Microstory 2096: Before I Came Out

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When I was pretty young, my dad told me that he once jumped off a cliff in Boy Scouts. I think he said it was a hundred feet or something, which may or may not have been an exaggeration. Because of the way my brain works, I interpreted this to mean that jumping off a cliff was some kind of a requirement, which immediately took me out of the running, because I’ve always been afraid of heights. That’s not a phobia, by the way, because it’s not irrational. You fall down, you could die. It doesn’t even have to be that high. You could fall from your own height, and still crack your head wide open. Some time later, I either learned that it wasn’t really a requirement, or I forgot all about it, because I did join Cub Scouts, and eventually moved up the ranks as appropriate. I graduated to Boy Scouts with a group of other boys, and we stuck together for a little while. Over the course of the next several years, almost invariably, when one of them would attain the highest rank of Eagle, they would stop coming to meetings and camping trips. I started noticing this throughout the whole troop. If they didn’t quit sometime before, they ended up seeing reaching Eagle the end of their journey. By the time I turned 18, I was one of only a few kids my age left. Everyone else was younger, placing me in a de facto leadership position in many cases. Despite the fact that I initially ranked up faster than most of my peers, I was the last to finally get Eagle. In fact, it was four weeks before I turned 18. I don’t think there was a rule that said that I was disqualified at that age, but I definitely wanted to finish by then either way.

Shortly thereafter, we went on a canoe trip, which we would do every year. It was set to be my last. I knew that I wasn’t going to be involved in the organization for much longer. Since all of my “friends” were gone by then, I shared a canoe with my dad. In the middle of the trip, we came across a cliff that looked like we could climb up to from the side. It was not a hundred feet up, but it wasn’t six feet neitha, I’ll tell ya that much. I was still afraid of heights—which, like I said, is rational—but older, stronger, and more confident in my abilities. So we got out, checked the depth of the water below the cliff, and then made the short trek to the top, where we jumped off together. I dunno, I think it’s rather poetic that the one thing that almost stopped me from experiencing those ten years of my life was one of the last things I did for my scouting career. I left the scouts, and I never looked back. I don’t regret the activities that I participated in, but I can’t look back on the whole experience fondly either. Those people suppressed my sexuality for many years beyond that. I just got so used to being someone that I wasn’t, and it took a lot for me to decide to live as my true self. I was in my 30s before I came out as omnisexual, and I will never forgive them for that. I could have been so much happier. How many others went through something similar? I’m still attracted to women, so at least I wasn’t lying about everything, but there are those who can’t express themselves at all, and that was never okay. I do not tolerate the excuse that it was a “different time”. A part of me wants/wanted them to change, but another part of me just wants to see them destroyed. I’m vengeful like that sometimes.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 2, 2399

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Despite technically being in an enhanced body, Mateo is no longer enhanced. He needs sleep, and because of everything he’s been through recently, he needs a lot of sleep. Annoyingly, it doesn’t look like he’s going to get much of it for a while. Winona wakes him after midnight with a phone call. “I don’t know why they didn’t call me right away. A few people came through the parking lot portal yesterday afternoon.”

“We always knew this could happen,” Mateo replies. “You had the military set up a special quarantine, right?”

“Yes, they’re contained, but one of you should go. I can’t get away.”

Mateo struggles out of his sheets, and trips out of bed. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks.”

Mateo leaves his room, and is about to knock on Ramses’ door when he remembers that Ramses is dead, or so it seems. Heath needs sleep too, and won’t be much help in this situation. So he just walks downstairs, and heads for the garage. “Why are you awake?” he asks when he sees Tarboda sitting in the kitchen.

“I keep odd hours,” he replies. “Going somewhere?”

“Another mission,” Mateo explains.

“A solo mission?”

Mateo doesn’t know if Tarboda is asking if he would like him to come, or if he’s offering, or if he really wants to be a part of it, or if it’s just a question.

“You look tired,” Tarboda decides, standing up. “I’ll drive. It’s my job.”

“I was a career driver in another life,” Mateo reveals.

“That’s cute.”

The two of them drive to the parking lot. The tent is still there, as is the hamster tunnel to the office building, which has since been completely cleared out, and taken over by the military. The operation is fully staffed. The president himself considers this to be the current greatest threat to the country. They’re not generally too unwelcoming of refugees, but these people were preceded by a mass murderer. They do not deserve the benefit of the doubt. The checkpoint soldiers wave them through the newly erected gate, and direct them toward the transition tent. Here they put on hazmat suits, and equip themselves with deadly weapons. They’re really not taking any chances here. Mateo doesn’t care to carry a gun, but arguing against it could risk his credentials here, and he needs them. He’s the only true team member left.

