like Mom hugs me, he thought, and he tried to remember what it was like to purr.

It almost felt right.

“Let’s just go and do it,” he said. He wanted his purr back, even if it had to be a laugh instead.

* * * * *

Tomorrow, I'll tell you more about where this story came from in the Story Notes post.

The Bellhound, Four Tales of Modern Magic is available for 99 cents, in multiple ebook formats at Smashwords, as well as at Amazon.com for Kindle. Coming soon to Barnes and Noble, the Apple iBookstore and other e-retailers.