Perpetual Motion

Jack was seven when he became friends with Willem, who hadn't seen seven in sixty years.  Jack and his mother had just moved into the apartment above Willem one week and one day before the strange noises coming through the floor in his bedroom caused him to investigate.

Autonomous Vehicle

An autonomo slowed down when it sensed Kate walking and pinged its mandatory after midnight inquiry.  Kate slashed down with her free hand and the vehicle continued on its way, probably back to its charging station for the night.  She hoisted her sliding pack back into position and cinched the straps over her shoulders.

Common Ground 2

It was like a rope went from Amanda's heart to a boulder beneath her feet.  It was tight and strong and she felt like she couldn't move.  Every thought that would have taken her in a direction was tugged back before a step could be completed, her imaginary foot hovered, struggled for a moment, then came back to keep her still, over the boulder.

She thought to move away, but the boulder filled with dollar signs, and she came back.

She thought to clean up, but the boulder filled with question marks about where to start, and she came back.

She thought to read, to nap, to surf the internet, but the boulder filled with guilt, and she came back.

Amanda's mind bounced back and forth, and she raised her foot every time, even when the thought had already proved fruitless, and the short, thick rope bound to the immovable boulder made her come back.

She felt her thoughts panicking, which she knew by experience was followed by a panting, grey hopelessness and, as predicted, tears already pricked her eyes, but a new thought came.

She thought of freedom.  Of sky.  Of lightness.  This time, the boulder did not fill with memories to drag her back.  It did not fill with a to-do list.  It did not fill with guilt.  Amanda thought of freedom without any specific "how" of getting it.  She thought, and she gasped when the rope snapped.

What question have you never been asked that you want to answer?

I have a great apartment.  Crappy, but great.  It's in a terrible part of the city, but it's the entire second floor of a commercial building.  My mother thought I'd be assaulted and raped every day, but I've not yet felt very threatened, even late at night.  Inside is sanctuary, if a bit sparse.  It's an open floor plan and has high ceilings, which means I essentially live in a giant brick box.  I bring my bike up one of those old-fashioned service elevators that I dreamed of ever since I saw Flashdance in the theaters, twice.  I have to bundle like an Inuit from late fall through spring, putting on more winter gear inside than out.  To turn on my computer, I have to unplug everything in my kitchen, but it's worth the slight hassle to have the freedom of the place, and the giant windows looking down on the street.

In high school, I was a dope.  I guess every teenager is a bit dopy simply because of the learning curve, but I look back and have complete and total awareness of my dopiness.  I lived in the suburbs and the sidewalks were rolled up by 9:00 pm.  I had terrible insomnia brought on by thinking about the miserable state of my love life, and about how I wanted to be taller and blonder and more fit, and about how I wanted to live an adventure like I saw in the movies.  I would crawl out of my little twin bed and sit on my dresser to look out the window.  I would crank the casements open and wrap myself in a comforter so the radiant baseboard heat would keep me warm.  I'd even take out the screens so I could look out clearly, just in case.  In case of what?

In case Jason from sixth period Government would finally have succumbed to his desire for me, found my address, and ridden his bike over at three in the morning to whisk me away.  I wanted to be ready.

In case Bill from third period Chemistry would ditch his weird obsession with my friend and instead walk the streets of our town, calling my name, and wishing as badly as I did that I would hear him.

In case Indiana Jones would ride up on a motorcycle and ask me to join him in the sidecar because he needed a companion on his next trip to Egypt.

God, was I a dope.

What's worse is that I'm still a dope.

Here I sit, the same goddamn comforter wrapped around me, in my ill-advised open window at three in the morning, wishing something would happen, someone would need me, I would have somewhere to go.

Pageant Question 15: If I were to visit your hometown for one day, what would we do?

