Book Review: The Dead of Winter

The Dead of Winter by Lee Collins

(ARC provided by Angry Robot Books. Review first published on SFFWorld.com here.)

The Dead of Winter by Lee Collins is the first volume in his vampire western series: the Cora Oglesby Series.The tagline for these is: True Grit meets True Blood. Fortuitously, I’ve seen True Grit, but not True Blood (the HBO TV series).

Now, you may be asking, “Why would she think that ‘fortuitously’?”

Because I do not have terribly popular notions about vampires skewing my sense of their rightful place in history, particularly American Western history (if I could wink at you now, I would).

Anyway, The Dead of Winter is about Cora Oglesby; spook hunter, devoted wife, drunk, and faithful minion of a Christian God. She’s also a damn good shot. She and her husband, Ben Oglesby, arrive in Leadville, Colorado in the dead of winter (imagine that) after the local sheriff and his deputy run across something that just don’t sit right in their minds.

In the forest around town, something took down two wolf hunters, making a bloody mess without leaving a trace of the bodies. After negotiating terms with Cora and Ben, the sheriff hands over responsibility to the spook hunters and off they go into the woods to catch their monster.

But Cora soon encounters a creature far more vile than any other she’s ever come across in her twenty years of chasing monsters. Her blessed weapons, steel blade and silver bullets, do nothing to thwart the creature, forcing her to seek advice from an old friend, a priest in Denver that may know more about this new monster than she or Ben.

After visiting the priest in Denver, Cora and Ben return, armed with knowledge and silver bullets blessed by an Indian (Native American) shaman. Because, remarkably, the spook she’s chasing isn’t an old world monster, but one unique to the Americas – a wendigo (look it up).

Just in time, they makes it back to town to save the miners and whores of Leadville from becoming the wendigo’s dinner, and she and Ben prepare to move on. Cora is thinking of retiring, but before she can take the next train out-of-town, she’s approached by James Townsend and he explains his employer’s problem with a dangerous nosferatu (look that up, too). The thing is, poor Cora doesn’t realize this nosferatu will shatter her view of the world.

Cora’s story is a story of faith. Faith in her god, her husband, and the good that she does for people by getting rid of their spooks. She is fighting for a Christian sense of good and evil, and when it comes to monsters eating folk’s souls, everyone can pretty much agree on what is good or evil. There’s no ambiguity about these spooks – they are monsters true to their historic origins.

Where things get a little muddled is with people, of course. Cora has her own cross to bear, so to speak, and she numbs her pain with whiskey, sleep deprivation, and fast shooting. She’s running, but we’re just not too sure who she’s running from or where to. One thing I know, she’s fun to read about.

The Dead of Winter is an interesting and entertaining story about a hard and flawed woman who must face her own sins to beat her arch-enemy. A well written story, with good pacing, the story is told in the third person. The novel is written primarily from Cora’s point of view, but the author takes occasional forays into other characters’ heads in a fashion that can be a bit disconcerting. Though Mr. Collins maintains the point of view shifts more steadily in the second half of the book, he does a bit of jumping during the first part. Just bear with it, Mr. Collins eventually settles the ride for you (sorry, it’s a western, I can’t seem to shake the vernacular).

This novel is also steeped in western tropes. None of the characters will surprise you. The Mexican deputy is inept. The miners do nothing but drink and whore when they are not mining. The sheriff is steely eyed and dedicated to the town. And the priest always knows best. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but by sticking so close to the genre’s roots, it doesn’t allow this book to stand out.

What I enjoyed most about The Dead of Winter is the nosferatu. He’s appropriately evil, powerful, and flawed – a fitting adversary for our cocky heroine.

If you’ve read a lot of westerns, this will probably bore you. There’s nothing new here. If you’ve read and seen a lot of the more recent vampire series and wished for something with a bit more grit, then this might be for you. I enjoyed it.

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• THE DEAD OF WINTER by Lee Collins (urbanfantasyland.wordpress.com)

Book Review: The Map of Time

The Map of Time by Félix J. Palma

Yes, I bought this book for the cover alone. I know. That’s shallow of me. But, you have to admit, it is a wonderful cover, no?

