Award winning Author Sonia Saikaley of Ottawa, ON.

It’s great news for an author to receive recognition for their dedication to the art of writing. Our guest this week co-won the 2012 Ken Klonsky Novella Competition for her debut novel – The Lebanese Dishwasher. Great news is that she is our guest this week. A 4Q interview and an excerpt from her work.





Sonia Saikaley was born and raised in Ottawa, Canada to a large Lebanese family. The daughter of a shopkeeper, she had access to all the treats she wanted. Her first book, The Lebanese Dishwasher, co-won the 2012 Ken Klonsky Novella Contest. Her first collection of poetry, Turkish Delight, Montreal Winter, was published in 2012 and a second collection, A Samurai’s Pink House, was published in 2017 by Inanna Publications. A graduate of the University of Ottawa and the Humber School for Writers, she lives in her hometown of Ottawa. In the past, she worked as an English teacher in Japan where she introduced belly dancing to her students. Her novel The Allspice Bath was recently published by Inanna Publications.






4Q: It is a wonderful feeling I expect to be a co-winner in a writing competition. Please tell us about that and the novel that won.




SS: It truly is an amazing feeling to be selected as a co-winner in a writing competition. What was even more amazing was that I was on the brink of giving up writing when I found out that I had co-won the contest. I had been working on my craft for almost twenty years and I wasn’t having any luck finding a publisher for my work. I was getting very discouraged. It was also an extremely difficult time for me as I was struggling with some health issues and awaiting to undergo major surgery. Then I saw Quattro Books call for submissions to their Ken Klonsky novella contest. The problem was that the deadline was fast-approaching and I didn’t have a novella manuscript. If I wanted to enter this contest, I would have to write the story within three weeks while at the same time working full-time and dealing with my health challenges. I made a bet with myself that if I didn’t win this contest, I would give up on writing, let go of my dream. Well, I managed somehow to write the manuscript and sent it off in time to meet the deadline. Two days after the deadline, I underwent surgery but before doing so, I told one of my sisters about the contest in case the operation didn’t go well. Fortunately, everything went well and after my recovery and return to my full-time job, I checked my emails on my lunch hour and opened a message from Quattro Books congratulating me on co-winning the contest. I actually cried and one of my coworkers asked if I was all right. Crying and smiling simultaneously, I told her I had won a literary contest and my first book would be published. Winning this contest uplifted me at a time when I needed encouragement and strength.

The Lebanese Dishwasher is a sad but hopeful story about a man struggling with a painful past and coming to terms with his sexuality. It is a story about finding your dream again in a new country and also finding love and accepting who you are in spite of cultural constraints. 






4Q: You also have published two impressive collections of poetry. Can you tell us about them?




SS: The same year The Lebanese Dishwasher was published, I was also fortunate to have my poetry collection Turkish Delight, Montreal Winter enter the world. This collection is about the immigrant experience. The characters in Turkish Delight, Montreal Winter find themselves in situations that reveal the grafting onto or adapting of the old world to new. This collection takes the reader from Lebanon’s olive groves to Montreal’s winding stairs. Distant steamships push the immigrant dream into Canadian harbours where new citizens must maneuver through fading memories, prejudices and hopes for a better life. My second poetry collection A Samurai’s Pink House also deals with the transformation of lives from Matsuo Basho’s travels to a love affair between a kabuki cross-dresser and a lonely geisha and the struggles of women in ancient and modern-day Japan. The collection takes the reader on a journey through the fascinating culture of Japan across rice fields, tea houses, cherry orchards and narrow alleys where characters, at different stages of life, strive to find identity, peace and love.  I wrote the poems in A Samurai’s Pink House when I lived in Japan teaching English and introducing belly dancing to my students. It was an amazing experience that helped me grow as a person and writer.  

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.