The kids in the neighborhood called them "The Fields", but it wasn't just fields; there were trees and creeks and even small hills.  It was Joelle's favorite place to play, with or without anyone else.  Although it was against her parents' wishes, she would often go out to The Fields to play alone, exploring, spying, listening, imagining, building.  While there were many improvised "forts" in the woods, they were group activities.  Joelle was proud to be building one of her own, and she called it her home base.  It was from this base that she intended to do further exploring.

To a nine year old, The Fields were huge, quite possibly never-ending.  Joelle wouldn't connect the fact that they lived on an island with the idea that the woods could not possibly go on forever when there was a river surrounding their town until she was ten, and by then, she had discovered a secret about The Fields no one else knew.

Pageant Question 12: If you could go back in time and meet one person, who would it be, and why?

I was very good at going to school.  I had been doing it since I was three, so by the time I got to college, I knew how to sit and listen for hours, how to take pages and pages of notes from lectures, how to read dozens of books in a matter of months, and how to write so my professors were happy campers.  I was a vessel.  I was a programmable robot.  I was an excellent student.

What I wasn't good at was socializing (no surprise there) or noticing what was right in front of my face.  I had a real hard time with change.  I had gotten extremely comfortable in my uncomfortable life, and I didn't like to look ahead to the time when I would graduate, so I began actively researching graduate programs even back in my junior year.  It was the first semester of my senior year, however, that I looked up.  Literally.  I looked up during APY 377 (the awesomely titled "Magic, Witchcraft and Sorcery"), and actually saw.

I mean, I would glance up during class to look at pictures on the overhead or what the professor might write on the whiteboard, sometimes another student would make a noise and I'd glance, or sometimes I would stare into space and think, but this time, I looked up, and I felt like I became disconnected from my body.  I observed the classroom: a lecture hall class with plastic bucket seats and swing-arm desks in funky 1960s colors.  I observed the cement floor covered with industrial carpeting in a neutral brown.  I observed the three giant whiteboards at the front of the room, the ghosts of notes past lingering in blues and blacks.  I observed the other students, not nearly as many today as would be during an exam, mostly surreptitiously on their phones and a few taking notes and a few more than that staring blindly into space.  I observed the professor, looming over the podium, gripping the sides and reading from his notes.  Probably the same notes he had used for decades.  I observed with a detachment that let me finally see the professor as a human being, and he looked like hell.  My sudden observation allowed me to dig back into my less-observant memory for images of the professor earlier in the semester, and I noted that he looked markedly worse today.  His clothes were dirty and wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn't showered or slept in at least a few days.  But his eyes--his eyes were bright sparks in the recesses of their darkened sockets.  He looked alive.

At the end of class, I noted that the professor was packing up in a hurry, stuffing papers into folders and jamming it all into his bag.  Rarely did anyone ever stop to speak to the professor in a lecture hall class, so I knew I'd have but a moment to stop him.

"Professor Stevens," I began, and he started as if I had caught him stealing.

Pageant Question 9: What is your biggest disappointment in life?

"What about Old Lor, there, hmm?" the man at the bar nodded sideways at the wisp of an old man dozing in one of the armed chairs nearest the fire.

"What about him, Shane?"  The Traveler spared only a narrow-eyed glance at the old man.  Most people didn't spare him even that as he wasn't much to see.  Wild grey hair bristled out from under his crushed, felt hat and over the layers of his invariably filthy clothes.  The Traveler was, in contrast, impeccable, in the newest traveling fashion.  Travelers were hired to move merchandise, or even people, across the untamed lands, and they were well-paid for it.  This Traveler thought highly of himself, as he had always, so far, been successful with his deliveries.  Today, however, was his third day in the luckless, so-called "town" of Janesburg.  If it weren't for the unprecedented pay he was receiving, the Traveler would have abandoned the commission, but he saw this job as his next step up.

Traditionally, Travelers were hired, and they sub-contracted as they saw fit.  In this case, the Traveler had hired Shane on his first day to be his labor.  Shane was in his late 30s, but strong, knowledgeable, and surprisingly intelligent for a labor-hire.  Shane had been trying to help the Traveler fill out their company with a mage for these past three days, but no reputable magic-worker would take them up on the Traveler's increasingly generous pay.  The job, they said, was too dangerous, and even impossible, which is how they came to be sitting, midday, in the local tavern, pondering their options.

