If confession is good for the soul, brace yourself … my last couple of weeks are sort of lost, and it dawned on me it was time to post a blog.  With so many other things vying for my attention lately, I don’t have a clue what I’m going to write about.

Lucky you, I’m about to go on a brainstorm.

In writing jargon, that means put the words to screen (or paper) as they come to you.  Don’t stop and edit (do not be afraid … I will edit this before posting.).  Pump out the words whether they’re gold or trash because your goal is to make your brain vomit verbiage.

Ew, that was gross alliteration….

How many people envisioned writing as sitting next to a sunny window and sipping a cup of tea (or something harder) while merrily tapping away on a keyboard?  And how many of them discovered it can often be more like staring at a blank chalkboard (okay, if you’re under thirty, you might have to look that up) while raking their fingernails across it?

Umm … all of them?

I’ve already pondered what motivates writers, but this situation does remind me of a joke (of course):  A writer died and was told he could choose between going to heaven or to hell.  He wanted to make an informed choice, so the angel took him to hell first.  Writers were chained to their desks and furiously banged away on their keyboards while they were lashed with fiery whips.

“Ew, let me see heaven,” he said.  So the angel took him there and he saw writers chained to their desks and furiously banging away on their keyboards while they were lashed with fiery whips.  “Wait a minute,” the writer said, “this is just like the other place.”

“Oh no, there’s a difference,” the angel replied.  “Here you get published.”

I’ll leave you to ponder that one for a while.  It’s time to grab a cup of tea (or something harder) and chain myself to the desk and get to work.  Hey, where did that whip come from…?

“Open this blasted gate right now!”  The woman’s shout to the guard startled IMP17 more than it should have.  “Zeke!”

One reason she’d caught him off guard was because his conversation with the bearded man visiting this makeshift cell was essentially intense.  Earlier today he’d interrogated IMP17 and then had him thrown into this refuse pit.  The garbage was recent and shoved back into one corner, leaving enough room for IMP17 to remain kneeling, arms bound and ankles shackled, on the rough rock floor.

The man whom he’d just learned was Zeke stood against the wall near the gate while aiming a blaster at IMP17’s face.  At least Zeke had done him the favor of removing the canvas bag that had been slapped over his head when the soldiers hauled him to this prison.

The guard who’d been standing at the gate and aiming a blaster at IMP17 lowered his weapon to allow the woman in.  That was another reason he’d been caught by surprise.  The Rabble were notorious for keeping their females away from the fighting front, and only a kilometer away a battle raged …  the second engagement that day.

Zeke’s demeanor grew edgier.  “You shouldn’t be here!”

“Quint sent me!”  She hesitated just inside the gate and glanced back and forth between the two of them with a fiery gaze.  Her clothes were bloodstained.

Imp17 was distracted for a few seconds.  Throughout his life he saw conspicuous women only occasionally.  The Elite, who altered themselves to the image and function they desired, tended to go for an androgynous look.  It underscored their equality with each other and the inferiority of the unimproved Rabble.

He noted the streaks of gray in her upswept, brown hair.  So that explained it.  She was beyond child-bearing age, which probably made her more expendable than the wenches who could still gestate.

Despite her years she was strong in form and features, and IMP17 could have felt a primordial shift about her if he wasn’t discussing more pressing matters.  He redirected his attention to Zeke, noticing the gray in his beard seemed to match that in the woman’s hair.

“Quint?”  Zeke’s frown deepened.

“It’s a bucket of mayhem out there.”  Her fists clenched.  “The wounded and the dead are rolling in faster than we can treat them.  Quint’s decided it’s either death by cyborg…”  Her gaze locked on IMP17.  “…or take a chance on the IMP.”

“It’s like I said.”  IMP17 continued to speak calmly even though his heart started pounding.  “You have to kill them twice.”

Her eyes flashed.  “What?”

“He was explaining that when you came here.”

IMP17 nodded.  “Part of their biotechnology includes a Central Control Module, which is an AI application located in one of five areas.  If on a twenty-percent chance you neutralize the CCM, the biological unit remains functional.  If you kill the organism, the CCM takes over and the soldier will continue fighting.”

