Enemy of my Enemy:  Present Your Gift

The High-Mother of the Libta-Thra clan emerged from her tent clenching her fists, her face twisting with anger evident even through the tattoos around her eyes, nose, and mouth.  Her clan, sitting outside of the firepits eating their dinner talking about the day’s events and the following day’s chores, fell silent in respect.

I tapped my foot in the shadows, bowing my head, holding Weelin’s bridle, calming him by stroking his nose and whispering in his ear, my arm aching, wrapped in bandages, my stomach fluttering. Two other prospective grooms, Laja and Ukana, waited with me in the dark, clearing their throats, their breaths quivering.

The High-Mother, alone, without the High-Father by her side, stomped down the path between the firepits, scrabbling up into her dragonbone throne without the High-Father’s assistance, grunting with the effort.  Straightening her beads and clothing, regaining her regal attitude, she lifted her hands.  “We will receive the gifts of Betrothal.”

“Without the High-Father?” someone whispered, the whisper shushed to silence by the rest of the clan who shifted in their seats, readying themselves for the ceremony to begin, hoping to celebrate after.

“Laja the Saddler, present your gift.”  The High-Mother sat down, her face grim.

Laja limped forward hunching his shoulders, his horse by his side, a white ceremonial sheet laying over the horse’s back.  He knelt before the High-Mother.  “Forgive me, High-Mother. I killed three pheasants for your people, but as I dressed the carcasses, a ferocious warrior attacked and subdued me.  The thief stole my kills.”

Beyond the firepit, the clan hooted at him, laughing and mocking him.  I swallowed.

“If you cannot protect yourself and your kill, how can you protect my clan?”  The High-Mother shook her head, sighing in disgust.  She leaned forward, pointing at him.  “Begone, useless man.”

Laja took his horse and skulked away.

The High-Mother said, “Ukana the Fisher, present your gift.”

Ukana stepped forward walking beside his horse, his bandaged head hanging low, his arm in a sling, a white sheet laying over his horse’s back.  He knelt before the High-Mother.  “Forgive me, High-Mother. I caught a great perch as tall as yourself, but as I cleaned it, a cunning warrior ambushed me.  The thief took my catch and left me by the river to die.”

The clan’s laughter rose, people stomping their feet, clapping their hands.

“Great Father in the Sky, why do you punish me so?  Do my daughters not deserve strong men?”  The High-Mother gazed skyward, raising her hands in supplication.  She sighed once more, glaring down at Ukana.  “You are of no use to me, little man.”

Ukana took his horse and slinked away.

The High-Mother said, “Neeko the Woodsman, present your gift.”

Head bowed, I marched forward leading Weelin, my heart pounding.  The clan, sitting on their seats beyond the firepit, grew quiet, their murmuring fading with each step.  I knelt before the High-Mother.

“What have you under your sheet, Woodsman?” the High-Mother asked.

“High-Mother, I killed for you a prong buck, but as I cleaned my kill, a warrior attacked me.”  I gulped, my throat dry.  “I killed the man and took the fish and the pheasant from his horse, adding it to my gift.”  I stood, whipping the ceremonial sheet from Weelin’s back revealing the meats there along with the human corpse.  I shoved the corpse off Weelin’s back, letting it fall to the ground, to bounce.

The clan gasped, muttering, “The High-Father?”

One hand on my sword, I peeked up at the High-Mother.

She smiled, and said, ”Gift accepted.”

Q1: What should take priority duty or friendship and why?

I guess, it depends?

When someone is your friend, you have certain duties and responsibilities to them and they have certain duties and responsibilities to you.  Depending on how close a friend they are and your history with them, those obligations may be quite different from friend to friend and may change over time even for a single friend.

For example, I have a friend who is a recovering drug addict.  I have, at times, gone out of my way to get this guy clothes and food, to help him try to find a job and move , and other things.  At a certain point, I had to draw the line and stop helping him, because I wasn’t helping him anymore, I was enabling him.  I still consider him my friend and I think he’s gotten back around to thinking of me as his friend even though he considered me a traitor for a few years.  I don’t feel the same about what my duties to him are as I do to some of my other friends, or what I thought those duties were before I dedicated my time, energy, and money to trying to help him.