SS: Growing up as the youngest of four sisters meant that I was the queen of hand-me-downs and also the one my older sisters would tease. Every now and then my parents bought me something new and shiny. On my ninth birthday I received a purple velvet tracksuit. I loved it! I wore it often. Eventually, I grew out of the velvet pants but the jacket still fit me and I wore that jacket with jeans, with shorts, with pants. The velvet began to fade and then one day, the jacket vanished. I frantically searched all over the house for it. How hard could it be to find a purple jacket? But I couldn’t find it anywhere. I asked my sisters where the jacket went and they said they didn’t know while looking slyly at each other. I knew something was up. Being the youngest, I could get away with crying and making my sisters feel guilty. So I whimpered until my sisters finally admitted they took my jacket. One of my sisters pulled it out from its hiding place. I clutched the jacket close to my chest. My sisters groaned, “You wear it every day! It doesn’t match anything. It’s time to give it up.” “But I love this jacket!” I said. “More than us?” one of them asked. I looked away from them for a second then gazed up with my big brown eyes and big smile and said, “Of course not, even though you tease me.” They ruffled my curly hair and apologized for hiding the jacket. “But you wear the tacky thing every day! Too purple like grapes!” I laughed and said, “I love grapes just as much as I love this purple jacket.” In the corner of the family room was a bag filled with clothes my parents wanted to donate to the Salvation Army. When my sisters told me that someone else could use the jacket more than I could, I knew my sisters were right. I folded my beloved jacket and tucked it gently in the bag. My sisters told me they were proud of me. Smiling, I hugged them. That day, I learned about giving even if it meant giving up something you love. 






4Q: Your website tells us you are working on your next novel – Jasmine Season on Hamra Street.  What can you tell us about this?





SS: I have been working on my novel Jasmine Season on Hamra Street for the last nine years. The story is set against the backdrop of the Lebanese Civil War of 1975 and tells one woman’s struggle to find her independence. The novel approaches the universal question of how much should one give up for family. It is also a love story between this Lebanese woman and the Jewish man she meets in Beirut. It has been a long haul but I am hopeful I will finalize the latest draft soon.






4Q: Where is that favorite spot for your writing Sonia? What are your writing habits?





SS: My favourite spot to write is in my home office with the birds chirping in the background. I wake up at four in the morning to focus on my craft. I need silence when I work except for those lovely chirping birds! I write and/or edit every day before my day job. When I compose poetry, I write the initial draft by longhand. There is something soothing about letting the words flow on the pages of my journal. With prose, I use my desktop and set aside about two hours a day for my writing. I am disciplined when it comes to my writing routine. It wasn’t always this way but for the last ten years I have carved out the time and working in the early morning hours is best for me since it doesn’t take away time from my family. 






4Q: Anything else you would like to share with us?





SS: It took me twenty years to get my latest novel The Allspice Bath published. Everyone kept saying ‘no’ to it so whatever you have in your heart, go for it because you never know when you will find the right people to help you and who will equally believe in your dream. Here’s to dreams and never giving up!

An Excerpt from The Allspice Bath:



Elias turned the car into a small alley, barely wide enough for two vehicles. He parked the old Mercedes around the corner. Adele stepped out of the passenger’s side and followed Elias through the cobblestone street, and down a flight of stairs that led to the entrance of a small café. When Elias pulled the door open, the smell of sumac and thyme enveloped Adele along with the warmth of a large stone oven that was radiating heat at the far end of the establishment. Six small tables covered with flower-print tablecloths filled the room. A water pipe was positioned behind the cramped counter where an old man sat on a wooden stool, his eyes half-closed. He looked to be in his mid-eighties; his cheeks drooped and deep wrinkles lined his forehead. Beyond him, two windows were open wide, allowing a gentle breeze to enter the softly-lit, tiny restaurant that was empty but for the old man and one other customer. The old man was dressed in what appeared to be a woman’s polo shirt and baggy trousers common to older Middle Eastern men. He greeted them with a broken smile and a large space between his two front teeth flashed when he opened his mouth. “Marhaba. It’s a beautiful morning,” he said, wiping his hands on the grease-stained apron around his protruding belly.

          “It sure is,” Adele answered in Arabic.

          “You’re not from here. I can tell by your accent.”

          She smiled timidly; she was surprised the old man could tell immediately that she had an accent. She spoke hesitantly and now wondered in the warm heat of the café how she had lost this language that had been her first as she looked at her reflection in the mirrored walls behind the cash register. Her curly hair dropped over her shoulders and her face was unusually pale compared to Elias’s and the old man’s equally dark complexion. Yet, unmistakably, she looked like them.