“Abomination!” she rumbled.

Zeke sounded more astonished.  “You mean the zombie apocalypse is for real?”

“It virtually doubles the troops, so it’s efficient.”  His breath quickened.  The event that could seal his fate with these people was about to descend.

If the cyborgs defeated the Rabble, they would either kill IMP17 immediately or capture him to bring in for execution.  Earlier today he became a traitor to the Elite by striking against the cyborg troops under his command.  He was the reason this second wave of attack was necessary.

The Rabble mistrusted him … and for good reason.  But allowing him to fight on their behalf would get him a step closer to gaining their confidence.  There was still no guarantee he would live, but this was the only option that gave him that chance.

Zeke stared at him.  “You can kill these cyborgs like you did the others?”

“Each has a tell the technicians use to identify upon sight the location of the CCM.  I recognize them.”  He returned the man’s gaze.  “If you release me, I can dispatch them more quickly than any of your people.”

“Quint said to turn him loose.”  The woman shook her head.  “Even though it’s a risk, the IMP is our only chance.”

And the Rabble were his only chance.  Even before today, if the Elite had discovered he’d come to conclusions that contradicted their ideology, they would execute him.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” Zeke muttered as he strode the short distance to IMP17 and began unshackling him.  “I just hope this deuce doesn’t make me die the same day.”

“Yeah.”  The woman’s glare hinted how she didn’t like the information she brought any more than Zeke did.  “Even if he wins, we’ve still got a super soldier on our hands.”

He kept his gaze steady with hers as Zeke loosened the bonds around his arms.  “Determining CCM location and being genetically enhanced only gives me the prospect of defeating these cyborgs.  I’ve lost the element of surprise.  These troops are prepared to exterminate me, and my welfare is as much in your hands as yours is in mine.”

Her attention shifted to Zeke.  “Is it always this mouthy?”

“Pretty much.”

Upon those words he was freed, and IMP17 sprang to his feet as he swung his hand, palm up, to Zeke.

“Blaster.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Zeke muttered as he placed the weapon into IMP17’s hand, and then shouted to the guard, “Open the gate!”

The woman’s hand moved to her hip, probably to draw some small pistol if IMP17 acted in any unsuitable manner.  He strode out the gate, past the guard that gaped at him, and toward the clamor of battle.  Zeke and the woman followed.

At least if he died here, it would be in combat, and that was preferable to being executed and cremated simultaneously by the Elite.  It was the most efficient way to dispose of anomalous people, but on the battlefield he had more chance for survival.

###

So here is this month’s contribution to #BlogBattle, and the word this round was Bucket.  Be sure to check out the other participating stories and see how creative others could get with a word that appears so mundane at first glance….

This is part Four of my ongoing serialization.  If you want to catch up, you can find parts One, Two and Three at these links.  Hope you’re having a bright beginning to the year!

If you’re a Smashwords customer or would like to become one (sign-up is free!), they’re holding their annual End of the Year sale ending January 1.  Whatever format you like to use for electronic reading will probably be available.

As far as what I’m offering on their site, the first book, Darkness upon the Land, of my four-part series will be available at half off.  The second book, Wail of the Tempest, will be 25% off.  And just between you and me, prices will be going up after the first of the year, so this is your chance for a bargain!  Just click on the button below:

The third book of the four-parter will be available this spring.  More updates will come as its debut approaches!

If you didn’t read last week’s post you’d better do that now to understand what I’m talking about this week.  This is part two, and unfortunately I don’t have room to repeat myself.

I will remind you Hubby let the hog’s owner know we had Porky on our place and could hold him until the owner got off work to come pick him up.  Well, we got a response we weren’t expecting, and it went something like this:

“Cough!  Ahem, uh … how do I put it?  That pig ran off months ago, and we never saw him since.  We gave him up for dead and I took down his pen and housing.  So you see, we don’t even have a way to keep a pig anymore.”

And that’s how we became the proud owners of a potbellied pig.

