One Year of Instants (2018)

One Year of Instants (2018)

C M Weller

Published by C M Weller at Smashwords

Copyright 2019 C M Weller

ISBN: 9780463408643

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other works by this author:

Nor Gloom of Night

Good Boy

Blowing Bubbles

Scavenger

It Happened One Wednesday

Hevun’s Rebel

Hevun’s Ambassador

Hevun’s Gate

One Year of Instants

Interview Inside a Terrarium

The Amity Incident

One Leap year of Instants

Better

I Wish, I Wish

One Year of Instants (2015)

I Wish, I Wish

One Leap Year of Instants (2016)

Kung Fu Zombies

Comes Around

One Year of Instants (2017)

Well Rendered

For more information please visit my author site CMWeller.com.

Challenge #001: Seems Harmless Enough

NAME: Mr. Sunshine (yes he’s not joking)

OCCUPATION: Terror squad/ Pax Humanis Enforcer

LIKES: Cats, Painting, Tearing off the faces of his enemies

DISLIKES: Rude folk

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Average height, Average build, Could blend in anywhere there’s Humans

UNIQUE TRAITS: Cold, empty eyes combined with an intense friendliness give him an extremely unnerving appearance, Dresses like Mr.Rogers, allergic to milk – Anon Guest

"It’s pronounced soon-sheen-eh, insisted the otherwise ordinary-seeming human who wore a sweater-vest in Security Purple, and a tie coloured like a coral snake. I prefer people to learn this."

It was the emotionless way that this human smiled that made Grox want to pronounce the name that way as soon as possible and whenever he could. The smile was horrifying. And not just because Mr Sunshine was a human. It was because it was a well-practiced collection of muscle movements that Mr Sunshine had evidently spent some time practicing without the intervention of regular human emotion. It was the smile -as other humans might say- of a being that didn’t have a soul.

His manners were impeccable. His friendliness had a practiced intensity that implied that Mr Sunshine had read a manual about winning friends and influencing people, and followed every step without involving a single atom of sincerity and authenticity. His dress was impeccable, too. Neat and orderly, with the only warning being his tie and the words, Pax Humanis Enforcer worked into the back of his sweater-vest. It was as if Mr Sunshine had carefully studied how to blend in with humans and followed everything he found to the letter. It was such a pity that his cold and emotionless eyes kept him deep in the uncanny valley. Even other humans would be instinctively afraid of him.

Station Security, of course, had to escort Mr Sunshine everywhere he chose to go. He was a self-admitted Dangerous Human who was a member of the Pax Humanis Enforcement Team. The largest collection of sociopathic, psychopathic, anti-empathetic, and cogniscidal beings known to the Galactic Alliance and especially known to the Fringe Territories. Who had evidently chosen Waypoint Station as a holiday destination because it had the best cats.

Most stations had Skitties. Waypoint had a collection of semi-feral cats that had been traded or left there and did what cats did naturally. Breed like rabbits and eliminate any small vermin that they could get their claws into. They were also aesthetically pleasing and recognised all cogniscent species as a potential source of food scraps. They could play cute starving kitten like virtuosos despite their age or battle scars.

Given what most of the dangerously disordered have been known to do with animals, Security was on high alert. But what actually happened was that Mr Sunshine became the instant favourite of the station’s feline population. They must have recognised a fellow spirit in the callous and cold-hearted murderer. And then he got some watercolours and painted portraits of the cats in order to chillax.

And despite all this harmlessness and benevolence from Mr Sunshine, Waypoint Station was very glad to see him go. And prayed daily that he would never come back.

Challenge #002: In Abstract

aliens going through human archives find the most Avant Garde porn, like, EVER – Anon Guest

[AN: Just so you know, this author has very little experience with porn. Smut, yes. Porn, no.]

The Trizdressi had no idea what they had found on that graveworld. Something had happened to the population, and little was left to determine the disaster but what appeared to be an enormous cache of records. The scouts were halfway right. They were recorded data. Just… not data that was tremendously relevant to what happened on that world.

It might have been relevant, but it wasn’t relevant in a way that could piece together the entire puzzle. It was a contributing factor, much like the atmosphere of racism was a contributing factor to the downfall of the United States as a Superpower. There were many other contributing factors, and one enormous cause to point the finger of blame at, but the contributing factor was most definitely there.

It took the Trizdrezzi several months to figure out how to read and display the data, with forensics and xenotech departments recreating the native players. And then it took a further five months to realise that they had not, in fact, made any mistakes with said recreation. Because the cache of records was, apparently, a nationwide database of pornography. Artistic, avant-garde pornography.

After the third non-linear jumble of psychedelic sex, the anthropologists in charge began to decipher the surviving cover notes. Which, unfortunately, were more artistic than informative.

Progress towards determining the cause of death for this planet was not helped by the discovery of other such data caches. Vaults upon vaults of porn. Some violent to the point of cartoonishness. Some vile to the point of mental harm. Most were beautiful, baffling, and beyond mortal comprehension. A rare few were even sexy.