Told in three parts, the story begins with a young, well-to-do man who falls in love with a whore. Towards the end of this part, H.G. Wells makes an appearance and saves the young man’s life. This is pretty much a love story and the ‘time’ aspect of the story is only touched on in this section.

We then get introduced to a new protagonist, Claire Haggerty, who seemingly has absolutely nothing to do with our previous young man, H.G. Wells, or time, until her good friend takes her to the future. To the year 2000 to be precise. Once there, she promptly falls in love with a man from the future and a lovely, chaotic love story ensues in which Mr. Wells plays a significant part as a writer.

The last section of the books focuses on H.G. Wells as a time traveler and is a bit of a mystery story, however, to be honest, I skipped most of this part so I can’t really tell what the mystery was or what the point of the last third of the novel was. What was cool is that the true map of time appeared in this section and it did not disappoint. It was pretty cool. However, it wasn’t cool enough to warrant the slog through the massive info-dump in this section.

Though The Map of Time is a well-written tome, it needed a much stronger editor. There were large passages where the same information was re-told, overly long letters that dumps the story on the reader (yes, I know, that’s a literary style), and moral and philosophical tangents that, while interesting, were entirely superfluous. The book could have been cut in half and made much better for it – in my opinion.

Given all that, I’m glad I read it and I do recommend it. Mr. Palma has an incredible talent for pulling at the heart-strings and coming to profound statements in a startling manner.

Related articles

• Who Goes Where? The Map of the Sky by Felix J. Palma (tor.com)

Book Review: The God Engines

 

The God Engines by John Scalzi

The God Engines is a personal story of faith gained and lost that is so visceral and so cool, you’ll be bummed that Scalzi chose to limit this story to a novella and not a full-blown novel.

What if you lived in a world where science has been lost and in its place unruly and deceitful gods ruled? What if your immovable faith could cause a god to move a spaceship between planets and stars?

Captain Ean Tephe is a man of faith. His faith in his Lord is strong, so strong he has been given a special task: to bring into the fold of his God heathens with no faith. These heathens gladly give their faith at the chance to gain the Talents He might bestow upon them, but Tephe’s God has other plans for them and when Tephe find out what that is – his faith is shaken and so is his world.

This is a powerful story that explores what faith means to creatures we might call gods, and what power the act of faith holds on us all. The allusions to reality are not lost in Mr. Scalzi’s science fiction thriller. He makes this atheist hanker for the chance to live in a world where gods fight for our faith and we can withhold it - at everyone’s peril or salvation.

Highly recommended.

 

Book Review: LEATHERSTONE

Leatherstone by David Patrick Pabian

(Review copy provided by author.)

Leatherstone is David Patrick Pabian’s first novel, but he is no stranger to writing.  An accomplished screenwriter and ghostwriter, Mr. Pabian’s work is top-notch. However, just because you can write, doesn’t necessarily mean you can tell a story.

Let me assure you, Mr. Pabian can tell a story.

Leatherstone begins with a simple excerpt. A snippet of a desperate story. Like a flash of lightning, Leatherstone’s introduction sears the man’s story into our minds and sets the tone for the book, promising a grisly tale.

JASPER LEATHERSTONE HAD ESCAPED. A dragnet was out for him, its dogs howling through the night. At the edge of a frozen river he could hear them coming and took a chance only the most desperate or insane would. With superhuman strength he hurled a boulder through the ice and plunged in after it. His body shocked past feeling by the cold, he swam like some polar animal under the ice, and when his lungs gave out he took his knife and broke through the underside to gulp down frozen air. But the current grabbed him and tore him downstream, shattering him on rocks, dragging him to the bottom, flinging him up to crack his head on the ice ceiling, and slamming him against the submerged root of a tree. He pulled himself along the root, though the current did its best to tear him away. Smashing his fists through the ice at the shore, he drove the knife into the tree, pulled himself through the jagged break and fell on the black earth, twisting and hissing like a reptile. When the police and dogs got to the river three miles back, the trail was lost. ~ from Leatherstone by David Pabian.

Leatherstone is about John Garrett, or Champ. A boy at the edge of manhood whose life is anything but perfect. He lives in anywhere-middle-town-America on the wrong side of the tracks. He’s a bit of nerd. His older sister is mentally disabled. And to top it off, his father is a godless man. Set in the mid-1960′s or so, all these characteristics make Champ one of the least popular kids at school. When his mother dies and his uncle moves in to help take care of Champ and his sister, things only get worse. Champ’s father is away more than not, his uncle is drunk more than he is sober, and Champ gets it into this head that he can resurrect the dead – just like in the Frankenstein movies he sees on TV.

With a couple of older boys (more interested in getting into Champ’s sister’s panties than him), Champ begins experimenting on animals. Though the two older boys chide and ridicule him at his failed attempts, Champs keeps trying. Even after they abandon him and he finds a dead man out in the forest near his home, he keeps trying.

And then he succeeds.

Champ thinks he has created a being with no history. With no past to muddy their relationship, Champ and his newly created friend, Frank, begin a surreal and awkward relationship full of poignant moments, hard truths of life, and a tension ready to crack. Knowing the tale of Mary Shelley‘s original Frankenstein, the reader cringes at the nativity of youth that Champ insists on maintaining, as any kid his age would. When it becomes clear to him that Frank might have a violent past, he still clings to a bright future, a future where he and Frank can live in an alternate world where their relationship would be normal.

But resurrecting a dead man is anything but normal, and Champ’s life spirals out of control. He loses his uncle, his sister, and then the only friend and hero he ever had.

Mr. Pabian leaves us with a searing portrait of a bizarre life that smacks of familiarity. The reader can easily relate to Champ and his need for acceptance among his peers. We understand his interest in resurrecting the dead stemmed from the anguish he must have felt when his mother died. And we even begin to hope that Champ and Frank’s friendship has a chance. They both want it so badly to work, but in the end, it just doesn’t. It can’t.

Told in the first-person narrative, Leatherstone reads like a personal essay, seamlessly weaving the thoughts of the old Champ re-telling the story, and the action and thoughts of the pre-teen Champ. Mr. Pabian’s prose is easy to read and, in places, draw lifelike scenes that will be with me for some time. The author also has a poetic tendency that gives a lyrical slant to the morbid.

Though Leatherstone remains true to the general story arc of the Frankenstein tale, Champ does seem to channel a progressive political and atheist agenda. Though some readers might be put off by that, I think that Champ’s observations of what corporations had done to his small town and his thoughts on religious statements made by others was completely in line with his upbringing and his character. Champ happens to be a progressive and an atheist. Mr. Pabian is true to that character and doesn’t shy away from letting his characters think, say, and do what folks in life think, say and do. I found it refreshing and thought-provoking.

How often are atheists’ thoughts allowed to grace the pages of fiction? If you think about it, not much. In hopes of not offending a wide swath of one’s potential audience, writers tend not to delve to deeply into what an atheist really thinks when someone says something as seemingly innocent as “God bless you”. But for atheists, what does that mean? How should we accept that? Mr. Pabian explores this and other themes throughout his book in a tale that will bring you to tears and keep you thinking long into the night.

Highly recommended.

A Christmas Visitor – Revised

Well, my little story has not been well received (and neither has my short story Verity, but that’s a subject for another post).  I’ve decided to put up the revised version just for the hell of it.  Hint: it’s supposed to be funny…

Aumia banged her shin on the nativity scene on her way out of the house.  The southern California, suburban landscape spun as she stumbled across the lawn.  Muttering a curse at her clumsiness, she limped over to the playset as pain shot up her leg, joining the ache in her head.  She squeezed her adult-sized butt into the toddler-sized swing seat, and passed a hand over her eyes.  Taking in a deep breath, she stifled the whimper that threatened to erupt.

Through moist eyes, Aumia surveyed what she had helped create.  The light from her client’s decorated home competed with the bright moon for attention.  The house sat adjacent to two others, and positioned so that the backyard had more privacy than most.  Aumia surmised the neighbors couldn’t see her.  The dome shaped house, back flat and glass walled along its length, stretched out before her, full with Mrs. X’s party guests.  She rubbed her shin, and a sigh eased out as she wondered why she had agreed to take on this client.

They had wanted a ‘traditional’ Christmas Party.  “Something different,” Mrs. X had said while feeding her bio-engineered iguana-dog, who wasn’t interested in the food.  Her holograph image flickered every time its tongue passed over the camera’s lens.  “Something unusual.  Could you help us get it right?”

As an ethno-archeologist, Aumia often had to explain customs and rituals long ago abandoned.  But a Christmas party?

“Even the last Christian remnant population in Ohio no longer continue the practice, Mrs. X.  They stopped celebrating Christmas over two hundred years ago.  In any event, the holiday is tied more to Pagan rituals than any actual Christian incident.”  She didn’t want to discourage the woman, but she wanted to be clear.  So had Mrs. X.  She wanted the whole shebang: decorated evergreen tree, lights, music, and eggnog.

Colored lights hung from the eaves, and good deal of the shrubbery out front.  Strings of small, white lights twinkled along each arc of the house.  More were arranged into a cross pattern on the roof that Mrs. X had been adamant about.  “So St. Nick will know which house to come to,” she had explained, a grin on her face.  Aumia didn’t think anything hovering at twenty thousand meters above could miss it.  Nor the lighted, animated deer and snowmen scattered about.

A large pine in the back yard, between the house and the swing set, served as Mrs. X’s central feature.  Aumia had decorated it herself, using real candles partially encased in glass globes.  The candles gave off a warm glow that calmed her nerves, and eased her throbbing head.  She grabbed hold of the swing’s supports, and pushed off.  As she swung back and forth, she thought she really should get back to Mrs. X’s party, and earn her consulting fee, but she didn’t have the heart to join the drunk throng.  If she had to explain the origins of Christmas one more time, she thought she’d go mad.  She figured she must have shouted her little speech at least fifty times.  Mrs. X liked her music loud.  Aumia was thankful the noise didn’t escape the house, allowing her this one moment of respite.

She slid to a abrupt stop, struck by the awful thought that the whole thing would become a fad.  Tension spread across her forehead again as she decided to suck it up, and get back to the party.

The bushes behind her rustled in the silent night.  Her muscles stiffened.  Heavy steps crashed through the shrubbery, and Aumia stood up, struggling to extract herself from the swing.  She turned, and saw a _thing_ step out of the shadows of the hedge.  It stopped in front of her.  Aumia’s mouth hung open as the leather seat peeled off her butt with a squelch.

Two fist-sized globes reached out from a mass of noodly appendages that writhed, and squirmed around two large balls of…_meat_.  At least, it looked like meat to Aumia.  Ground beef to be exact.  The whole thing hovered between two and three feet above the ground. The monster eyed Aumia as she stood frozen in place. The creature held a black box with brass gears attached to the front. They whirled into action, and a digital voice emanated from somewhere within. “Identify.”

Aumia swallowed hard, pushing down a scream.  The fiend repeated itself.  Sweat ran down her spine as her mind screamed RUN, but her feet wouldn’t obey.  She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.  Her hand slipped up to her temple, and pressed, turning on the audio-video recorder embedded in her eyes.  At least, she thought, she would broadcast her death to the world on the ‘Net.  She hoped someone, anyone, was watching.

One of the ball-eyes hovered down around her belly, and a tentacle reached out to caress Aumia’s cheek.  The soft, blunt end of its limb left a moist residue as it slid down her neck.  Her face scrunched up as bile rose in her throat, and Aumia’s brain kicked into gear.

FIRST CONTACT.

She took a step back, out of its reach, and stammered out an answer.  “Aumia…Aumia Smith.”

Before the thing could respond, Aumia continued, bowing at the appropriate moments. “Hola! Nei ho! Greetings! Guten Tag! Salaam Alekum! Shalom! Konbanwa! Namaste! Zdravstvuyte! Xin Chào! Kia ora…”  Her voice trailed off when she realized she probably looked like some strange toy stuck on bending forward at the waist, and yelling incoherent sounds to the alien that stood before her.  Her cheeks reddened.

She straighten her shoulders, plastered a smile on her face, and smoothed down her hair.  She imagined that it was recording her, as she was it—in nano-definition.  First contact, she reminded herself.  She represented humanity.  She, Aumia Smith, would be famous.  Keep your cool.  “How can I help you?”

The alien’s optical sensors swung up to within inches of her mouth, backed up, and then reached towards the house.  “Explain.”

Aumia glanced behind her, and gasped as a man dressed in a red, velvet suit, trimmed with faux white fur, walked into the living room.  The crowd erupted in silent praise.  Damn, she thought, St. Nick arrived.  She moved between the alien and the house, her arms out, hoping to block some of the view.  “Oh, that’s nothing.  A silly party.  You wouldn’t be interested in that!”  She barked a short laugh.

The alien floated a few inches towards the house, and repeated its command. Aumia hesitated, and a moist, appendage slithered around her neck, and squeezed.

She grabbed at the arm-thick noodle, wide eyes sending a silent plea to the alien’s uncaring optical globes.  Its grip loosened.  With a gasp, she began her well practiced speech.  “Christmas: A Christian holiday celebrated on December 25^th, marking the birth of Jesus of Nazareth.  Often referred to as Jesus Christ, he was touted as the messiah…”  As she recounted the history of Christmas to the first alien to visit Earth, one thought ran through her mind. Not again…

A Christmas Visitor

This flash fiction piece has been edited and re-posted here.

I participate on the SFFWorld.com online flash fiction contests.  I submitted the following story just this morning, and already I have gotten three ratings between 1 and 2 (out of 1 to 5).  Normally, I don’t get any rates.  So, it got me thinking, might have I offended some folks?  Or is it really that bad?  I’d appreciate your thoughts…

*****************

A Christmas Visitor by Nila E. White (1,173 words)

The suburban landscape spun as Nia stumbled across the lawn.  She tripped over the nativity scene, and made it to the play set.  She squeezed her adult-sized butt into the toddler-sized swing seat.  The leather bit into her thighs, but her headache held her attention.  She passed a hand over her eyes, and took in a deep breath.

Her client’s decorated home competed with the bright moon.  The house sat adjacent to two others, and positioned so that the backyard had more privacy than most.  Nia surmised the neighbors couldn’t see her.  The dome shaped house, back flat and glass walled along its length, stretched out before her.  The sloped lawn formed a miniature amphitheatre, the house at its center.  She rubbed her thighs, and a sigh eased out as she wondered why she had agreed to take on this client.

They had wanted a traditional Christmas Party.  “Something different,” Mrs. X had said while feeding her bio-engineered iguana-dog, who wasn’t interested in the food.  Her holograph image flickered every time its tongue passed over the camera’s lens.  “Something unusually.  Could you help us get it right?”

As an ethno-archeologist, Nia often had to explain customs and rituals long ago abandoned.  But a Christmas party?

“Even the last Christian remnant population in Ohio no longer continue the practice, Mrs. X.  They stopped celebrating Christmas over two hundred years ago.  The holiday is tied more to Pagan rituals than any actual Christian event.”  She didn’t want to discourage the woman, Nia could use the money, but she wanted to be clear.

Mrs. X wanted the decorated evergreen tree, lights, music, eggnog; the whole shebang.  She wanted Christmas in all its glory.  Colored lights hung from every appendage on the house, and good deal of the shrubbery out front.  Strings of small, white lights twinkled along each arc of the house.  More were arranged into a cross pattern on the roof that Mrs. X had been adamant about.  “So St. Nick will know which house to come to,” she had explained to Nia, a grin on her face.

Nia didn’t think anything hovering at twenty thousand meters above could miss it.  Nor the lighted, animated deer and snowmen scattered about.  She did admire the tree.  A large pine in the back yard between the house, and the swing set served as Mrs. X’s central feature.

Nia had decorated it herself, using real candles partially encased in glass globes.  The whole tree glowed with a warmth that eased Nia’s throbbing head.  She grabbed hold of the swing’s supports, and pushed off.  Maybe this whole Christmas thing wasn’t so bad, she thought, as she swung back and forth.

The back, sliding glass door eased open, and a burst of Jingle Bell Rock broke the quiet.  A young couple, dressed in forest green tights and belted tunics, giggled their way out onto the patio.  They wore pointy, green felt shoes with small bells hung at the tips.  The boy closed the door, cutting off the noise that spilled from within.  Nia went unnoticed as they snuck down the length of the house, bells ringing, and re-entered through another glass door into a deserted part of the house.