Now the notion of keeping swine has been one we’ve entertained before, but only with the ultimate goal of raising bacon.  Learning that Piglet had been on the lam for at least half a year has raised my respect for him.  Yes, feral hogs are a reality where we live, but traveling in groups is part of how they survive.

Our lone-wolf porker not only foraged his own food and sought out shelter and avoided getting hit by cars, he evaded all the coyotes that prowl around here.  On that morning we found him, however, it was twenty-two degrees out (that’s negative-five for you Celsius people), and until the cats got involved he didn’t put up much resistance about moving in with the turkeys.

With winter setting in (we had a snowfall just a few days ago), he probably decided “This isn’t fun anymore.”  Piggy slept a lot on that first day we had him.  Now he’ll take off running if he feels such a notion.  We’ve built him a house out of straw (old hay bales … good insulation) and shine a heat light at its entrance.

I don’t think he’ll be plotting his next adventure right away.

Unless Choppers can become a grunt that teaches Tactical Coyote Evasion to the rest of the livestock, however, we don’t have much use for him that doesn’t involve heating a skillet.  But as I said, he’s earned my respect, which puts me in mind of the following joke:

A traveler spied a three-legged pig in a farmer’s yard.  He pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door of the house, and when the farmer opened it the traveler asked why that pig had three legs.  The farmer proceeded to praise the porker, calling him an exceptional hog and how it had saved them from a house fire and performed other wondrous exploits.  “That’s amazing,” the traveler responded, “but that still doesn’t tell me why it has three legs.”  The farmer stood straighter and solemnly replied, “Well, a pig that special, you don’t eat all at once!”

Don’t worry, we’ll try to find a good home for him.  In the meantime we’ll help him recover from his latest exploit.  Taking care of him brings me to mind of a lyric in this old-timey song:

All I need is a pig in a pen, and corn to feed him on.

All I need is a pretty little girl to feed him while I’m gone.

What a minute … aren’t I the one that qualifies as the pretty little girl?  Except….

Well, two out of three ain’t bad!

XXX

And now for a brief announcement:  If you’re a Smashwords customer or would like to become one (sign-up is free!), they’ll be holding their annual End of the Year sale beginning December 25 and ending January 1 in 2020.  Their e-books are available in a variety of formats.

The first book, Darkness upon the Land, of my four-part series will be available at half off.  The second book, Wail of the Tempest, will be 25% off.  And just between you and me, prices will be going up after the first of the year, so this is your chance for a bargain!  Just click on the button below:

The third book will be available this spring.  More updates will come as its debut approaches!

 

When you live in the country, you never know what your next adventure is going to be.

As Hubby was getting ready to leave for work the other morning, I was thinking how I needed to post a blog in a couple of days and had no idea what the devil I was going to write about.  Wouldn’t you know the Lord provides in mysterious ways….

I kissed Hubby goodbye and topped off the cats’ food and ducked into the bathroom to wash up before starting my daily routine.  Two seconds after I closed the bathroom door, I heard the front door open.

I stuck my head back out.  Hubby had returned and informed me that one neighbor’s potbellied pig was in another neighbor’s pasture next to our house.

(Okay, let me define neighbors:  We can’t visit with other over the fence unless one of us trudges all the way across vast stretches of fields or through woods that separate us.  We can see the house roof of the neighbor who has a pasture next to us.  Pig neighbor’s house is on the other side of a hill, so we can’t even see it.)

Hubby called the pig’s owner, who had already left for work, and informed him we would keep pork-chops-on-the-hoof until he could come and get it (don’t worry, that’s not what Hubby called the pig).  Then came the matter of actually keeping Porky on our place.

Luckily for us our turkeys sleep in, and their pen is just over behind the house.  I closed the door to their coop so they wouldn’t decide to come out and get front row seats to watch the show.  Then we opened the gate to their pen and propped up a cattle panel to funnel the swine in there.

I remembered the turkeys had a trough full of corn in their yard.  Concerned the pig might overeat and get sick, but Hubby was already driving it toward the pen, I thinned out the grain the fastest way I knew how:  I shoved handfuls of corn into my pockets.