They leave the small tent, and enter the big one, where they find three people being kept in the subquarantine zone. Mateo doesn’t recognize any of them, but they recognize him immediately, even with the headgear. They almost look relieved to see him. “Mister Matic. Tell them that we are not here to hurt anyone,” the woman requests.

“Where are you from?” Mateo asks. The usual prompt of report is for when two people are either equal, or dominance is unknown. Mateo is assumed to be superior to them until otherwise determined. They’ll answer his questions, in whatever order he asks them, and to his satisfaction. He’ll drive the conversation.

“We’re from the Sixth Key,” she responds.

“Are you infected?”

“We didn’t ask Humbert to do that. We didn’t want him to do that. When we found out that he had snuck through the portal, we were sent to help.”

“A little late,” Mateo says. “Everyone is dead. You didn’t answer the question. Are you infected?”

“No,” she claims. “There is no epidemic, or anything. Humbert infected himself with a bioweapon from a lost lab that should have been destroyed after the first war.”

“It should never have been created in the first place,” Mateo argues.

“I agree,” she says. “You can test our blood,” she insists. “These fine men and women of service took samples already.”

Mateo looks over at the soldiers who all have their weapons trained on the travelers. “The scientists took samples,” one of them confirms. “If the results have since come back, we were not informed.”

“And if the results haven’t come back,” one of the other travelers begins, “were you informed?”

Until now, the soldiers have kept their guns pointed in a more relaxed sense. They weren’t precisely aiming for the subjects, and were not quiet ready to fire. They jerk up now, ready to squeeze in a split second, particularly at this guy.

“Does this feel like the right time for attitude?” Mateo asks the travelers.

The leader gives the young man a look. “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles reluctantly.

“How many more of you are coming?” Mateo asks.

She nods, knowing that it is in her best interest to be honest. “Millions. Or zero.”

“Please clarify,” Mateo says.

She looks for her words on the walls. “The reason my cousin has attitude is because there were supposed to be six of us. We operate in groups of seven. Humbert was our seventh, so we were sent to correct the situation. The other three didn’t make it here at all. We don’t know if that means the portal shut behind us, or if they were killed in the interversal void, or what.”

“The interversal void?” Mateo questions. “You mean the bulk?”

“Yeah. We don’t call it that, but yeah.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the Sixth Key is in a different universe?”

“You didn’t know that,” she states.

That’s interesting, but this conversation is over. “The portal closed on our end. If the other members of your scouting party were right behind you, my guess is that they’re dead. The rest of your population will have to find refuge elsewhere. This reality is closed, and what was even your plan? According to what we know The Reconvergence happens in a matter of weeks. You’ll just end up right back there.”

“What are you talking about?” the woman questions. “It’s 2099. It won’t happen for three hundred years.”

“You are off your mark,” Mateo informs her. “It’s 2399 already.”

Horror seeps out of the pores of all three of their faces. “He screwed us,” the leader notes, mostly to herself. “We were always gonna lose.”

“Yeah, Humbert screwed a lot of people. I’m sorry for your loss, but if you left your loved ones behind, you’ll never see them again. Even if we don’t stop the Reconvergence, you’ll be kept in a deep dark hole for the rest of your lives.”

“Don’t do this,” the woman begs.

“I don’t have time to deal with this crap. This world has its own problems.”

“Don’t do this!” She repeats it louder and louder as he and Tarboda walk away.

Microstory 1412: Secret to the Grave

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Combined, Escher Bradley and Rothko Ladhiffe had a ton of experience living on a cold, dark planet with limited resources, and very limited human interaction. There were a lot of skills they never picked up, though. They didn’t know how to communicate with others, and most importantly right now, they didn’t know how to spy on people from a distance. They both decided to keep themselves a secret from the town that mysteriously made its way to their world through a portal. While their friend, Hark was okay with that on principle, he did want to come up with an endgame for this plan, and the other two weren’t sure they ever wanted to. Again, they were far less experienced with people, and were kind of afraid, though they were equally afraid to admit it. So Escher and Rothko split from Hark for now, always intending to return at some point rather soon—which would not happen for years. They were trying to get a better look at the townspeople when a scouting group stumbled upon them. The scouts wanted to find a fresh source of water. While their one water tower managed to come through the portal intact, it wasn’t completely full at the time, and they knew it was going to run out eventually, if someone didn’t figure out how to get them all back home. They figured it was a good idea to plan ahead, and understand what this world had to offer. It was too soon for such a journey, however, and they were naïve to think that they had any clue what they were in for. They were heading in one direction, believing they would stay safe from the time monsters that plagued their town upon arrival, which all seemed to be coming from elsewhere. Springfielders would later learn that this was more of a coincidence, and that no place on Durus was safe, but that would do the scouts no good. Now, being a town of less than thirteen hundred people—and even less now, because many had died in the initial attack—everyone knew everyone. Even if there was someone any given individual didn’t recognize, in a group of seven, it was practically impossible to come across two strangers whom none of them knew at all. So who were these two young men? Were they visitors who had found themselves caught in town when catastrophe struck? If that were the case, why were they so far from the border already? They would have to be up to no good.