Nia frowned at Santa’s Little Helpers as they disappeared from view.  She knew she should alert Mrs. X, but didn’t have the heart to join the spiked-eggnog, drunk throng.  If she had to explain the origins of Christmas one more time, she thought she’d go mad.  She figured she must have said her little speech at least fifty times just that night.  She slid to a stop, and hoped the whole thing wouldn’t become a fad.  Tension spread across her forehead again.  She pressed her fingers tips to her temples, and closed her eyes.

The bushes behind her rustled in the silent night.  Her muscles stiffened.  Heavy steps snapped Nia’s eyes open.  She stood up, struggling to extract herself from the swing seat.  She turned in time to see a thing step out of the shadows of the hedge, and stop in front of her.  Nia’s mouth hung open as she managed to peel the leather swing seat from her behind with a squelch.

Two fist-sized globes reached out from a mass of noodly appendages that writhed and squirmed around two large balls of…meat.  At least, it looked like meat.  Ground beef to be exact.  A number of the pale, yellow appendages grasped two metal rods that extended down to the ground, flattening out into rubber pads that pawed the earth.  Two noodle-like tentacles, with white globes attached to the ends, eyed Nia as she stood frozen in place.  The creature held a black box with brass gears attached to the front.  They whirled into action, and a digital voice emanated from somewhere within.  “Identify.”

Nia swallowed hard, pushing down a scream.  The organism repeated itself.  She wanted to run, but her feet wouldn’t obey.  She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.  Her hand went to her temple, and pressed at just the right spot, turning on the audio-video recorder embedded in her eyes.  At least, she thought, she would broadcast her death to the world on the net.  She hoped someone, anyone, was watching.

One of the ball-eyes hovered around her belly, and Nia’s brain kicked into gear.

FIRST CONTACT.

She stammered out a response.  “Nia…Nia Smith.”

Before the thing could respond, Nia continued, bowing at the appropriate moments. “Hola! Nei ho! Greetings! Guten Tag! Salaam Alekum! Shalom! Konbanwa! Namaste! Zdravstvuyte! Xin Chào! Kia ora…”  Her voice trailed off when she realized she probably looked like some strange toy stuck on bending forward at the waist, and yelling incoherent sounds to the alien that stood before her.

She straighten her shoulders, plastered a smile on her face, and smoothed down her hair.  She imagined that it was recording her, as she was it—in nano-definition.  First contact, she reminded herself.  She represented humanity.  She, Nia Smith, would be famous.  Keep your cool.  “How can I help you?”

The alien’s optical sensors swung up to within inches of her mouth, backed up, and then reached towards the house.  “Explain.”

Nia glanced below towards the house, and gasped as a man dressed in a red, velvet suit, trimmed with faux white fur, walked into the living room.  The crowd erupted in silent praise.  Damn, she thought, St. Nick arrived.  She moved between the alien and the house, her arms out, hoping to block some of the view.  “Oh, that’s nothing.  A silly party.  You wouldn’t be interested in that!”  She barked a short laugh.

The alien took a step towards the house, and repeated its command.

Nia cut off the ‘No’ that would have made this an unpleasant exchange at best.  Instead, with a sigh, she began her well practiced speech.  “Christmas: A Christian holiday celebrated on December 25^th, marking the birth of Jesus of Nazareth.  He played a large role in Christianity, a dominant religion from four hundred to twenty-fifty A.D.  Often referred to as Jesus Christ, he was touted as the messiah, the savior, our lord…”

Shifting Justice

First submitted for the SFF World online forum flash fiction contest.  Edited based on comments received.

Theme: Super power(s), Word limit: Approx. 1,000, Word count: 1,118

Shifting Justice by N.E. White

Her view angle jumped a foot higher as Agent Ailey shifted.  Her physical form took on the shape of the man walking a few feet in front of her.  In the human press of the evening rush, she took care to change her form as she turned a corner or while dodging in and out of dark alleys.  No one noticed her transformations.

Most of the city’s inhabitants kept their eyes to the ground, their coats and hats held against the cold wind.  Dark clouds roiled overhead.

She sniffed the air.  It would rain soon.

This man had a keener sense of smell than her own.  She could identify the brand of pasta sauce he had just eaten and the number of hours the man had been sweating.  His extended paunch caused her to change her gait, but she didn’t slow.

Her target was moving fast.

As she walked past the man she mimicked, she shifted again into the form of a tall, thin woman that sat behind the counter of the candy store they passed.  Agent Ailey’s torso and limbs thinned, her face morphed from man to woman, thick blonde hair cascaded down her back.  A tight, brown dress replaced the man’s business suit.  The woman wore a thong and a bra much too delicate to handle her silicone-filled bosom.

Damn.  I hate those things.

The unfamiliar undergarments and bouncing boobs hindered her progress more than the tall man’s belly.  As she turned down the street her target had just ducked into, she shifted again.

Agent Ailey followed him down residential roads, and then into the industrial edge of town.  Car repair shops and empty warehouses lined the street.  The crowd had thinned to just Agent Ailey and him.

Her last shift left her in young man’s body.  She shivered.  The boy had been dressed lightly.  Jeans, a sweat shirt, and soft sneakers.  His boyish metabolism probably kept him warm enough on such a crisp night, but it left her cold.  She kept his form because of his quiet shoes.

Her target, Agent Mondera, turned another corner.  Soon to be, former Agent Mondera.  He had been using his position in the agency to run a sex-slave trade across the northern part of the country.

The perfect first assignment.  All she had to do was bring him in.

It was time to call in back-up.  As she rounded the corner, she shifted back into her own form, reaching for her cell phone before it materialized in her coat pocket.

Mondera stood at the center of a flat, industrial cul-de-sac, about three hundred yards ahead of her.  Security floodlights outlined his dark form, his back towards her.

Ailey choked back in fear as she ducked into a dark recess along the side of a brick building.  She pushed out her power, trying to sense any other shared form in the vicinity.  It wouldn’t bode well to be known so earlier in her career.

No one.  No one she shared an experience, sentiment, or moral value with.

She pressed her mind out further and found one.

Her form shifted into a man’s.  He was a little taller than her and athletic.

Good, I’ll need his strength.

Her shift-body had on a dark, brown trench coat, the collar turned up.  He had two weapons on him.  A short sword rested against his spine, under his coat.  She reached up with her shift-hand and felt the gap in the back of the coat that would allow her to draw the sword easily.  A harness under his right arm contained a standard issued glock.  Mondera was left handed.

She smirked, and her shift-face formed the sentiment.  What could I possibly share with that bastard?

Mondera called out to her.  “No sense in drawing this out.  Let’s get this over with.”

Ailey drew the glock and strode out to him, arm outstretched before her.  Mondera now only a few feet from her.

Mirror images of Agent Mondera stood facing each other.  Each taking slow, circling steps towards each other until they stood close enough to read each others’ eyes.

He barked a laugh, “I suppose you are just as fast as I am with that, Agent–?”

She ignored his question.  “Doesn’t really matter.  My shot will bring you down whether you hit me or not.”  Ailey’s shift-voice was pitched higher.  She still hadn’t worked out how to control vocal cords well enough.

“Ah.”  He nodded his head.  “Your in it for…moral reasons.  You know, they’re lying to you.”

She pulled her shift-face into a wide grin.  “Of course.”

He almost laughed again and shook his head.  “Damn.  It’s gonna be hard to shoot myself.”

At his words, she launched her shift-body to the right and forward.  Bullet fired.

He holstered his gun and moved to the right, reaching for her torso.  They collapsed into a snarling ball.  He knocked her gun out of her hand.  It disappeared, no longer connected to her shifted form.

Punches flew.  His aimed at her abdomen, hers to his face.  She broke away, needing room to kick.

She was the better fighter.  In his body, she was just as strong, and faster, nimbler.  His punches grazed.  Hers were on target.

She felt giddy with relief.  She would win.  Success on her first assignment.  And such a good assignment – taking out a corrupt Agent!  It was perfect for her.  Hot tears formed in her eyes as memories of the men that robbed her own innocence long ago batted around her head.

She had one hand gripping Mondera’s coat collar, steadying his body for the punches she repeatedly rained down on his bloody face, when he shifted into her true form.  Ailey’s raised, shift-fist froze above her own face mirrored by Mondera.  Bloodshot, brown eyes accused her.