With hips bulging, I took my position to be sure Piglet would zig instead of zag when he came around the corner.  But that’s when the cats showed up.

I don’t know if Piggy had ever seen cats before, but even though they’re only about a sixth his size, the sight of them made him freeze.  The younger cat sat down right in the path and stared at him.  The older cat stepped to the side but hunkered down in the pounce position.  I’m pretty sure he was convinced they were thinking “Bacon!”

I picked up the cats and dropped them over the garden fence.  They took the hint, and we were able to push Hambone into the turkey pen with no more interruptions.

(Yes, we have dogs, but two are herd guardians that stay in the goat pasture.  The yard dog apparently decided that we were nuts for bringing this creature on our place, and he preferred not to be seen associating with us.)

I’d like to say this story has a neat and tidy ending:  Choppers got to go home, the cats discovered there was enough food in their bowls that they didn’t need a side of bacon, and I got to take the corn out of my pockets.

Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

Don’t worry, this isn’t a tragedy.  But there’s a part two to this particular pigtail that I’ll share next week.  You see, life tends to be full of surprises….

“Please tell me it’s dead,” Quint growled as he entered the makeshift tent.

Although unable to comply with the young colonel’s request, Zeke raised an acrylic cup in greeting.  He also remained reclined in a folding chair, his feet propped on the field desk.

“Not yet.”

When Quint scowled, Zeke figured it was in response to both his reply and casual posture.  The colonel knew better than to expect military conduct from an old schmoe like him, but he still enjoyed annoying Quint.  It added levity to an otherwise apprehensive lifestyle.

And things were pretty tense right now.  Less than an hour ago they’d won a battle against a battery of cyborgs commanded by a genetically-engineered super soldier.  Except the IMP, as his kind was called, turned on his own troops and slaughtered over half of them himself.  Then he surrendered to Quint’s battalion.

Hmm … Zeke realized he’d never before thought of any IMP as he.  Like Quint, he’d always considered them all to be it.

“You were supposed to find out its motive and kill it.”  Quint sat in his chair behind the desk and reached for the drawer where Zeke knew the whiskey was stored.

“No, you told me to find out his motive and decide if he needed to be killed.  I shook him up, but he didn’t spew.  So he’s stewing in the pit now.”

The colonel scowled at him again before pouring a shot into his own cup.  “It’s probably waiting for the next wave of attack, and then turn against us like it did on the cyborgs.”

“Come now, you know how keen the Elite are on efficiency.  They won’t waste a battery of cyborgs on a smattering of intelligence.”

Quint squinted.  “Then why did it turn on its troops?”

Zeke sipped the pilfered whiskey while considering his answer.  His interrogation of the IMP had been nothing like he expected.  All the answers only generated more questions.

“He’s scared.”

“Scared?”  Quint guffawed.  “The genetic engineers probably took that emotion out of its DNA.”

“It’s not an Oh crap, I’m about to die scared.  It’s more like a … I’ve lost my mommy scared.”

The colonel’s squint hardened.  “It came out of a petri dish.  That thing never even had a mommy.”

“Mm-hmm, true, but then again we are supposed to care for the orphan, are we not?”

“Quit your mind games.  What’s that thing got to be scared of?”

“What any slave might fear.”  Zeke shrugged.  “That his masters are not true masters.”

Quint stared at him.  “Why did I expect a straightforward answer from a rabbi?”

Any title like rabbi, doctor, judge or colonel was based on experience rather than any formal training.  When the authority that became known as the Elite mandated the remaining population must merge with biological and technological improvements, anybody who wanted to retain all of their humanity was forced to break away from established society and go underground … somewhat literally.

“Because you’re young and arrogant.”  Zeke was in his late sixties, which made him just old enough to remember what life was like before the rebellion.  “And that IMP in the pit worries you.”

“That thing makes me as nervous as a naked titmouse tossed into a shed full of bony tomcats.  It can only be up to no good.”

“You know, I have heard of a few IMPs that did join our cause.”