          “Come on,” Elias said, waking her from her thoughts. He placed his hand on the small of her back. She didn’t move away and let his hand ease into her spine. He guided her to one of the small tables, pulled out a chair for her to sit on, and then dropped his hand to his side. Immediately, she missed its warmth. She sat down and she sighed loudly as she followed Elias’s movements, his long legs striding elegantly across the restaurant back to the old man, who handed him a plate filled with zahter and two cups of steaming ahweh.

          When Elias returned, she smiled up at him. He stood beside the table and began to serve her as if she were his guest. The aroma of the flat bread powdered with dried thyme, sumac, and sesame seeds caressed her nose. As he placed the dish and coffee cups down, he smiled then smacked his large hand on his forehead. “Oh, I forgot! You’re not a coffee drinker. Back in one moment with your halib.”

          Affection filled her heart for this thoughtful man. She touched his wrist and said, “It’s okay, Elias. Sit down. You’ve done so much for me already. Sit and share this wonderful meal with me.”

          “Our last breakfast?” he said, slipping onto the chair opposite her.

          “I suppose. But does that mean there will be a resurrection of sorts?”

          A smile lifted his mouth. “Most definitely. Resurrected from family obligations…”

          “And guilt,” Adele added quietly. They ate in silence until the old man came to their table and placed a round bowl of zeitouns in front of them, the oil glistening on the green olives.

          “These come from tree in yard at home,” he said in broken English. He also handed them a basket of pita bread. “I make bread too. Well, not right. Wife make bread,” he said, kneading his knuckles on the tabletop. “She make on ground. Hard on knees. She yell every time she do bread. Allah, she say, why you curse me to be woman?”

          Adele raised her eyebrows and frowned. She didn’t like this last comment because it seemed that being born a woman was indeed a curse, the worst possible fate. She looked away from the old man and out the window. A few feet away a young man dressed in military garbs with a finely-trimmed beard and crew-cut was standing with a rifle flung over his left shoulder. His slender body bent forward as he questioned people in their cars. She imagined his voice resonant with forced authority. He looked boyish. She guessed he was only a few years older than herself. Twenty-two at the most. Adele sensed the old man’s eyes on her. She turned her attention back to him.

          “I say something bad? You mad?”

          Adele asked quietly, “Why does your wife think it’s a curse to be a woman?”

          “Life not easy for woman. They cook, clean, take care of child, husband. They work hard and for what?” He slapped his hands together. “Nothing. No respect, only grief. A woman lose lots. Husband boss, child make body fat then break it in birth. Not easy to be woman, that why curse. Man have easy life.”

          She stared at the man. There was neither coldness nor meanness in his eyes. He wiped his hands on his apron and smiled.

          “Now eat. Enough about man, woman. Can’t live with woman. Can’t live with no woman, right? This American phrase?”

          She nodded and popped an olive in her mouth.









Thank you Sonia for being our guest this week.

Thank you, Allan, for having me! I am grateful for this wonderful opportunity. Thank you for helping other writers share their work with the world. 

For you readers that want to follow Sonia and/or discover more about her and her writing, please follow these links.




Website: https://www.soniasaikaley.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Sonia-Saikaley-1030439696980837/

Twitter: @SaikaleySonia https://twitter.com/saikaleysonia?lang=en

Guest Poet & Author Richard Doiron of New Brunswick.

As a poet and writer, Richard has a long, long list of accomplishments.  Actively writing for over forty years, his first book of poetry was published in 1978 and there has been no looking back. In the small amount of space on the Scribbler, it would be impossible to know everything about Richard but he’s agreed to a 4Q Interview and I trust we will all get to know him a little better. As a bonus, he is sharing some of his writing.

Born Jan. 22, 1947 in Moncton, NB. Second of nine children. Quit school at age 14. Started writing poetry shortly thereafter. A decade later, in Ontario, took upgrading and got a certificate in journalism. First published in a letter to the Editor, Feb. 1964, Moncton Times, 1000 words left intact. Have never known a"dry" spell since. First poems published 1970. Published in well over 100 anthologies, periodicals, personal books. Also published two novels (one I consider

my best writing ever), also two biographical works. Participated in local, national, and international literary festivals; invited to festivals in various parts of the world, including the Middle East and Asia. Profiled extensively in mainstream media. Usually introduced as "peace poet," which is consistent with my writing.

Nominated for numerous awards, including the Governor-Generals Award (2), the Griffin Prize, and 2019 for the Order of New Brunswick.

4Q: When I visited your website – www.spiritsinpeace.com – I am overwhelmed of all the highlights of your writing journey, specifically the World Poetry Lifetime Achievement Award you received in 2012 in Richmond, British Columbia. Please tell us about this.

RD: First, Allan, let me thank you for inviting me to your prestigious forum.

I first got online in early 2001. The Internet opened up a whole new world for me. Always curious, I was soon a member of many poetry groups, where I was mostly well-received and made lifetime friends. At that time, writing profusely, in whatever poetry genre I encountered, I posted poems daily. I eventually cut back on the number of groups, now posting in about ten daily. That has represented a lot of poetry over 18 full years. There were key groups for me, such as World Poetry Canada, out of Vancouver, that group headed by Nobel Nominee, Ariadne Sawyer, a tireless worker. Ariadne has done a live radio show weekly for 21 full years, the show now heard live in 124 countries. I was invited to read on air a few times. Eventually, I was nominated for a Lifetime Achievement Award, at the time having had poetry published for 42 years already. This was a big deal. Not one for travelling much, especially by plane, that was rather daunting, too, and there were costs to such a venture; enter my friends, artist Jesus Salgueiro and Art Smith, former personal chef to Oprah Winfrey; I had written the wedding vows for the pair two years earlier, vows that had brought 500 celebrities to tears, as per the Washington Post and Chicago Tribune; I was asked for my bank account info and told to go to my bank. Sufficient funds had found their way into my account to cover a return flight to Vancouver and for me to spend 8 days in BC, where I got to spend quality time with numerous people, most notably Ariadne Sawyer; there, I also connected with the Poet Laureate of New Westminster, Candice James, whom I later assisted in writing a book of sonnets. As well, I got to meet one of the most underrated poets on earth, Mr. Marc Creamore, who gifted me with one of his books. Then there was time spent with Dr. Epitacio Tongohan of the Philippines; better known in the world of literature as Doc PenPen, this man facilitates literary festivals in various countries of the world yearly. I already belonged to his group, Pentasi B World Friendship Poetry, where I posted the usual poems. In 2017, Pentasi B also gave me a Lifetime Achievement Award and, this year, named me World Poet Laureate. Doc PenPen is one of the most charismatic people I have ever met. Known in the world as "The Father of Visual Poetry," the pathologist/philanthropist is a living legend, received by heads of states wherever he facilitates a literary event, this year doing his thing in Uzbekistan and China (I being a participant in the latter, via one of my books).

Of note, too, I was nominated for a Lifetime Achievement Award with ARTeryUSA, by former Senator of the California Senior Legislature, James Pasqual Bettio, who chanced upon my writing in 2017 and wrote me asking for a bio for the purpose of nominating me. Mr. Bettio is a man of renown in American artistic circles.

Because of my ongoing involvement with such groups as named, I am now regularly invited to participate in other international groups. Suffice it to say that I have an appreciable following.

4Q: Ancestor’s Dance is an amazing and impressive publication of two hundred and twenty-two sonnets. Please tell us about the collection.

RD: You know, Allan, I am tone-deaf, meaning music is out for me. But poetry is its own kind of music, especially the metrical kind. I don't read much, but one day I came across a write-up in the Saint John paper showcasing a few of Shakespeare's sonnets. I thought I would give the form a try. That first year, 1999, I wrote 275 of those; the second year, I wrote over 1500. Writing has always been a mystery to me, so when I say I wrote poems, it needs a bit of clarifying: sonnets have come through me within five minutes, intact, with great impact. On April 9, 2011, I stopped writing sonnets. By then I had written 5,555.5 of them, which may get chuckle from some people; see, I had initially set a goal of 5000, but then discovered that if I multiplied this number of sonnets exactly, I would have 77,777 metered lines, sonnets containing 14 lines (and 7 was my lucky number eh). So, the last one is not finished. I still write metered poetry, and it would be easy enough to add two extra lines, but I promised myself no more sonnets. As for the title, Ancestors Dance, I have always had a strong affinity with First Nations people, and I will add the sonnet at the end of this interview. I don't think anyone had ever published 222 sonnets before - Shakespeare in his life had penned a mere 154 (although there were all those plays, eh). Anyway, I had co-edited a sonnet periodical for some time and had had quite a few published along the way, so doing my own book of sonnets seemed apropos at the time. But sonnets are only one of maybe 100 forms I have written in, as well as free verse and prose poetry. While I don't publish much anymore, my overall body of poetry would no doubt fill several hundred volumes at this point.

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.

RD: Allan, most of my schooling was done in a one-room schoolhouse, in an Acadian village, where one teacher was actually younger than some of the students; at 16, she only had grade 8 and taught 8 grades; English was not taught at that time in that place; we moved to Moncton in the fall of 1959, and I was suddenly in a big school, with things done far differently. We suddenly had electricity and a television set; my marks were exceptionally high despite the initial schooling. Still, times were hard, and I struggled to adapt in certain settings; by the fall of 1961, I had quit school; shortly thereafter, I found myself at the Moncton Library, where I picked up a book of poetry by the American poet, Sara Teasdale and I fell in love with the poetry (and likely the poet, too). I had a dog and he and I spent a lot of time in the woods, where I would take a note pad and sit on the bank of the local stream and write poetry. It was all in English. It always had to be for me. In 1964, we lost two homes to fires; at the time, I still managed to save whatever writing I had produced to that time; however, a move to Ontario in 1965, my writing left behind in Moncton, a year later that work had disappeared; so I have no copies of any of my original work. But one thing I must say is this: I was always different, pensive, attuned to something I may not have quite understood, suffice it to say, however, that I was aware of that "force" within me; as such, then, I consider myself a channel, deeming poems already written, waiting somewhere in the ether to be accessed. See, there is a phenomenon at play here, and that will not be denied. For tens of thousands of poems to have been penned by someone seems impossible, I would think, but not if looked at from a certain perspective. I like that part of it. I once read in a group, and man yelled, "Boy, I wish I could write like that," to which I replied, "So do I." It's never been hard to write, but reading, now, that is not something I have mastered doing.

4Q: With such a large body of work, you must find inspiration in many things. How do you get your writing ideas and what are your writing habits, Richard?

RD: Well, Allan, I don't know that I have writing habits at all, though with a novel (no longer on the market, though it should be), I got up faithfully each morning and penned a chapter, if rather in a trance-like state at times. I had been walking down the street, when the title came to me: StraightWalk - whoa! I ran half a mile to my computer and penned 7500 words; I shared that with a friend via computer, and he would call me for the next chapter. I knew something unusual was happening, and I went with it. In less than five weeks, that novel was done, and I don't think much editing was necessary anywhere; the book tells of a Native man who has visions (I have two copies and would gladly lend you one). One thing, though, I always know something special is happening when a first line comes to me. All I have ever needed is that first line; then I get out of the way and let the poem happen. I can always tell when I have endeavoured to write a poem, as opposed to when a poem decided to be "born." I have written poems in loud places, in quiet settings, on birch bark when no paper was available. When the poem comes, one has to accommodate it then best one can; that's being true to your calling. I have been asked, "Why do you write?" I have occasionally answered, "Why do you breathe?" Over the years I discovered something interesting: if I put, say, 12 random words at the top of the page, I could write a 12-line poem from those words; that has never failed me; over time, people, from various parts of the world, have had occasion to send me 12 words, or 20, even 40, oftentimes total strangers; poems have appeared then that have jarred some people, as there were things in the poems I could not have known. You can try me on this, if you wish, Allan. Any 12 words, no proper nouns. No explanations of what the words may mean. Now, mostly, I write in English, yet on several occasions poems or lyrics have come to me in French, out of the blue, one such piece being the lyric to the quite-famous Acadian song, "Mon Acadie," to which Richibucto musician Yrois Robichaud added a most incredible melody. 25 years later, the song remains timeless and likely will forever. I will include a link to that as well. Oh, and speaking of songs, this past year, I have developed a collaboration with a man named Joey Bernados, a Filipino now living in California, a gifted musician; we now have 18 completed songs and are hopeful that something good will come from that undertaking.

4Q: Anything else you’d like to share with us?

RD: Well, Allan, I'm a straight-shooter, so here goes: when we have a phenomenon in our midst, we look into it, we don't hide it, or make it near-impossible for that bird to take flight. To have produced such a large body of work, so well received globally, yet to not be known locally makes little sense to me. Twenty years ago, Margaret McCain stated publicly that I was a New Brunswick treasure. The Lady had used my poetry in Government House throughout her tenure as Lt-Governor of the province. 

There is a lot of pretension in the world. Ten years ago, I read in a NB city and got a standing ovation, the only one there to have that; one person, with a Ph.D, who had stood up and applauded, came by and shook my hand, saying a job well done; then that person asked what university I had gone to and when I replied that I had not gone to university, that person stomped off without another word. 

Here I will close with a quote from Kahlil Gibran:

"Poets are two kinds: an intellectual with an acquired personality, and an inspired one who was a self before his human training began. But the difference between intelligence and inspiration in poetry is like the difference between sharp fingernails that mangle the skin and ethereal lips that kiss and heal the body's sores."

- Kahlil Gibran (1883 -1931) - The "Prophet of Lebanon."

A Sample of Richard’s writing:

(Copyright is held by the Author. Used with permission)

1

Let There Be Peace

Let there be peace

Peace in the Four Corners, that it should be
a promise, and real;

Peace in our nations, that the spectre should be
turned on its heel;

Peace in our cities, that fear should abandon
our streets and walkways;

Peace in our schools, that violence should be
routed, and always;

Peace in our churches, that God’s children should be
families, assembling;

Peace in our homes, that our young ones should
cease in their trembling;

Peace in our hearts, that our tempers should be
cancelled and curbed;

Peace in our words, that our masses should be
studied, and stirred;

Peace in our creations, that our galleries should be
temples, adorned;

Peace in our visions, that Love, in our time,
should be born, and reborn;

Peace in our deeds, that never a doubt should
awake, and arise;

Peace in our souls, that it should be
mirrored in our eyes.

Let there be peace. 

2

Ancestors Dance
-a sonnet-

Ancestors dance upon each blade of grass
the fields alive for everyone to see
and dreamers dream to see paraders pass
their eyes now cast upon that family tree.

Ancestors dance upon the mountainside
the hills alive for steps upon the stone
and dreamers dream such dreams as coincide
with things that are if are too little known.

Ancestors dream whereas the rivers run
the streams alive for gurgling that is heard
and dreamers dream the dream has just begun
as will be dreamt forever afterwards.

Ancestors dance upon the dashing dawn
let dreamers dream the dance is dreaming on.

Thank you, Richard, for being our Guest this week. All the best in your writing journey. 

Thank you most sincerely, Allan, for this wonderful opportunity. The Scribbler is of great service to both artists and to the community at large, a great initiative on your part.

For those wishing to discover more about this talented writer, please follow these links:

www.spiritsinpeace.com

https://www.facebook.com/richard.doiron.7

Mon Acadie:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjnG5ASLfPk

The FarOut World - a short story by Allan Hudson Part 2

Welcome back to the rest of the story.

If you're just joining us for the first time, Part one of The FarOut World was posted August 25th and you can read it HERE

This story is a follow up to another short story title FarOut Mall. Humans now live in Off Earth Living Pods but they still need to shop. Originally published on the Scribbler, it is now available in my collection of short stories - A Box of Memories.

The FarOut World Part 2.





“I’m getting the bot-credits for the water and as soon as the truck’s empty, I’m leaving. If I have to walk through those revolving doors to the purser’s office, I’m not going in this hellhole without my weapons. So you have two choices. Either go get the payment and bring it to me, or try taking the weapons from me. Your call.
”

The patrolmen look at each other. They’re not usually challenged, and when they are, they make quick work of the opponent. They step closer, side by side, a formidable wall. Bay-grunts pause in their work to watch, grinning at the commotion. Eye Patch grits his teeth.

“We’re not errand boys, so we’ll take you up on option two. You’ve got five seconds before…
”

Geo doesn’t give the leader time to finish his threat. He drives the point of his middle finger into the good eye with enough force to pop it out of the socket. A thin knife, concealed under the sleeve of his armor, extends with the flick of the wrist and penetrates the brain through the now empty eye socket. In the same instant, he draws his right sidearm and, triggering the firing mechanism, slices the arm off patrolman No. 2 just above the elbow. Eye Patch drops to the bay floor, dead before he makes contact. No. 2 is howling in pain and tries to activate the wrist-paralyzer on his left hand when Geo gives him his full attention. With unmatched precision, he slices away the weapon, taking a layer of skin with it, drop kicks the big man with enough force to propel him against the revolving doors, which shatter from the impact, and the man falls to the floor, unconscious. Geo walks casually to the fallen man, places his weapon against his forehead and pulls the trigger.





Except for the hum of the huge pumps, everything is silent. Geo looks around for any other menaces before he holsters his weapon. The bay-grunts don’t meet his eyes as they return to their tasks. It’s not the first time they’ve seen death in these bays, but it’s the first time anyone’s beaten these two. Geo steps over the dead body and through the shattered glass doors on his way to the purser’s office, which is two down on the left. He ignores the Do Not Disturb sign on the prompter and walks in. The purser is a fat man, bald and sweaty, with perspiration forming droplets on his brow. He looks up at the intruder, intending to scold, when he sees Geo looming over his desk. He is startled by the fact that someone has gotten this far with weapons. He knows without a doubt that Morgan and Delvecchio – the patrolmen – are either incapacitated or… dead. 

He’s scared. No one makes it past them.


“What… what do you want?”


“H₂O from Earth is being downloaded as we speak. You owe me 48,000 bot-credits.”


“I… I don’t have that much here.”


“Why not? You knew I was coming today.”


“I wasn’t expecting you this early. I’ll need a few minutes. Can you wait here?
”

“No. I’ll go with you. Now let’s hurry. I’ve got other loads to deliver and my safety window is rapidly closing.
”

Perspiration blooms under the armpits of Fat Man as he gets up from his desk.


“Okay… okay, then follow me.”







Thirty-two minutes after arrival, Geo maneuvers through the debris field and enters the safe zone. Returning to home base, LP2429, he will fill up and make a delivery to LP2599. He hasn’t been there since before Gracia Moeller, the owner of Alexander’s Fine Jewelry’s flagship store was charged with the murder of one of her clients. The charges were dropped when it came to light that she had been informed the weapon she had used was not loaded.


Following a power outage and virkon-eptile feasting, Gracia had installed pulse pistols to protect herself as well as her staff and patrons from the monsters. In an act of frustration with an abusive customer and believing the pistol was not charged, she pointed it at the woman in anger. That customer became dust.

Geo now wants to meet Gracia.



InterCosmic Manor 2599 is an enormous golden octagon orbiting the Earth at twenty-six thousand miles per hour in low earth orbit, six hundred and three miles above the Earth’s surface, moving west to east. It circles the globe every 57 seconds. Approaching it at slightly higher speed, Geo sights it visually, about to enter darkness over the Pacific Ocean. It glistens in the dying light like a radiant citrine. Within a hundred miles, he matches the speed of the giant satellite. Coaxing the ship into place, he prepares to dock on the lower level. Giant arms reach out to clamp onto Potizo’s outer docking frames. Once secure, Geo locks down the ship. Preparing himself for a visit to the Mall area, he dons a clean shirt from the locker along with his black and chrome spacesuit and matching helmet. He knows women stare lustfully at him when he wears it. A dab of his favorite cologne and he’s off.




Leaving his jetpack in storage, he informs the loadmaster he’ll return shortly then transports to the 16-A Octagonal. The doors open facing a food court. The aroma of heavy spices used in roasting moon chicken is wafting into the hallway. His stomach growls, reminding him he needs to eat. Alexander’s Fine Jewelry is at the front and on the right. The food court is busy with shoppers relaxing and dining; people are browsing in the hallways, many with shopping bags full. The murmur of the different voices hums over it all. 

He takes in the hovering droids 
over his head, whose only purpose is to kill virkon-eptiles. The abandoned InterCosmic PRT (prison/rehab/termination) 2344 houses the majority of beasts still living. Some escape. Bounty hunters probe the LPs for any that may be hiding.


The jewelry store has only two patrons. A young man is serving one of them and a middle-aged lady is serving another. He notices the lady’s fine business suit, the latest fashion from Stile designers. Her short hair is in the latest bob; gems hang from her small ears. She has her back to him when Geo enters the store but looks toward him when she hears the bell over the door. Both stop in their tracks and stare at each other; the attraction is immediate.


She holds up a finger, asking him to wait one moment, and assists her client in making a purchase. Geo can’t take his eyes off her and hopes this is the owner he’s heard so much about. She approaches him with a genuine smile that softens the fine lines around her eyes. Extending a hand she introduces herself.


“Hello space jockey. Welcome to Alexanders. I’m Gracia.
”

He takes her hand and looks down at her; 
she’s a foot shorter than him. He stares at the twinkle of mischief he sees in her eyes.


“Name’s Geo. Happy to meet you, Gracia. Are you the owner?”


“Yes, I am. What brings you into our store today?
”

“You do, actually.”


Dropping his hand, she blushes at his directness.



“Me?”


“Yes, I wanted to meet the lady who vaporized her guest.
”

The rouge in her cheeks is replaced by a frown and beetled brow. He didn’t mean to be so blunt and can see she’s offended. He points at the pulse pistol in the fashionable holster on her hip.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t 
mean to upset you, but I admire your gusto. Of course, everyone was talking about it, and it was an accident, but there are not many women comfortable using pulse pistols. And only the most trusted applicants get permits.”


She stands back from Geo and leans against one of the counters.


“It was an accident, a deadly one. As you likely know, the pistols are to protect us and our patrons from the deadly eptiles, but I really don’t want to talk about it.
”

“I understand. Bet no one messes with you. Have you had to use it since?”


This causes the weakest of smiles; she is overwhelmed by the big man’s sexual allure and softens her stance.


“Well, not on any customers, thank goodness. I’ve been practicing with the safety and have it down to a microsecond thumb flip, so it’s safe to shop here now.
”

He likes the way she laughs. She likes the cologne he wears.


“Did you really come here just for that, Geo? Or do you need to pick up something for your wife… or girlfriend perhaps?
”

He’s about to comment when the overhead lights flicker. Every main door on every floor slams shut. People hustle for cover, crowding near the stationary defbots that have their own emergency power source. Gracia does as she’s been trained. There’s only one patron, her two staff and Geo. She rushes everyone to the main counter. The lights do an off-and-on dance for ten or fifteen seconds before everything goes dark. Gracia draws her pistol. Everyone listens. Eptiles travel at great speed, their hardened scales clattering on the overhead pipes. Several are on the move. Bursting through grills, they spill into different locations in the Octagonal.


Two slither into the food court. In the dark, you can smell them – a scent that can only be described as rot. The worm-like beings have two short legs in the front, three toes with talons, the posterior moves with leather-like scales. A mouth slit is on the underbody, lined with crunching bones. The defbots are programmed to recognize the eptiles by smell, sound or sight. Detection is immediate. Pulses from a droid’s cannon cut the first one in half, the front clawing to escape before secondary pulses blast it to ashes. The second one receives a direct burst under its antennae that vaporizes the front half of its six-foot length. The unmoving rear section gets zapped also, and nothing of the beast remains.


The other one is perched on an overhead mirror in Alexander’s Fine Jewelry. They hear it enter after something falls to the floor. Gracia urges them to stay quiet and behind her. Geo stands at her side. The monster is young, only four feet long, hunting by instinct. It senses its prey below and is about to leap when the lights come back on. Like its kin, it is tormented by bright lights and scrambles for the opening that it came through. Gracia is fast with her pulse pistol and releases several bursts from her weapon. The first pulse of pure energy obliterates the eptile, the second, third and fourth pulse reflect off the mirror. One takes out a large section of the front door, another obliterates the counter with moon crystals, and the third vaporizes Geo's arm. Gracia stare at the pile of ash at her feet and clamps a hand to her mouth.


“Oh, shit!”

The End

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