A shifter.  She thought she was the only one.  They told her she was the only one.  She looked down at the fine lines at the corner of her eyes and bracketing her full lips, misplaced justice etched on her battered face.

Back-up burst over the top of the warehouse above them in the form of a low flying helicopter.

The beating rotors buffeted Agent Ailey, still gripping Mondera’s shift-form, still in Mondera’s shift-form.  She looked up at the gunman hanging from the chopter’s open bay.  She hadn’t called back-up.

A spray of bullets threw her shift-body back.  She landed on the pavement with a sickening thump.  Mondera came to stand over her.  He wearing her form, Ailey could now see what they shared.

As she choked on blood, her body shifted back to her own.  Two Agent Ailey’s locked their gaze onto each other; one beaten and breathing hard, the other dieing.

Justice.

Finding Jesus, Mohammad and God

In celebration of Blasphemy Day.

Enjoy!

***

I can see Jesus, Mohammad and God.

All are standing on top of the highest mountain.  Gale winds whip their hair about, threatening to push them all out back to heaven (or hell).  Clouds scurry across the sky throwing flashes of light and shadow on the three towering figures.

Their voices are raised to be heard over the wails and pleas coming from below.   They argue bitterly at how the world has turned out.

For now, while they discuss the fate of the world, the prayers and calls from humanity go unheeded.

“I tell you, there is no place for those swine-eating, heathens you call Christians on this earth!”  Spittle flies freely as Mohammad hurtles his blasphemies at Jesus.  It clings to his whiskers despite the wind.

“There has never been, and never will be, a problem with eating animals of the cloven hoof.”  Jesus’ voice, though barely a whisper, cuts through the shrill sound of the speeding air and finds its mark.

“You…you…have ruined the entire world with your teachings!  God of Abraham was doing fine before you came along.  I’ve been trying to clean up your mess ever since.  Your followers are a disgrace!”  Mohammad turns to God.  “Tell him.”

God looks sheepishly away from them both before turning back to face his son.

“My son.  My only son.  You know it’s true.  You got a little lax with the pigs, and, well, you’ll have to make the correction.  The Jews follow my edict as do the Muslims.  Your Christians are, frankly, filthy from centuries of failing to observe my simple guide.  Don’t you see that this is why the world is filling up with Atheists?”

Both Jesus and Mohammad tear their eyes away from their Lord.  Hands reach up to cover their ears at the sound of ‘Atheists’.  Lightning strikes the air and thunder reaches out to infinity.

God rolls his eyes.

“They are my subjects, too.  Do not turn away from them or deny their existence.  Though I have damned them to hell, they can still find absolution through acceptance of their folly, by accepting me.  Now go!”

Mohammad takes a step back and Jesus bends to a low crouch.  Mohammad opens his mouth to speak, but God shuts it with a wave of his hand.  “Yes, Mohammad.  I’ll make sure Jesus bans pork.”

Jesus crouches even lower and slinks away.  God thinks about driving the point further, but His headache allows for just one more leniency.  He just wants them to go away.

God watches as the unlikely pair make their way down the mountain, cursing each other under their breaths.  Did they think He could not hear them?  Those two will never learn.

As Gods’ two most revered prophets leave His hallowed ground, Satan appears.

“The Atheist are mine.  Free souls.  I don’t have to lift a finger for ‘em.  How dare you encourage them to take the Atheist from me.”

God thinks for a moment before answering.  “I’ll trade you the Hindus, Buddhists, Wiccans and Presbyterians.”

Satan does a quick mental count, he has to use all fingers and toes.  He shakes his head at the number he arrives at and recounts his fingers and toes.  He looks up, his eyes wide.  “But the Hindus, Buddhists and Wiccans are already mine.”

God shrugs.

The devil pulls out an iphone and surfs the internet.  He finds the approximate population of Presbyterians and a devilish grin spreads across his molten face.  He holds out his clawed hand.  “Deal.”

God takes Satan’s hand and they shake.  The trade is set in stone.

Satan turns to leave, pauses and says, “Why did you give up so many for so few?”

God waves his hand towards the mass of humanity spread across the world.  “Humph.  Their numbers are growing.”

***

tmso