“Rumors!”  Quint waved his free hand.  “They didn’t manufacture many of those things.  And all the stories end the same way:  They wind up getting killed.  A good IMP is like a flying saucer.  You hear about them, but you never see one.”

“I didn’t say he was a good IMP.”  Zeke took another sip.  “Not yet.”

“I sure hope you’re implying that the only good IMP is a dead IMP.”

Zeke considered the fact that Quint, who claimed to be a descendant of Comanche chief Quanah Parker, just made a statement like that to a Jew.  He allowed the irony to rattle around in his subconscious.

“Maybe you should go visit with our little devil yourself.  He’s not innocent but he’s quite cooperative.”

“I have to get us prepared for the next attack, which it confirmed is coming.”  Quint frowned again.  “Unless it lied … it might be trying to get us to reveal our resources.”

“So why didn’t you tell me to just kill him after my Q-and-A chat with him?”

His frown hardened.  “Because I’m an idiot who trusts your judgment.  Now tell me why you didn’t, and give me a straight answer.”  He held the bottle of whiskey up before returning it to the drawer.  “Or I’m cutting off your supply.”

“Oh, my, you are in a bad mood, aren’t you?”  Zeke smirked, but as he sank a little deeper into his chair he nursed a long sip from the cup to gain more time for considering his response.

An honest but unexamined answer would be that he didn’t know.  Perhaps it had something to do with the IMP speaking of mercy, although he didn’t use that word and Zeke doubted it was part of his vocabulary.  Certainly before today the IMP had never shown any mercy to them.

But he also thought about Quint’s remark of what qualified as a good IMP.  History proclaimed that others had said the same thing about their ancestors.  And despite his origin, the IMP in the pit was a man….

“Because we need to keep our humanity.”

“I’m going to start locking my drawer.”

“Let me finish.  The Elite look down on us because we’re unimproved.  That IMP out there is genetically altered, but stick his DNA under a microscope and it’s still human.  Does that give us the right to look down on him?”

Quint frowned at him.  “I hate it when you take the moral high ground.  All right, watch that thing as we prepare for the next attack.  But if it so much as twitches, kill it.”

 

###

Here is the entry for this month’s #BlogBattle and the prompt word this time is Innocent (I don’t know what the word was accused was, but I’m glad it was cleared of the charges … sorry, couldn’t resist!).  This is installment 3 of an ongoing serialization, so if you just discovered this and want to catch up, the first and second installment links are here.

Also be sure to check out the other stories.  They’re rolling in pretty fast this month!

Okay, maybe not your best friend, but you can be on speaking terms with it.  After all, procrastination isn’t one of the seven deadly sins (trust me, I checked).

If you’re in the midst of NaNoWriMo right now, putting off writing might be one of the last things on your mind.  Or it might be dangling seductively in front of you.  The good news is you can actually make procrastination productive if you play your cards right (assuming card games are one way you shirk).

Agatha Christie once said she worked out many plots while washing dishes.  While it’s doubtful Dame Agatha used household chores to elude her next murder, her comment illustrates how goofing off can become a good thing (although getting those cobwebs out of your corners is also useful).

Whether you go wrestle with the dog, take a walk, take a bubble bath, or just go stick your head in the sand somewhere, time away from the keyboard can give your imagination a chance to cook up something really good while it’s not under pressure (not that I have anything against pressure cookers).  Sometimes your brain needs a reboot, and doing something else for a while can help.

So there’s no need to kick yourself if you skip out once in a while.  It’s possible you’ll be able to return to your writing with more enthusiasm.  If not, at least you’ve had your playtime and getting back to the perspiration part won’t feel so defeating.

Time for me to get back to my game of solitaire….

There are writers who anticipate the month of November with both excitement and trepidation.  If you’ve never heard of NaNoWriMo before, you’ve only recently entered the realm of writing.  If you’re one of those people sweating out producing 1,667 words a day this month, don’t worry, I’m not going to take up a lot of your time.

NaNoWriMo is kind of like Christmas:  there are people who want to sell you things to make your season successful.  From templates to calendars, peddlers in the industry promise to help make your attempt at writing 50,000 words in one month more attainable.  And when you’ve finished, there’s more things they can sell you to polish your work.