There were trillions of hours of that and nothing else. No government records. No logs, blogs, nor journals. Living spaces were perfunctory and the remnants of any farmland seemed to be the automated kind. But by and large, the people of this planet saw fit to only preserve that which titillated them, and nothing else.

And, like most media designed to garner a reaction, it increased in intensity until the portrayal was nothing at all like the reality. Or like reality at all. The most recent recordings in any of the vaults were dazzling kaleidoscopes of genetalia and body parts, playing over random technojunk music made out of assorted moans and klaxons.

The Trizdressi could not, in all conscience, point to this planet essentially pleasuring itself to death, but all signs seemed to point that way.

Challenge #003: Speech of the Gods

Calliope, Muse of Music crosses the path of the musical instrument named in her honour, the Steam Calliope.

In the lack of belief, gods and demigods go to wherever their name is still spoken, written, or known. She was once such a demigod. The muse of music. She had had believers. She had had worship. Now… all she had left was her name. Calliope. And it was here that her name was given to a machine.

They counted the year as 1850. And in a steam workshop in Vermont, Alex Durry tooled around with his master’s equipment. Steam could work wonders in this world. It moved great loads. It saved lives. And, as he discovered by moving an organ pipe over a steam vent. The noise startled him, and almost made him dent the pipe. But it did give him an idea…

They had all the equipment they could need to make a prototype in this workshop… Alex got all the spare parts he could together on one workbench. Enough to demonstrate the principal. Mister Stoddard might even be pleased enough to let Alex keep the idea. But then again, that was a high hope. White folks didn’t like the idea of escaped former slaves inventing things[1]. Alex believed in Mr Stoddard, all the same. He was a good man, and had a head for useful inventions.

Alex was deep into it when Mr Stoddard arrived to the workshop in the morning. Alex’s behemoth principal demonstration now dominated two workbenches, and Alex was working on the valves.

My goodness, Mr Durry. What have you been up to in the night?

Alex grinned. It’s almost ready, Mr Stoddard. I had me an idea. It done struck like a muse, sir. He tightened the last bolt and let the steam build up.This here could be a whole new musical instrument, sir."

It certainly needs refinement… Mr Stoddard allowed. I gather all this is to demonstrate the principal?

Exactly right, Alex got a couple of heavy hammers. Levers are a bit stiff, you understand. There’s a lot of pressure. Muscles once employed to drive spikes into rail lines pumped hammers at levers and managed half of a recognisable tune.

Mr Stoddard laughed, That is a powerful instrument you’ve made, Mr Durry. Do you have plans?

I got scratch plans, sir. Working out what had to go where.

That’s a start, at least. Let’s decouple your beast and work out the next step together.

For the rest of his life, Mr Joshua Stoddard repeated that he was not the inventor of the Steam Calliope. He only patented improvements on someone else’s machine. But that never stopped anyone. Alex had been correct in his surmise. White people really didn’t like the idea of escaped former slaves inventing things. Especially not things as artistic and fabulous as an instrument named after a demigoddess.

But Alex knew, and Calliope knew too. Though she no longer spoke through oracles or worshippers. Now, she speaks through polished pipes and steam.

[1] Though a Joshua C. Stoddard is credited with the invention of the Steam Calliope, I’ve found one source that says the actual inventor is one A. S. Durry. And since I could find no other information but the name, I went with the natural conclusion that history has once again been whitewashed.

Challenge #004: A Little Inspired

Erato, Muse of erotic poetry is reading the scrawl on a university toilet door (Probably misspelt).

Gods cling to that which feeds them. What they are responsible for, especially the performative stuff, is also their meat and milk. Thus, you might expect Erato to gain the sickly pallor of the people one expects to find in seedy adult stores, as well as the general doughy body of the assumed clientele. Such is not the case. Erato is healthy, well-traveled, and very, very fit.

Why? Because erotica is not just dicks in the bathroom and skeevy people in trenchcoats with brown paper bags and oily complexions. Because erotica is an international art. Erotica is not just doughy men masturbating to breasts on their computers. It is reams of fanfiction in which true love is found and erections lasting longer than two hours are both possible and merited. It is art of lovingly rendered lovemaking between impossible creatures. It is even in cuddle-fic, where the protagonists do little more than soak in each other’s company in front of a fireplace. Cat optional.

It is for all these reasons that Erato is a very attractive being of indeterminate gender and nationality. They are approachable, amenable, and down for whatever. This has caused quite a lot of upset to anyone in their aura. But that doesn’t stop them noticing the little things. Like, for instance, this particular dick on the wall of a cubicle in the university that Abe ‘Bubba’ Jenkins is about to quit.