"Well," said Shane, leaning in, "he's a mage."  The bartender, near enough to overhear, barked a laugh.  "He is, though!  At least, that's what they say."

The bartender shook his head, "They say a lot, they do, but Old Lor's reputation was made by cruel children for sure."

The Traveler turned on his bar stool to better look at the old man.  Old Lor was dust in a sack.  A ruined mop in a coat.  A pile of drunken bones.  He was no mage, of that the Traveler was sure.

Shane, however, was becoming increasingly positive the rumors were true.  The more he looked at Old Lor and remembered the tales, the more sure he became, especially when thinking about the pay from this single job and how it could start him on his own path as his own man.  Confidence welling up, Shane stood.  "I'll find out."  Both the Traveler and the bartender watched in fascination.

351

Lauren had always wanted adventure, but the fears instilled in her by her parents and the media kept her from pushing her life out of the norm.  As a child, she dreamed of hopping into the boxcar of a train and traveling the country, leaning back on a pile of hay and pointing her feet to the door to watch the world change.  She would eat beans out of a can and build campfires.  Lauren even tied a red kerchief to the end of her practice baton to see how it felt.  It felt good.  But news stories about how many people were killed by trains, and how you could easily fall under the wheels and lose a leg, or the other stories about women raped down by the tracks made Lauren wary of hobos.

She tried again with the romantic idea of hitchhiking across the United States.  She would get good walking boots and a frame backpack and a roll of toilet paper and a flashlight and a rain poncho and some granola bars and put out her thumb.  School films about the dangers of getting into cars with strangers put an end to that adventure, too.  Having all your money stolen, your carefully stocked backpack pillaged, and, yes, more threat of rape, frightened her away again.

Lauren lived at home while in college, but she contemplated moving in with her longtime boyfriend.  Certainly, that could be an adventure!  It was nearly enough to make her enthusiastic, even though her boyfriend was a bit too macho, a bit too loose with money, and a bit too...realistic.  Driving back to her parents from his place, the sky was darkening, making Lauren think of wet city streets and detectives following dark strangers, when she registered a man with a dog walking on the side of the thruway.  You weren't supposed to walk there, which is why she noticed.  The man's frame backpack stood just over his head, and he already wore an army-green poncho against the threat of rain.  His yellow dog trotted next to him on an old leash.  Lauren noticed the man was dirty, but that he kept his dog away from the traffic, which was thoughtful.  She saw the man wore a red kerchief as a bandana to hold back his long, greasy hair.  The man's beard, and how fast she passed them, made it difficult to judge his age, but he stood tall and seemed to move easily.  The man and his dog would surely get soaked when the ominous clouds finally opened.

It was far too late to stop and let him walk up to the car--the thruway was 65 miles an hour--but Lauren found her mouth was dry and she was sitting up straighter.  She put on her turn signal and took the next exit.  Lauren couldn't believe herself when she made her way around the cloverleaf to re-enter the thruway on the other side, and essentially make a figure eight to come back around behind the scruffy man and his dog.  Lauren was about to pick up a hitchhiker.

321

Everybody knew their Dungeon Master, Brian, had been out of ideas for weeks, but were still too hopeful that he'd get it together and plan the campaign through the end before their next meeting to say anything to him yet.  Brian's campaigns always started out great and he had a solid premise and some fun adventuring ideas, but once the four players had managed to make it through the planned parts, Brian would hem and haw and "Ummm..." after every move.  Brian's ability to "wing it" wasn't nearly as developed as the group's esteemed DM thought it was.  When Mike invited his new upstairs neighbor, Ernie, to the next meeting, everyone in the group, Brian included, was excited when Ernie volunteered to run the next campaign.