Call me a Grinch, but technology doesn’t make you a better writer.  Oh, I suppose it might be nice to have a digital editor that points out grammatical errors and misplaced punctuation, but technology can never match soul.

Just as no program can compose a piece of music that would bring a lump to your throat, technology can’t produce a story that keeps you turning the pages (or swiping the screen).  Sure, the technical elements are important, but a writer’s voice can never be duplicated by a machine.

How do you develop that?  Well, NaNoWriMo is focused on the gritty, dirty part of just getting those words down on screen (or paper, if you’re really old-fashioned), but the concept is still there:  Keep writing.  And keep reading about writing.

I, however, am going to stop writing this blog now so you can stop reading.  See, I told you I wouldn’t take up a lot of your time….

“Now aren’t you a sight?”  The man with a trimmed, gray beard and streaks of gray in his tousled hair sat on an upturned log.  “All that’s missing is a bow on your head.  And I don’t even know what the occasion is.”

On both knees in the dust and brittle grass, IMP17 stared back.  His arms were bound behind his back with synthetic ropes coiled around his chest, and cable shackled his ankles.  Twenty-two men stood behind and beside him, and also in two rows between him and the fellow on the log.

It didn’t escape his notice that all of them aimed blasters, rifles, pistols, and even bows and arrows at his head.  That was only one of the reasons his heart thumped against his chest.

“I’ve surrendered.”

“Oh, yes, of course you have.”  The bewhiskered man smirked.  “That’s the only reason we were capable of getting you into custody.  But why did you surrender, my dubious sir?  Right now I can only believe it’s some kind of prelude to the next wave of attack.”

“You’re correct there will be another attack.  The lords will desire to investigate why they lost an entire battery of troops.  But I can help you defend against them.”

Whiskers raised an eyebrow.  “The lords?  Not your lords?  Is that supposed to have something to do with why you turned against all those cyborgs you led up here?”

IMP17 tilted his head in the direction where he knew corpses of both cyborg and unimproved humans lay scattered.  “My actions have sealed my fate.  I can never return to my masters if I want to live.  In exchange for my life, I offer my services to you instead.”

“Offer?”  He sat upright, pursed his lips for a few seconds, and then one corner of his mouth curled upward.  “And why would you think we’d be inclined to spare your life?  Your so-called masters did an excellent job genetically designing you, using you to mercilessly harp against us for refusing to mutilate ourselves in the name of their progress.  You’re called an IMP, right?”

“Intellectual Militant Prototype.  I am the seventeenth of twenty-four products, thus my designation is IMP17.”  He’d determined volunteering information would help to win their trust.

Whiskers’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward.  “We have a designation for you, too, but we can’t repeat it in front of the children.  You’re beyond a little devil.  You’re a murderer, a kidnapper, and a vandal.  Our blood drips from your hands.  Killing you doesn’t even begin to strike a balance against the damage you’ve done to us.”

IMP17’s heart picked up in tempo.  He knew he was taking a risk by trying to defect to the Rabble of humanity, but he still stood more of a chance with them than his Elite overlords.

“My intellect is devised for strategy, which must be based upon knowledge.  The information I’ve gathered on your society displays a quality that is absent among the Elite.  You tend to your impaired members.  You share resources with deficient individuals.  You risk your own lives to rescue one incapacitated person.”

The bearded man gazed at him for several seconds.  His eyes squinted and his lips pursed, and then he clasped both hands between his knees.

“You don’t know squat about us.  You think you can waltz in here and perform a cutesy song and dance about po’ li’l ol’ me and expect us to pat you on the head while treating you to milk and cookies?”

“That’s not -”

“There’s at least a dozen people in this camp that would relish getting a piece of you, and that’s this camp.  There’s plenty more who think the same thing in the other communities.  It’s for their sake, not yours, that I don’t tell these gentlemen to ventilate you with extreme prejudice right now.”  He waved one hand dismissively.  “Get the deuce out of my sight!”