Every person prioritizes their duties and obligations depending on what is important to them, and not just what is important to them now, but what is important to them at the time they have to make the decision.

Personally, my highest priorities are to my wife and myself and our marriage.  If I had children, I have no doubts they would be my highest priorities.  After that come my duties and responsibilities to other things, my friends, my work, organizations I belong to, promises I’ve made, etc.

So when you ask about prioritizing “duty” or “friendship”, I interpret that as prioritizing duties.  I have some friends I would give my life for but for most, I wouldn’t.  I have some ideals I would give my life for but for most, I wouldn’t.  Whether I give priority to my duty to some institution or to some friend, depends on too many factors to easily say.

Q2: What bends your mind every time you think about it and why?

Almost everything is nothing.

Take the solar system.  You’ve got this ball of mostly hydrogen blazing away and then all these little specs caught in its orbit.  And in between and around all this is almost entirely empty space, and there’s a lot of that empty space and the gaps between things are mind-bogglingly vast.

Democritus, the first philosopher we know of that hypothesized that all matter was composed of atoms, but he expected them to be little solid balls of stuff, not little bits of geometric probability full of not much of anything.

But atoms are mostly nothing, interacting internally and externally on a quantum level so small that the human mind really can’t conceive of it according to laws that frequently make no sense on the non-quantum level.

Whether you’re thinking about very large scales or very small scales or very medium scales, almost everything and everywhere is empty space.

I was a teenager when I first thought about that and it seriously weirded me out and made me feel very small and insignificant.  Now that I’m older, I realize just how amazing and special it is that any of this exists.

Q3: What would you most like to have named after you and why?

I had never thought about this before.

I’d love to have some pithy observation about people or society named after me and I’d like for it to be a quote from one of my books that becomes viral, something like Murphy’s Law although I’d be happy with a Pascal’s Wager or a Zeno’s Paradox even though those are intrinsically flawed concepts.  Watson’s Law or the Davis Dilemma would be awesome.

And now, it’s my life’s goal.

From ‘Edge of Doom‘ by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Theana came through with a place to stay — Rota property, kept for use when visitors or stop-over staff needed — a lovely little apartment in an upmarket complex called Riverside. The apartment was designed for a single person with a busy life and the whole complex included its own retail and entertainment zone. Everything you might want or need was provided on the doorstep with some style and elegance. It might not be full on luxury living but it was aspirational and very comfortable. As a quiet and low-profile holiday home in the ‘City, it was pretty perfect.

Charis could stay in and enjoy the views over the river from her window, or wander out to sit on the banks in the local bar or take in a live show from the best local talent in the open-air venue in the heart of the complex. Within a couple of days, she had begun to feel relaxed. Theana was in touch every day and updating her, even if only to say there was no news. If anything bad happened to Foss, Charis was pretty sure Theana would hear about it too and let her know.

A few more days went by and she got to know a couple of the locals, who she used her ‘Charlie Sweet’ ID with and told she was on a rest break from a heavy schedule with Rota. They were good companions for her evenings and the days she spent linked out or with screens, catching up on current affairs, the latest releases and celebrity gossip. Sometimes sitting by the river or on her private balcony or, on dark days, staying in.

One evening — on a light day — she had been out to see a talented dance group with her new friends and went back with one of them for a drink and a chat. When she left to go back to her own apartment, the sun was warm and bright and she took the more scenic route along one of the higher walkways, looking down over the plaza by the river.

The ‘City had its own beauty spots and this view was one of them. The river was wide at this point and had a small chain of islets where some of the graceful bridges that linked the two halves of the metropolis, alighted briefly before taking off in curving parabolas to the other bank. Even when the walkway moved into the residential area, the river view was still there, although at times it vanished from sight behind the elegant blocks of housing.

It was because she was looking ahead to where the next view of the river would appear that she saw him — walking quite quickly and with purpose, and her heart moved from her chest into her throat. Jazatar Baldrik. She had just turned a corner, so unless he looked up and to the side he wouldn’t see her. Instinct made her keep still to avoid triggering his peripheral vision, but she comforted herself that even if he did look up he might well not know it was her. She was in shadow, so not recognisable from that distance. Her first thought was that he must be there looking for her — but that made no sense as her apartment was not even in this section of the complex — she still had a good walk to get back to it.

It was then she saw the other man. He was below her and half concealed by the walkway she was on. What made her notice him was he had just produced an energy snub. His gaze was fixed in the direction hers was, but from where he stood, lower than her, Jaz was no longer in his field of vision and the route the dark haired man was taking wouldn’t bring him back far enough out to be in this man’s range. Without even thinking about it Charis found she had her own energy snub in one hand as she watched the two men below her.

Then the situation suddenly changed. Instead of keeping along his previous route, Jaz crossed the roadway towards the service entrance of one of the residential blocks. He was still invisible to the man with the gun, but would be a perfect target once he reached the service door.

Charis felt her lungs adhere to her ribs.

This was a setup. An ambush. Or in ‘City speak  — a street drop.

There were only a couple of moments to think. She could do nothing and let whatever was going to happen go ahead. That would be the safest path. If she tried to intervene she would draw attention to herself from people she would much rather didn’t notice her. There was also the slight issue of whatever security surveillance the complex had — which was extensive. But not to act would mean letting the man Vitos held to be his closest friend most likely die.

The thought of Vitos conjured him into existence. There he was, moving along a parallel walkway where it looped ahead of her, checking the ground, covering for Jaz. But the angle of the walkway made both Vitos and the man with the gun invisible to each other for a few more vital moments.

She could do nothing, stay safe and Vitos might still see the man and act in time. Or she could place herself at risk and be sure Jaz lived.

She had her own weapon trained on the man below her. She saw him move to adjust his aim as Jaz entered his field of vision and in the same instant, she fired. The man gave a loud gasp and Charis heard the clatter as his weapon fell from his fingers. She had no idea if she had killed him or if he still lived and she had no intention of staying to find out. As soon as she had fired she had stepped back behind the corner. Vitos might have seen her, but with the concealing shadow, should not recognise her. The last thing she wanted right now was to have to explain herself to Jaz Baldrik.

Even as she was thinking through that possibility, she was walking quickly back along the walkway, acutely aware of where the security monitors might observe her. She tried to choose a path that would disguise where she had come from and then changed course a few times after that until she was as sure as she could be that no one was physically following her. Then she called up one of the mini-taxis to run her back to her own apartment block.

Her heart was still hammering when she got through the door and locked it. That was an illusion of sanctuary, of course. If she had been recognised by Vitos or if any interested parties checked the available security surveillance — well, there were too many ‘ifs’ which went against her. There was nothing she could do about any of them so she made herself a mild sedative drink and did her best to get to sleep.

She woke early and over breakfast, a local newslink arrived from the management of the complex. They wished to apologise to anyone affected by the disturbance the previous night outside the Riverwatch Heights apartments. They were still investigating what had happened but, unfortunately, the security surveillance drones and monitors for that sector of the complex had been temporarily offline due to circumstances beyond their control. Any witnesses or those who had relevant information were asked to come forward.

The impact of that was just sinking in when Theana linked her.

“Charity? Sorry to wake you so early but I just got told we are in the clear. Your friend and mine Halkom Dugsdall even came by to apologise in person, but I told him there was no need and I would pass it on to you.”

Charis felt as if she had just broken the surface having been underwater too long.

Edge of Doom is released today as an ebook.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

Or dare one call you RWW as we are such chums now. To those few who still may not know who I am, I bid you welcome. My name is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – that’s Ivy to my friends, of which number one is sure you will soon count yourself. You will no doubt have acquainted yourself with my brilliant and inventive novel, a seminal work exploring the furthest conceptual reaches of science fiction and fantasy “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”. It is, one feels, a book that speaks to the very soul of humanity and artistry.

But quietly now my children, while one picks for you the finest flowers of one’s exceptional mind…

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 4. The Write Writual – Part I

There is a myth among one’s less stellarly talented detractors that to write is but to be seated in front of the writing machine. Ah, would that it were so simple. Would that one could summon the Muse from her flowery bower by the simple application of the buttocks to a suitably cushioned chaise.

The facts are rather more heartrending, residing as they do in the depths to which creativity can drag the artist in search of the mot juste. Our forefathers placed their faith in the inspirational qualities of the demons that are alcohol and addictive substances. Do not tread that route my pupils, for therein lies the route to perichondriation. The body of a genius is a temple to the goddesses of beauty and truth, and the divine Calliope may only be summoned to enter such a plot of fertile soil by the twin stratagems of aromatherapy and meditation.

My own secret recipe of essential oils and the contemplation of my perfectly white and clean toeshells seldom fails to bring the lady of letters to stand at my shoulder and sprinkle the stardust of genius upon my words.

However, one must caution you against certain verboten fragrances, aromas known to congest the senses and impede the ingress of inspiration. Patchouli, that siren of psychedelia, is one such unfriend as is everything with ‘musk’ in the name. That word itself is descended from the Sanskrit for ‘testicle’ which is sufficient reason of itself to delete this foul precursor of sexual depravity from your lexicon of preparatory perfumes. Also to be avoided is anything that belongs in the department culinaire which, by virtue of close affinity to victuals, bestirs the stomach and curdles creativity – cinnamon and ginger, vanilla, basil or bay – unless one is writing a recipe book, of course.

So, as the siren song of the Muse fills the exquisitely receptive, virgin marble temple of my mind, I must leave you, my RWW chums. I shall ease this parting with a little homework for your starved and tiny souls. Seek your perfect writing aroma and have it by your side when I return to pontificate upon the correct orchestral accompaniment to the mental struggle of bringing your vision of the ultimate histoire to the blank screen affront your eyes.

Until soon my disciples. Ecrit Bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

The Dragon

The mist covered everything in sight. The snow and rocky terrain of the mountains didn’t help either. Unable to see where his feet were taking him, Meddhi felt blind and unprepared.

With a careful step, and then another, he drew shallow breaths as tension rose in his golden-armored chest.

Then, he heard its giant wings flapping in the brisk air. He couldn’t see the creature, but felt it was close.

Readying his long sword toward the sky, Meddhi knew the infamous dark dragon would soon appear.

“Come out, you coward!” he yelled, taunting his invisible foe.

There was only silence. However, Meddhi could have sworn he heard a sound like snarling.

“I know you’re there!” he once again shouted into the mist. It was too quiet for his liking; it felt wrong somehow. “Show yourself!” Suddenly pouncing in front of him

It was too quiet for his liking; it felt wrong somehow. “Show yourself!” Suddenly pouncing in front of him

“Show yourself!”

Suddenly pouncing in front of him came the enormous being with its dark purple wings and black-scaled body. It lunged at Meddhi and pushed him down with its long claws.

“You dare wake me?!” it growled, knocking the sword away from his opponent.

Face to face with the raging dragon of legend, Meddhi could see its eyes. They were deep violet, and hauntingly beautiful. Yet, the fierce pain inside them gave him reason to fear. In a single moment, Meddhi knew that this was a creature who had lost everything, and it would not hesitate to destroy anyone who gave it cause to remember the past.

“Please… forgive me!” Meddhi shouted as he closed his eyes, praying to the Gods for survival.

The dragon slowly shook its gigantic head, then replied, “No, I think not. You are one of those dragon hunters, aren’t you? Did you believe you could take my hide and parade my claws around your village, showing everyone your supposed power? Who do you think you are?!”

About to rip Meddhi in half with its magnificent teeth, the dragon stopped short when he heard, “I am not a hunter!”

Cocking its head in curiosity, it slowly replied, “What are you then?”

Meddhi opened his eyes and said, “I… I don’t know anymore. I used to be a priest, but now… I’m not sure.”

The dragon laughed into the misty snowfall, then squinted its violet eyes. “I don’t believe you. No one comes to this mountain without intent to kill. You, my sad excuse for a man, are a terrible liar! Now, make amends with your Gods, for you are about to meet them!”

In a flash, Meddhi saw only one face before his eminent death, and she was crying tears of regret.

If only I had told her what was in my heart…

Extract from The Dragon Warrior of Kri: A Shiva XIV Story by Lyra Shanti. You can find Lyra on Facebook and Twitter too.

Q1: How do you reconcile spirituality with violence?

Meddhi: That is a difficult question, and something I’ve struggled with all my life. Personally, there is no reconciliation, and never can be. I have witnessed horrors and have experienced my own violence first hand, to the point where I can only pray for forgiveness. The Gods may or may not hear my prayers, but I nonetheless focus my energy on the good I can achieve in this life. I strive to be a loving, balanced man… Even if the violence still lurks deep inside. We can only be the best of ourselves, and I choose to let my spirituality guide my actions, rather than my anger or fear.

Q2: If you could achieve any one goal what would it be and why?

I wish nothing more than to see  my loved ones filled with happiness. In fact, my only true desire is to see those I consider family thrive and grow in their soul’s light. I will always do what is necessary to help my friends and family become strong and proud, for they are my heart and my honor.

Q3: What is your innermost fear and how do you deal with it?

My innermost fear is losing my loved ones. I have already experienced great loss in my life with both my parents and best friend… So it is something I suppose I have grown used to. That sounds strange perhaps, but it’s true. I wouldn’t say I’ve grown cold, though it sometimes feels that way. It is more that I have tried to accept the chaos within the natural order of life. We cannot  fight the calamity that surrounds us any more than we can stop the raging waves of the ocean. Our only hope is to brace ourselves and hold onto the hope in our hearts, letting the storms pass over… Until we once again see the light of the sun.

The Dragon Warrior of Kri: (on sale for .99 till Sept 14)

From ‘Trust A Few‘ by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The man who entered would have stood out even in a crowd. Here in the Hope, where the main colour was drab and the mood most often dour to sullen, he did not so much attract attention as cause it. One thing Jaz had learned in his time under the domes on Hell’s Breath, was how to judge people by their dress and manner. He could spot at a glance now, the kind of tourist who you could double charge on the viewing run and the kind you would refuse to allow a tab in the bar.

Jaz’s first thought was this must be one of the weirder ones. One of those who came here and talked about the mystical power of the flares or liked to make artworks in the micro-g viewing pod on Vel’s cousin’s ship. Too much money to spend, looking for something different, some new experience, to spend it on. But even as his thoughts were going over what he needed to say to Vel’s cousin over dinner – what he wanted to say to her – something kept him watching and not dismissing the new arrival as he would under normal circumstances.

There was nothing too outlandish about this man’s style of dress, although it hinted at the kind of wealth level you didn’t often see around Hell’s Breath. The fabric and cut looked sophisticated and expensive and the visible jewellery suggested he was trying for taste rather than bling. But if elegance was the effect he wanted to achieve, he failed. His hair – an untidy tangle of tawny-gold curls – ruined it, that and the addition of a very cheap looking opaque remote-link visor over his eyes.

“Ma says that funny man just came in on the hopper that took the oldies out.” Vel’s cousin’s daughter wriggled into the seat beside Jaz and started helping herself to the fruit on his plate without asking. “She said Auntie Vel said to tell you to check his luggage. She thinks he’s carrying something. Uncle Dom said the sensors were going ‘whip-woah’ when he went through them.” She licked her fingers and reached back to the plate. He gently grabbed the small hand before it could remove the last slice of fruit and then pushed the child firmly away.