Escher and Rothko knew they had to be honest with these people. It was crazy that they had been living in this horrible place alone, but the explanations the scouts were coming up with in their respective headcanons were worse. The two-thirds Trident didn’t want anyone else to know they were there, for reasons the scouts didn’t bother pressing. These two clearly knew how to live here, and how to survive the monsters, so it was best to keep them on their side. They would keep their secret for now, but they wanted guidance in return. Escher and Rothko agreed to lead them to Watershed, which was still the only ongoing source of water for the planet. They would teach them more in time. It would have been too difficult to explain how they protected themselves against the monsters, because it required powers the scouts didn’t possess, and a diplomatic relationship with the monsters’ overlord. Without this agreement, the scouts were fair game, so when a band of bygoners came to feed off of their memories, there was nothing Escher and Rothko could do. It was almost as if Effigy had sent this particular type of monster, so the two of them would stay hidden. That was not what they wanted to happen, of course, but at least their secret was taken to the grave, and they could refocus on their mission. The real problem was that this awoke a darkness in Rothko that would have terrible consequences years from now. Until then, however, they felt like there was no choice but to move on, and leave the victims behind. They didn’t even bother trying to help the scouts, who were now blank slates, with no idea who they were. Fortunately for them, one scout survived by hiding behind a boulder. Her memories remained intact, but she never said a word about Escher and Rothko, because she knew now that they were as powerful as they were dangerous, and could not be trusted. She escorted the bygoner victims back to the border, then ran off alone in the direction of Watershed. It took her a few days to actually find it, but in doing so, she ultimately saved her town from certain destruction.

Microstory 1345: Gifted

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University Admissions Interviewer: So, I didn’t realize this when my assistant first put it on my calendar, but you’re a freshman in high school, correct?

Gifted Student: That’s right, sir. It’s been my dream to go to this university since I was a kid, though. I’ve been working on a thirty year plan since I was six.

University Admissions Interviewer: That’s...impressive, but why does your plan involve doing an interview with an admissions counselor when you’re only fourteen?

Gifted Student: I’m fifteen, sir, and I don’t see my age as a hindrance. I’m preparing myself for a bright future, and I’ve always seen education as the most important aspect of my life. I wasn’t born a prodigy—

University Admissions Interviewer: Yeah, yeah, yeah, you had to work for everything you have, but that’s not what I asked. Why do this interview so early? You’re not going to be admitted, and so much can happen in the next two years before any institution will take you seriously. High school is all about showing us what you’re made of. Right now, all I have to go on is whatever you did in elementary and middle school.

Gifted Student: Uhh, I didn’t provide those transcripts before, but I have them with me...

University Admissions Interviewer: No, you misunderstand. I don’t mean I’m going to look at your history, and make a judgment about your potential to excel at this university. I mean I don’t care about it, because no one does. My point is that I have very little to go on. Hell, you’re not even finished with finals for this year, so who are you?

Gifted Student: Well, I’m obviously an academic, but I have a range of interests. I play tennis and golf, I’m on the debate team, and I’m not yet allowed to work on the school newspaper or yearbook, but I’ll be doing both of those next year. I’m already and Eagle Scout too. My project was landscaping the courtyard for my middle school.

University Admissions Interviewer: You play tennis and golf. I’m going to take a stab in the dark and assume your school is in a fairly wealthy district.

Gifted Student: Umm. It’s true, I live in the wealthiest county of the state. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know hardship.

University Admissions Interviewer: That’s not what I’m saying. You brought up your Eagle Scout project. You fixed up your school’s courtyard.

Gifted Student: Yes. I had tons of volunteers. I learned a lot of leadership skills during that experience.

University Admissions Interviewer: That’s lovely, except that’s still not my point. Your school is rich, Gifted. It didn’t need your help. You could have repaired a home for someone living in poverty, or blazed a trail for a community arboretum. You chose to do something easy, in a place where you were not needed. Now, this university may not care about that. In fact, I doubt it will take anything into consideration other than the fact that you attained the highest rank in Boy Scouts. But I was a scout, and I do take it seriously, and I’m not impressed.

Gifted Student: Once you’re an Eagle, you’re always an Eagle.

University Admissions Interviewer: Well, I’m gay, so I renounced my affiliation many, many years ago, but that’s neither here not there. This is about you.

Gifted Student: Well, I do charity too. I donate a thousand dollars to Homes for Humankind every single month. If that’s not enough, though, I’m sure I could raise that to once a week.

University Admissions Interviewer: Oh my God. I don’t care about charity either. I care about what you’ve done personally for your community. Where do you get that money? Lifeguarding? Stacking shelves at a grocery store?

Gifted Student: I take it out of my allowance.

University Admissions Interviewer: Right.

Gifted Student: I don’t understand the problem here. This is one of the most expensive universities in the country. Everyone here is rich, except for maybe a few academic scholarships, and recruited student athletes.

University Admissions Interviewer: You’re right, this is as rich as your neighborhood. You would fit in well. But it’s not going to be today, or even next year. Come back when you’re a senior, and really think about how you’re going to grow as a person until then. That’s why we don’t do interviews like this when you’re so young, regardless of what legacy connections your parents may or may not have with someone here. You haven’t learned anything yet, and I don’t want to talk to you until you have.

Microstory 911: Outdoor Activities

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I hate sportsball. I hate football, I hate North American football, I hate baseball, I hate basketball. It would be easier for me to tell you which sports I like than which ones I don’t, because I don’t like any of them, so none. I do not, however, hate outdoor activities. I would certainly never want to watch someone else participate in one, but I enjoy them myself. When I was a boy scout, we would go on a camping trip pretty much every month. During the eight years I was involved, I can probably count on two hands the number of these trips that I missed; perhaps even one hand. Sometimes it was just all about tenting and cobbler, but we also went for specific things. We would always go on a bike ride in the fall. We would go to the slopes for skiing and snowboarding sometime in the deep winter. I didn’t think I would like skiing, since I’m afraid of heights and high speeds, and cold weather, but I got pretty comfortable with it. One time, I spontaneously belted out the Star-Spangled Banner when the other scouts were being particularly rambunctious in the cabins the night before. They must have thought I was meant to do that, because no one made a peep the rest of the night. It probably wouldn’t have been as fun if we had been too tired the next day. I especially enjoyed the canoe trips. I could paddle down a river for an entire day, across multiple days, if given the opportunity. Of course, there were also hiking and backpacking trips. My dad and I went down to backpack in the Arkansas hills with a small group, and one in the mountains of New Mexico that lasted longer than a week, and also involved horseback riding. My favorite trip was Seabase. We spent a week on a tiny Florida Key that was designated just for us. I experienced zero problems the whole time, developed a profound fondness for the mysterious deep, and uncovered inspiration for what I thought for years would be my first novel. I miss most of those things today, and wish there was an adult form of scouting that coordinates similar trips. Maybe there is, and I just haven’t really been looking. I suppose the closest thing to that would be Meet Up, but I feel like I’ve tried that. I guess I can try harder.

Microstory 789: Walking Stick

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So I was thinking about how often I gravitate towards nonfiction when I’m trying to write fiction. Sometimes a topic speaks to my personal life, and I feel I need to be real in that moment, rather than leaving myself out of it, which is what fiction writers are meant to do. If you’re writing something, you need to choose one side or the other; made up, or real life. It shouldn’t be both. Only so many people can get away with writing themselves into a story, and I’m not sure I’m one of them. My Creative License doesn’t say I’m not allowed to, but it doesn’t say I am either, and I don’t keep good enough records to know whether I’ve paid enough of my dues. On the other hand, this is my website, and my book, and I can damn well do whatever I want. I don’t answer to a publisher, or an agent—though I wish I did, so if you know anyone, hook me up. When I was working on the plan for this series, I decided I wanted them all to take place in my recursiverse canon. But certain titles seemed to suggest this was not practical. Before I got too deep in it, though, I realized they could still all be canonical, but that any story could take place in any universe. I made a spreadsheet of each universe that I own, so I can keep track of it, which has made me realize that my universe is on that list. Now, I know that sounds like I think I own the real universe, but here’s the thing...I do. So when I was thinking about what story I could tell that involves a walking stick, I realized I know no better story than mine.

I come from a family of walkers. Not all of us have always done it, more specifically, so passionately, but we all do it now. During the summer before high school, I went to New Mexico with a small group of boys and their fathers in my Boy Scout troop. There’s a huge camp there for backpacking. I believe we went about fifty miles, but you would have to ask my father for confirmation. One time, we were sitting with our guide, who would only be with us for part of the trip. He asked us to go around the circle and tell the group why we wanted to do this. When they got to me, I started tearing up, and said that I just wanted to prove that I could. A few days later, I was having trouble keeping up, and my then-undiagnosed autism was making it hard for me to vocalize my feelings. I ended up flying into a rage, and throwing the walking stick my father had given me to the ground, where it broke apart. I eventually had to acknowledge that this meant I had failed in my goal. I was unable to prove that I “could do it”. Because though my fight with my father didn’t last forever, and I made it to the end, I had done it with an albatross of my own shortcomings. I’ve continued to carry around these character flaws my whole life, when I would really be better off replacing them with a walking stick. A few years later, just under the wire, I achieved the rank of Eagle, which many believe to be the greatest achievement a man can make. I do not believe that, for reasons including the fact that their sociopolitical positions stunted the exploration of my sexuality, and prevented me from finding out who I was. But still, scouting was something my father and I did together, and I do not regret it. To commemorate this milestone, he made me a brand new walking stick. A decorative one. A beautiful one. One that must not be used. One that you can see in the picture above. Though not likely his intention, his gift to me is a symbol, that no matter how many things I break, how many mistakes I make, we can always make another stick. It also symbolizes to me the most important lesson I’ve ever learned; that I can’t do this alone...that I will always need a little helping standing up...and that I deserve it.

Microstory 767: Sailboat

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Christopher Clark was a Hydro Scout, which was a special class of scout dedicated to water activities. This didn’t mean they didn’t ever enjoy other environments, or that other classes of scout didn’t also participate in water activities, but they did have their own niches. There were Forest Scouts, Mountain Scouts, Prairie Scouts, Desert Scouts, Snow Scouts, Jungle Scouts, and even stranger ones, like Swamp Scouts, and City Scouts. In this world, scouts work differently than what you may be used to. For example, there is no separate organization for girls. They would never think to put people in those boxes. Nor was there ever a time when certain peoples were excluded from joining. Nor was there ever a time when certain peoples were excluded from joining. You are free to practice whatever spiritual beliefs you follow, you can be of any gender, or sexual orientation, and you can be of any race. The scouting program is also designed to be more of a lifelong adventure. The penultimate division is Senior Scouts, which starts when an individual reaches the age of majority at sixteen years, and generally goes for four years. After that, Post-senior scouts become more independent, often enter the workforce, and involve themselves in scouting functions only when they have time. Chris was only fourteen years old when he moved up to Senior Scouts, but this was because he was such good friends with those already in it, so they made an exception. One day, Chris and his fellow scouts were scheduled to go on a sailboat trip, marking the first time most of them had been on the ocean, including Chris. With his ability to see the future, Chris knew that things would not turn out well for them. He did not seek to stop the trip altogether, even though he knew everyone would believe him. Instead, he kept trying to fix the timeline, so that the future would change in their favor. They were meant to travel from Hawaii to a remote island in the North Pacific Ocean, but something went terribly wrong, and a sea of death came to swallow them up. Though he was not able to prevent the catastrophe, it would seem that he was able to save some lives in the trying. Though it would not be easy, and Christopher Clark would never return to his home stateside, he would find a bit of peace...in the last refuge.

Microstory 51: Range

I woke up yesterday afternoon with a single thought. I had to go somewhere I hadn’t been before to hike and take photos. I’ve been working on a phone app, and one thing I’m planning on having is a photo of the day. I already had a couple hundred just from living life that fit the bill. I try to use ones that don’t show people’s faces. The legal issues that could potentially arise just aren’t worth it. I like to walk to get my exercise, so this was killing two birds with one rifle. I found some a trail that looked good, and drove out there. I got lost once, but it was easy to get back on track. As I was walking along the lake, listening to music, I could hear loud snapping sounds. I pulled up the map again and discovered that there was a shooting range nearby. I decided to keep going and take a look. The man at the booth agreed to let me watch, and even gave me some earplugs. There weren’t very many people there, so it wasn’t that exciting. As I was sitting there, I realized that I recognized the place. It’s where I first learned to shoot while I was in scouts. I joined the troop just in time. At some point after that trip, the leaders decided to keep guns out of the hands of minors, and we never did it again. There was talk of paintball, but even that scared the helicopter parents. After a few minutes of watching a father teach his son, as well as a woman I believe they had just met, they turned on the cease-fire lights. While they went down range to check out their work, I went up the hill to the side so that I could get a good picture from the other direction. What I discovered was that there was a second section on the other side of the hill, and they were not in cease-fire mode. They were able to get the bullet out of my shoulder, though, so everything’s fine.