University is made to open minds. And in that atmosphere, someone with the nickname of ‘Bubba’ is not supposed to flourish. The rote history, the philosophy of their lives, even the very way they thought the world was meant to work… all of it is challenged by those who seek to teach. Why, he’s even met a few people he honestly believes should rot in hell. And worse - they’re genuinely nice people until he airs his dirty politics.

Thus, it’s quite a shock to find one of Them in his territory, seriously considering a dick he’d just drawn on the wall with the caption, Offended? Get a life!

Interesting rendering, said That Type. Most times, I see a distorted bubble of a P with a few crude lines, when they don’t leave out the testes altogether. They paused to consider it again. You’ve taken some time with this. Rendered the circumcision properly, the pubes… even some veins. You might have some hidden talent.

Bubba reacted as any Bubba might, You tryin’a hit on me, queer? and he readied his fists.

The weirdo smiled at them. Only if you’d like it.

Bubba sank into confusion. Part of him wanted to like it. Part of him wanted to run in screaming terror. The conflict froze him. Y’ain’t convertin’ me, queer.

"My name is Erato. And I promise that I’m only appreciating your work. If you want me, you’re going to have to work for it."

Huh? This… this was not how the script was meant to go. You what?

You’re at a crossroads, Mr Jenkins. A time in your life when your choices can drastically change your path. You’re between futures and this, Erato tapped the drawing on the wall, has caught my interest.

…’s just a dick, said Bubba. I was sick an’ tired of all the politically correct bullshit flyin’ around and I did a thing before taking a shit. No big deal.

Politically correct… echoed Erato. Two words that mean ‘deliberately being nice to people’. Do you not like being deliberately nice to people?

Er… Abe felt the redness invading his face. But it ain’t proper. You got girls wanting to be guys and guys wanting to be girls. A-and both want to fuck each other ‘n’… it ain’t the way it’s s’posed’a be.

And what is all that to you? asked Erato. None of them want to… ‘fuck’ you.

But they could? They could sneak up on me when I’m taking a piss or something an’ try to convert me.

Erato laughed. Never in my life have I met anyone who was seduced by rape. It’s a preposterous fantasy. That anyone could give freely what was taken in violence. No. You will note that we have been amiably chatting with our pants on in a bathroom for… some minutes, and all I’ve done is admire your rendering. A gesture to the doodle on the wall. The world isn’t what you think it is, Mr Jenkins. You should try new thoughts.

Erato blew him a kiss on their way out. Be watching you.

Abe washed his hands three times before emerging into the outside. A lot quieter than his usual politics demanded. It was as if the scales had fallen from his eyes. Instead of focusing on the homos cramming their lifestyle choices down his throat, he saw couples in love holding hands. Only a small percentage of them actually made him angry enough to say anything about it.

He didn’t see miscegenation. He saw people in love. And none of them were focussed on him. At all. He saw… himself. An ugly young white man in a Make America Great Again cap and a rebel flag wife beater and a belt buckle that said Bitches get stitches! and then had the nerve to wonder why people at all and women in particular didn’t want to talk to him.

He thought about the twenty minutes he’d spent drawing that dick on the wall. How he’d felt about getting it right before adding the unnecessary caption.

Abe stood in the middle of the campus pathway and actually thought about things. About how his life had been cemented in certainties when it was really adrift in an ocean of doubt. About how he could learn to swim in that or sink like a brick.

He walked to the administration building and asked to speak to someone about changing his major. He didn’t like Business Principals and he certainly didn’t like Pre-Legal. He decided to change it to art. People made shitloads off of drawing dicks properly. In the right circles.

Challenge #005: Working Holiday

Terpsichore, Muse of Dancing - conga line, Nuf Said!

Even divinities need a holiday. After inspiring dancers to do new and interesting things with their bodies, with their costumes, even with lighting and how they made the music they danced to - while they were dancing - even a divine force needed a breather.

But a goddess of dance must go where she is worshipped.

You could spot her if you tried. There’s just something more about the embodiment of a divinity. A glow. An imperceptible something-something that inspires everyone around them. Even on their day off. On a cruise ship. Late at night when everyone is inebriated enough to think that a conga line is a cool idea. The influence of Terpsichore is obvious. The conga line is not only in sync, but actually looks good.

It’s the only way you could tell for sure.

The muse herself is lounging on a deckchair with a froufrou drink. It’s inside a coconut that is bedecked with too many streamers, glitter, curly straws and paper umbrellas. The best you could say about that kind of drink was that the alcohol was in there somewhere. She watches in vague disinterest as the hardy perennial Drunken Flailer suddenly busts moves that he never knew he had and would likely never remember. Accidentally impressing several young women who had previously passed on his doughy countenance.

She sighed. Maybe they’d like him for his personality at a later date.

The D.J. put on Genesis. A song that should have been appropriate for the late-night-early-morning crowd of revellers. I Can’t Dance. And the dance floor filled with spontaneous choreography that some of the aforementioned young women preserved for posterity via Youtube.