“Tell your ma thanks – and stay out of here the pair of you.” The little girl treated him to one of her more scary pulled faces, then slipped out the back of the bar and through the door Jaz knew led passed the kitchens and out to the tiny demountable cabin beyond that she, her mother and Jaz called home. He watched her go in his peripheral vision, feeling a marked relief when the door slid closed behind her. But his focus remained fixed on the new arrival as it had throughout as he finished the last piece of fruit.

The newcomer seemed polite enough and Vel’s nephew’s boyfriend managed to check him in to one of the two remaining suites which were still habitable. The blond man made as if to move away from the counter to go to his suite. But then he turned back, his movement sudden, as if just remembering something.

“Oh yes, whilst I think of it, you don’t happen to know if there is a man by the name of Jazatar Baldrik staying here?”

Jaz felt a cold stillness within and flexed the muscles of one arm to feel the reassuring presence of an energy snub, linked thanks to his time in the Specials, on his inner arm. He pushed back from the table and stood up, the movement drew the attention of the new arrival who turned to look, eyes invisible beneath the visor but a wide smile now growing below it. Jaz did not watch the distracting smile, he watched the hands and the stance, but they were relaxed, nothing signalled intent to attack.

Jaz crossed the room towards the blond man, closing down the distance between them in a few quick steps, to get to hand-to-hand range, so he could be surer of control and, if needed, a kill. The blond man let him do it, still smiling and relaxed. “Jazatar Baldrik I assume?” The voice was light and sounded much too happy.

“Who  are you and what do you want?” To his own ears, Jaz’s question sounded more like a snarl. The smile beneath the visor grew even wider and the blond man reached up to remove the obscuring remote-link, revealing a pair of disturbing, intent, orange eyes.

“My name is Durban Chola and I need you to help me save the soul of Avilon Revid.”

‘Trust A Few’ is FREE to download 4-8 September. The sequel ‘Edge of Doom’ is released on 9 September and is available for pre-order.

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To wake me up at half-past three?

On what distant motorway
Did you begin your ride that day?
On what tarmac didst you roll
From whence came you my sleep to troll?

And what hard shoulder fast depart
Could twist your manifold apart?
So that the popping of the sound
Could so reverberate around?

What did hammer your bike chain
To make it thunder in the rain?
What did make you choose my road
To burden with your heavy load?

When the stars – or sparks more like,
Flew from the tailpipe of your bike,
Did you wonder what fell fate
Left you back-firing by my gate?

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To blast me up at half-past three?

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

A Rough Day at Work, Hunting Dinosaurs

By Brent A Harris

Brent wrote this piece especially for us here at Working Title Blogspot – we put it out today to help celebrate the launch of Brent’s new book ‘A Time of Need’.

The creature, quick and birdlike, darted beneath the underbrush. My eyes swept toward it. I took a restrained step closer. Even as a juvenile, my prey was lethal. Just under waist high, flat brown and green mottled feathers blended in and around the bushes and foliage of the late Mesozoic. A perfect camouflage.

My eyes trained forward, not looking for my prey but eliminating where it wasn’t. While this was my first-time hunting Tyrannosaur, it wasn’t my first-time hunting dinosaurs. I’d tired of setting lazy traps for Triceratops and snares for Stegos. I’d chased down the faster ostrich-like creatures and outwitted packs of raptors – movies made them out to be far more fearsome than the overgrown turkeys they turned out to be. In fact, most of the ones I’d brought back to Earth Prime were no bigger than the young Tyrannosaur I was currently tracking. A disappointment to say the least. I wanted something bigger.

Oh well. I’d bag this one, head back to my beat-up transport truck. Punch in the dial for my return trip home, and try another Mesozoic-era Earth in the morning. Dinosaur hunting wasn’t as lucrative as it used to be. Too many of us out here doing it now. Most folks back on Earth Prime could order a Bronto-burger at their local drive-thru. But it paid the bills, and it was interesting Earth-hopping, seeing all these other Earths in their infancy. We could do whatever we wanted to them. It wasn’t going to mess up our timeline.

The juvenile Tyrannosaur let out a noise somewhere between a choked chirp and a roar. I suppose it was transitioning from weening off its mom to learning how to be a little dinosaur. But it must have gotten caught in something, because those stumbling cries sounded like the creature was in distress. It needed help. Luckily, I was there.

The Rex’s calls lured me on, beckoning me closer. Brushing branches from my face, I followed the pleas into the foliage. She was laying on her side, entangled in roots and branches, feathers flapping wildly. Females had almost no color to them. And they were larger, fiercer than their male counterparts. She ripped and tore at her bindings. I almost felt bad as I raised my rifle and prepared to call it in. Dinosaurs required special transports. I thought better of it; the cost was prohibitive. It bit into my profits leaving me with even little after the taxes for time-travel and earth-hopping. It’s hard making an honest living. I thought I could probably jam this juvenile into my transport and save a few credits.

I probably should have kept a closer eye to my surroundings. But I was tired and distracted. It’d been a long day and I wanted to go home, crash on the couch, and watch my hometown ball players give lessons on how to lose badly. So, it was the smell of decomposing meat that made me question where I was. At first, I thought it might mean we were near the little creature’s nest. That made sense. She sensed danger and was running home to mommy.

No. If I was near the nest, the smell would permeate the air with a sickly, sweet aroma of raw meat and decaying flesh. Instead, the foulness came in waves, hot and sticky. The branches still except for where the juvenile thrashed about. There was no wind.

The creature settled down and hopped easily and effortlessly out from the plants and then scooted behind them. Not a feather was ruffled. The little bastard tricked me. It turned out I wasn’t the only hunter here. I hit my emergency button as hard and as quick as I could and breathed a sigh of relief when I felt the reassuring buzz signalling that the message had been sent.

My message would go back to Earth Prime, and a team of rescuers would track my location and arrive five minutes before my stupid, stupid mistake to prevent me from making it. Sure, it would cost a fortune, and I’d have to pull in twice as much for awhile to stay afloat, but at least I’d be alive. I wouldn’t be watching ballgames anytime soon. I grunted in disproval. It was my own fault.

But that timeline didn’t exist yet. For now, I’d have to see this one through. The large tyrannosaur poked its pink snout out, exposing teeth long and sharp and jagged enough where I hoped it would be over soon, yet I knew I’d feel everything in the first few terrifying moments until I finally died of shock or exsanguination. The mother dinosaur had been so still. So peaceful. It was a good arrangement. Let her helpless daughter lure in the food, and then momma would share in on the spoils. And I had fallen right for it. I guess when there are fail-safes like time-travel, it tones down the human instinct to survive. There’s little need to be careful. But I should. Oh, I should be very careful next time. This was going to hurt. This was going to hurt so much.

The tyrannosaur lunged.

Be sure to check out more of Brent’s amazing stories!

We managed to pin down Sidewise Award Nominee, Brent A. Harris for a few quick words as he was preparing to launch his new book A Time of Need, which is out today!

Q1: The world is about to end but you can be sent back in time to live out your life in any era before the 20th Century. When and why?

No time before Netflix is really a good time for me, I’m afraid. Plus, I like indoor plumbing and hot showers and air-conditioning. I’m odd, I know. So If I’m going to live and die horribly, let’s send me to the end of the Cretaceous. Go big.

Q2: What do you think is the biggest ‘What if…?’ of history and why?

Drat. I was going to say, “What if Leonardo DiCaprio had ever won an Oscar?” Well played, history, well played.

Q3: Which three historical figures would you most want to invite to a dinner party and why?

David Bowie, Freddie Mercury, and John Lennon. Imagine, if you can, how much that party will rock you. Let’s Dance!

Brent A. Harris has penchant for oddness when the mood strikes. Like an eternal flame, the mood struck long ago and no one has been able to put it out since. You can try by swinging over to his website www.brentaharris.com Bring Cinnabon, extra frosting.