It was also a welcome (and, again, silent) relief to have Mike offer his apartment for the new adventure.  Like his campaigns, Brian started great; he had vacuumed and wiped down the table and he had even cleaned his bathroom.  By the third week's meeting, however, his apartment had gone back to its natural state of funk.  Adam and Celia would have offered their house, but they lived outside the city and, of course, it had always been Brian's campaign.  Celia was, perhaps, the most relieved, since the man/cat smell of Brian's apartment, and his rapidly deteriorating bathroom, always affected her the most.  Mike and his girlfriend kept their place spotless, and Lisa was more than willing to go out for the evening with friends.

308

Have you ever thought to yourself, "This is what could kill me.  Yep.  This right here."  I seem to be thinking that more and more often.  Earlier today, I thought that while I jumped off a short embankment into a lake I knew nothing about.  There are hikes in large expanses of state-owned woods, you know the kind of woods where people get lost and die?  Well, these kinds of woods make you sign in and out, so they know if there will be any lost dead people.  I signed in and followed the trail, like an obedient person.  It was very quiet, excepting all the animal noises, mostly birds and rodents, of course.  It was also hot and after about an hour I came across this lake.  I hadn't seen another human this whole time.  I took off my hiking boots, my socks, my shirt and my pants, and I jumped in wearing only my skivvies.  What the hell was I thinking?  Oh, I know: This is what could kill me.  Yep.  This right here.

297

There was no warning.  The front door exploded inside with the force of the battering ram held by the two police officers on the front stoop.  A stream of black-clad officers flowed into the house, spilling into every room.  Amber had been drawing upstairs when she heard the splintering boom and felt the house shake.  As the men were shouting directions and updates to one another, Amber scrambled into her closet, pushing aside clothes and climbing the shelves like a monkey.  She shimmed up the last bit, bare feet pressing one side of the closet, her back bracing on the other, as she shoved the attic hatch open with her head and fingertips.  Amber climbed inside and slid the wood square back into place.  Wasting no time, she scuttled on her hands and knees across the loose plywood over the floor joists, past the tubs of Christmas decorations, the boxes of old tax documents, and the black plastic bags with baby clothes and forgotten linens.  She could hear the men shouting on the second floor now, and she kept pushing further back to the far corner where she knew there was a hidden door behind more boxes, even older than the rest.

295

After rolling over and flipping her pillow for the fourth time, Sara gave it up as a bad job and got out of bed.  She had the feeling that important life was happening without her.  Spending wakeful hours in bed only made her retread the same worn paths to frustration, so she wrapped herself in her comforter and went to her window.

It was unlikely that there would be any activity out on her street.  Sara lived in a quiet suburb, and the sidewalks were rolled up by 9:00 pm, but she couldn't shake that feeling that there was some spark of life just outside her sphere.  Her dresser sat under the window, and if she pushed it back slightly, she could sit, her feet on the baseboard heat, and lean her elbows on the windowsill to look outside.  Despite the cold November night air, she cranked open one casement window and arranged her comforter over her head.  The baseboard heat rose and filled her cocoon while the night chilled her nose and cheeks.

The street was predictably dark and no lights on in the three houses she could see; it was, after all, after two in the morning.  Sara sat and dreamed with her eyes open of adventure.

278

"You'll want to watch out for Jess," the thin young man offered Marta.  "She's different than us."

Marta watched Jess loping away towards the town, heedless of the dangers of entering uncharted territories.  Frontier people weren't keen on newcomers, even those who were passing through, but there Jess went, straight down the middle of the road, streamers fluttering off her pack.  Marta thought Umberto would tell her Jess was born soft or was touched in the head, but she politely asked anyway.  "How's that?"

"She's dying."  Jess' tiny figure, far down the road, waved her broad-brimmed hat back at them, hurrying them to catch up.

"Aren't we all."  Marta twitched the reins, and thought about what it might mean for their future.

253

What haunted Miranda at every step was a one-word question: Why?  Her worn hiking boots crunched on the frozen leaves and snapped twigs.  Right foot: Why?  Left foot: Why?  Right foot: Why am I here?  Left foot: Why am I still here?  Right foot: Why am I so stupid?  Left foot: Why did I agree?  Right foot: Why don't I just stop?  Left foot: Why am I still walking?

Miranda hoisted her pack higher and tightened the straps again, all the while taking one step after the other.

245

The library was one of the area's oldest and patrons constantly complained about the cramped quarters and librarians constantly complained about the limited technology.  To Shaney, it was an infinite maze of new discovery.  She had favorite spots for quiet reading, secret spots where she found naughty books, and an idea that if she looked in the right place, she would find a hidden room.

Most days in the Henroy Library, patrons could be found on the three computers or browsing the DVD collection.  Only Shaney would be found reading, if you could find her in the stacks.

222

A long time ago, in a room a lot like this one, an adventure began.  Ben didn't know it was an adventure, most adventures start without much fanfare, but that evening was the beginning.  If Ben had known it, he would have prepared better, but what can you do?  Living your life on your toes is no way to live.  Not all the time, anyway.  It's very tiring.

Ben was, as a matter of fact, the opposite of prepared.  He hadn't showered, he had fought with his younger brother, and he didn't come down to dinner when called, so he was hungry.  Ben thought he had lost his house key, which he kept on a blue lanyard, and he knew his father would be furious if he couldn't find it.  Ben was tearing apart his room.  In the initial flurry, he had covered the key and lanyard with a dirty t-shirt and now, in his frustration, he kicked the dirty shirt, including key, under his bed.

218

At three hundred steps, Joshua stopped and sat on the stone bench the creators of this treacherous staircase had thoughtfully provided.  Plenty of people had made it down this far; he saw that in the wear of the steps.  He knew at five hundred steps, tourists were given a way out, and most people took it.  At one thousand steps, there was another option, and if anyone made it down that far, their ears popping at the depth, most of them took that way out, too.  Joshua had no intention of stopping before he found the bottom and explored to his heart's content.  His heart had been discontented since the age of fourteen, when he had learned of the Tombs of the Forgotten.  More than twice those years passed before he was able to finally make the journey, and he thought he was well-prepared.  Right at that moment, however, Joshua had wished he had prepared more than just his mind because his body was already winded and slightly dizzy.

201

"What would you have me do?"

"Nothing."  The report spun onto the desk, stopped only by the other piles of reports and research notes.  Jonathan sputtered and Dr. Schwartz knew he was in for another round of whining and pleading.  It had been this way from the start when the board sent him his unwanted assistant.  Babysitter.  Spy.

The anger that rushed into his veins surprised him.  "I said nothing!"  At least the outburst silenced Jonathan, whose mouth snapped shut.  "Now get out."

125

I will start at the start and begin at the beginning, if it is what you will, and I know it is since you were always a stickler for first things first.

I first saw your mother when she was just a girl, though I didn't know she would become your mother. My first impression was that she was a brat. A dirty brat with skinny legs and ratty hair that hung over her crabby face. It's a good thing I didn't think that way forever, or you'd never have been born!

Shara was unruly and wherever she went, she stirred up trouble. This continued for her whole life. It is probably why you have rebelled by being so straight-laced, but I digress. The beginning begins with your mother nearly dying, and your father being a hero.

30

Dear Maria,
Sorry about the bikini girls on this postcard. Believe me, it was the least offensive one I could find in the tiny island gift shop.

I'm also sorry about how we last spoke. I know you don't believe in my "little adventure" and that I was a fool to leave the firm, but please try to understand that I never enjoyed being a lawyer and I am 100% convinced that this "little adventure" will prove to you, and to everyone, that I am right!

I have my cell, but I don't know how much of a signal I'll be getting once I'm in the jungle. I will try to let you know how it's going somehow. Please don't give up on me! I know I'm right!

Yours,
Leonard