So many men jumped on him at once that even IMP17 would have had to struggle in overcoming them.  But although he had the capacity to defeat them, he squelched his first impulse to burst free from the ropes, to pummel them down, to slice them with the cable between his ankles….

Someone slapped a canvas bag over his head.

As they lifted him from the ground, his battle with himself proved more intensive than any physical combat.  These people knew that although he was technically as human as they were, he was engineered to be stronger, faster, and more agile.

The fact they didn’t kill him outright was an encouraging sign … he hoped.

Reflexively he did still keep track of where they carried him by noting where he felt the sun’s warmth, and distance by the length of time that passed before they stopped.  He heard a clank and a screech, and then he was tossed into someplace that was slightly cooler, but hard and saturated with the aroma of earth … and something … rotting….

IMP17 sat up, and again subdued his impulse to break his bonds and uncover his head to examine his prison and determine how to escape.  He had to prove to them he wasn’t going to resist.  One wrong move on his part, and they would kill him as surely as the Elite would execute him if they ever got their hands on him again.

As he crouched in the dark, determined to wait on the Rabble to come to him, he questioned the wisdom of his scheme.  That quality he was counting on was one of many traits the Elite had trained him to despise.  But in a way he’d grown to admire it, suspecting it was one of the reasons these people had resisted and evaded the Elite for so long.

If the Rabble didn’t accept him, and if he escaped from them, he had only one option left: exist alone and as everybody’s enemy.  And that would be extremely inefficient.

###

So here is the second installment of what will be something of a novella in progress, written under the guidelines of the monthly #BlogBattle challenge.  This month the prompt word is Harp, which in its verb form wasn’t hard to work in.  I’m glad I didn’t have to stick to the noun, although I suppose a harp could be used as weapon of opportunity.

If you’re just joining in and want to read the first installment, By Design gives the initial introduction to IMP17.  I still think I’m nuts for doing this serialization (I think I’m nuts about a lot of things, so what’s new?), but this is also kind of fun.  And don’t forget to check out the other stories at Blog Battlers!

A traveler hailed a taxi cab, and after he hopped inside he started to wonder where there was a good restaurant for him to eat at.

“Pardon me.”  He reached up and tapped the driver’s shoulder.

The driver screamed, and the cab jumped the curb and hit a light post.  They staggered out of the taxi and brushed themselves off.

“I’m so sorry,” the driver said.  “But it’s my first day on this job.  Up until last week I drove a hearse.”

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays.  As a kid I liked dressing up and getting candy (yeah, the obvious stuff).  As an adult it’s partly because it falls in the Fall, my favorite season of the year.  It’s also always been haunted by some controversy, and as a writer controversy is food for my muse.

So on the one hand you have church tradition:  All Saints Day is November 1, so the day before is know as All Hallows Eve.  Because there are more saints than there are days in a year, All Saints is a convenient way to honor the ones who didn’t get a day dedicated to them (we don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings).

Oh, and let’s not forget All Souls Day on November 2, which honors everybody else who died but didn’t become a saint (like I said, we don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings).

Then you have the Pagan side:  Samhain was the Celtic new year, so New Year’s Eve was October 31.  It was believed the veil between this world and the next was thinnest on that night, and we mortals wanted to keep the visiting spirits happy (in other words, we didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings).

Lanterns, presumably some carved from turnips, were set up to light the way.  Food was set out.  This was also a good time to try to rescue anybody who’d been kidnapped to the Otherworld by the sidhe (aka fairies, but you don’t want to call them that to their face), so you dressed up to try to blend in with the spirits.

Mesh the two together, and you have a night of honoring the dead and offering hospitality.  In fact, hospitality is even extended to those that represent visitors (trick-or-treaters) you might not be inclined to want to invite in (especially the teenagers who barely dress up and hold pillow cases).

Oh, and if you’re still wondering what the heck a haint is, my hillbilly is showing again.  Also rendered as ha’nt, it’s from haunt, but is synonymous to ghost, phantom, shade, spook, or wraith.  Did I get all the specters by name?  After all, I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings….