Microstory 13: The Direct Line

In the Earthan year of 1984, a witch on the planet Persephone named Indira Felrey was discovered to be using Craft to commit crimes. Witchcraft itself was not illegal, however, certain practices resulted in outcomes that were necessarily against Martian Law. Unfit for general prison sentence, she was instead exiled to Earth where Craft was fundamentally impossible. The hidden structure of the universe prevented the exploits of Craft from ever being an issue within the Sol System.

Contrary to common lore, witchcraft does not rely on magic. Magic does not exist. Witches are in tune with an ancient infrastructure built billions of years ago. The maintainers of the structure spent hundreds of years connecting every living and non-living entity in the universe in order to study them and keep records.

No one is born a witch. Anyone can learn Craft. Some are able to learn the secrets quicker than others, but this is true of any skill. Witches exploit unavoidable functions of the structure in order to complete tasks and gain insight into the cosmos. This inherently limits their spells to a finite number of physically possible Engagements. In reality, they are voice commands, as one would use on a smartphone.

In 1987, the witch Indira Felrey discovered an authentication bypass that allowed her access to the structure while still on Earth. She opened a portal that she programmed to map the entirety of the surface of the planet. Only after it was finished could Craft be used on Earth, though still with some restrictions, due to different cosmological procedures. During a metaphysical crisis within the structure, The Supervisor and a rogue archief discovered the witch's glitch as it began. They could have shut it down, but they decided to let it play out and see what came of it. Indira died of natural causes before the mapping program could be completed in 1991, but the Archief and The Supervisor soon realized that they would be able to use the exploit for their own purposes.

And thus began one of the most important endeavors in the history of the universe, The Direct Line.

Writing Communities I Belong To

I found three writing communities where I'm planning to upload my short fiction. You can find my Figment profile here. You can find my Wattpad profile here. Lastly, you can find my Writer's Cafe profile here.

Follow me there too. Give me all the follows! Please and thank you.

Microstory 12: Round House

Detective Urdea raced through the alleyway, the suspect always at least four meters out of reach. They flung themselves over a fence, under a railing, and in a space so tight, the buildings might as well have been attached. Urdea was about to take his shot when they found themselves in a large crowd. There was some kind of block party. They zigged and zagged and weaved and bobbed through the mess of arms, beer cups, and balloon animals. Instead of trying to protect himself within the crowd, the suspect got himself out, and Urdea took his shot. Dead.

After checking for a pulse, he opened the case that the suspect had evidently stolen. Eight slots. Seven vials. He ordered the contents to be analyzed immediately. They discovered it to be what's known as The Silver Plague, a bioweapon that could wipe out the planet. And Urdea had apparently killed the only person who could have told them where the last vial was.

For the next several hours, he and his partner sifted through restaurant receipts and security cameras, trying to find out who the suspect had been working with, and what they were planning to do with the plague. They talked to confidential informants, family members, field experts, and sister departments. Nothing. Meanwhile, the entire metropolitan area was evacuated. The country was put on DEFCON 3. The nation panicked. The world held its breath.

Finally, a uniformed officer caught someone trying to break into the dead suspect's apartment. They took him to an "off-the-books" location and started "interrogating" him,  using the phone book as a "frame of reference". They asked him questions about how he knew the dead suspect, what he did for a living, etc. But they said nothing of the vials, hoping that after hours of questioning, he would give away what they needed without even realizing it. Finally, he appeared to be broken, and they asked the real questions. "Where is the vial?"

"What vial?"

They hit him again. "The other vial!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

The phone book was more red than it was yellow. "What did you do with the missing vial!"

"I don't have any other vial. They were all in the case!"

Urdea was growing impatient. "You're telling me that there were eight vials when you last saw the case?"

"What? No." He spit some blood on the floor. "There were seven vials. There are ONLY seven vials."

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Urdea growled. "There are eight slots in the case. I'm not gonna ask you again. Where. Is. The last one!?"

"Yeah, I DO think you're an idiot," the man shouted. "The case manufacturer could not have known exactly how many slots we would need. They didn't have one with only seven slots, so we rounded up! You have all the vials! You've had them the whole time!"

New Blog, Who Dis?

This is my new blog. As you can see, I uploaded microstories in rapid succession. I used to post these to a different blog that was iframed on another blog that had no template, so that I could write my own HTML for it. I also posted them to my facebook accounts, and will continue to do so. I've been making changes in my life. I'm trying to go full force on this self-publishing situation in an attempt to get my name out there. I'm going to be more diligent about posting. I really need to make sure I keep this thing updated with content. My current plan is this:

• Post a few nanofiction tweets every day
• These are also known as LIES
• Please do not mistake these for truths
• Some of them are ridiculous
• Others sound like they could be real
• They are NOT
• Post a new microstory every weekday
• In the past, these have been one to a few paragraphs long
• I need to limit them to one paragraph, to better distinguish them from flash fiction
• And because "ain't nobody got time for that"
• Post one new flash fiction story every week on Saturday
• This will be a series entitled The Advancement of Mateo Matic
• This used to be the name of a set of novelas that I had planned
• The original story took place in another galaxy
• The premise of the original had nothing to do with time slips
• The original books were intended to belong to my universal canon
• This will now be a part of a separate canon, which frees up my slate to account for the fact that IT'S TAKING FOREVER JUST TO PUBLISH MY FIRST BOOK

Like I said above, my microfiction should appear every week day. On Saturdays, instead of a paragraph long microstory, you'll find a flash fiction piece. It will be the next installment in a series called The Advancement of Mateo Matic. Each installment takes place over the course of a single day. In the beginning, Mateo led an average life. One day, for reasons I haven't figured out yet, he jumps forward exactly one year. And every day since then, he lives for one day per year. At the end of it, he jumps forward again. Please note: title and format subject to change. This post doesn't control my future! The plot of this series might sound like "Brigadoon" or Groundhog Day. Please erase the memories you have of these earlier works. I am the originator of everything I do.

I am trying to bump up the numbers of fans, followers, friends, likes, comments, and other interactions. Please friend me on Facebook, 'Like' my "business" page on my other Facebook, follow my Nanofiction twitter account @NickFisherman, follow my Dream Journal account @IHadaDreamWhere, follow my Personal twitter account @TavisHighfill, and follow my Random Photo instagram feed for all the "WTF is that?" moments you can handle. Recognize that my nanofiction and personal accounts used to be switched. I swapped the username for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that building my fanbase from Facebook is NOT WORKING OUT. Instead of trying to get my real name out there, I'm going to try to get my pseudonym out there. Everything fictional I write is "by" Nick Fisherman. Everything real is by Tavis Highfill.

You may be wondering, "Tavis—Nick; whatever the hell your name is, why use a pseudonym? Who do you think you are, Voltaire?" The name Nick Fisherman has been with my for as long as I can remember. He was once my imaginary friend, then my alias, and now he's my pen name. I've come up with a canonical reason for him to exist, but I haven't decided to go through with that yet. The out-of-universe reason is for marketing purposes. "Nick" is a common name that everyone accepts. "Tavis" makes people wonder why my parents forgot the "r". "Fisherman" is a common word. It's easy to remember, and you're going to like it whether you like it or not!

A few more things;

Q: "If you post microfiction on weekdays, and flash fiction on Saturday, what happens on Sunday?"

A: That's God's day of rest, you heathens! LOLJK I might come up with something later. YouTube videos? Probably not. You know what they say, I have a face for radio, and a voice for books.

Q: "Who are you again?"

A: Don't worry about it.

Q: "What was the third thing; the one that justifies you using the word few?"

A: I'm also looking into posting my work on third-party sites. There are a few writers communities out there, and I need to find the best one(s) for me. I will let you know where else you can find me. I need all the exposure I can get.

Microstory 11: Immortal Danger

I came to this planet when I was 271 years old. The first person I met was a child named Ilarion Simeonov. What I discovered upon learning the custom of "shaking hands" was that I could turn any human immortal by nothing more than a touch. Ilarion immediately stopped aging, and is unable to be killed. It's not that he heals, or that he is impervious to injury. It's more that he is invisible to death. He has never been in danger.

Over the course of several centuries, I have incidentally immortalized fourteen more people. Occasionally, they can use their ability to protect others. There was actually a domestic terrorist plot against the TCL Chinese Theatre back in 1994. The instigators were caught trying to lift the duffle bags containing the bombs. An unseen force was weighing them down, simply because two of my immortals were spending the entire day seeing the same film over and over again. A suicidal immortal jumped out of an airplane over the Atlantic Ocean in 1974. He's been hovering about 20 feet over the water ever since. He refuses to let us retrieve him.

Today, I am dying. You see, where I'm from, our scientists have mastered genetic aging. Due to overpopulation concerns, they decided to cap everyone's lifespan to a certain number of years. Despite advances that rendered resources limitless, the richer still live longer. Some of the more impoverished live the equivalent of 22 Earthan years. And we always know when it's coming. I was born into one of the wealthiest families in our solar system. I am not due for death for another few centuries. It is my guess that I expedited my time limit each time I immortalized another person.

I am writing these, my final words, not so that you will know my story. But so that you will know yours. Before coming to Earth, I encountered many fallen civilizations. They had one thing in common. An inevitable and unstoppable disease spread throughout every population that mastered genetic aging, destroying it completely in a matter of months. And Earth is on the brink of the very same discovery. But I have also discovered that the disease can be avoided, by altering the method of genetic engineering. All you have to do is

Microstory 10: Guardian Demon

Everyone else in this realm has a guardian angel. But I have a guardian demon. There was a clerical error at the Pseudocelestial Being Staffing Agency that they refuse to acknowledge. So, I'm stuck with him. One of the benefits of having a guardian is being able to name yours whatever you want. But I never did. I've regretted it no more than I do today. My demon has generally been a trickster. He'll hide my car keys in the tissue box. He'll cause my radio station to play the same Jack White song three times in one day. One time he just put on a matching set of clothes and copied my every move throughout the day. My coworkers were not amused. I giggled once, and no one has let me forget it. My demon has been on the job for 30 Earthan years now and that's usually when demons finally earn their horns. But due to what his superior officers called "a peculiar and unacceptable choice in vocation" he'll never get them. He went on a rampage. He never hurt anyone, mind you. Acting somewhat like an angel for three decades sort of softens you up. But he broke a lot of things, made several dozen people late for their yoga classes, and ridiculed a mallard to the point of tears. Yeah. They can cry. Look it up! It comes out of their tear ducks. Eventually, my demon was so exhausted that he could do no more damage except for a few nasty remarks to hipster college students passing by. One of the students stopped in his tracks and turned. His eyes gave off the familiar silvery glow of an archangel. He was being temporarily possessed. "Are you Pseudocelestial Being 97843740?" the archangel asked.

"I am," my demon replied, about to rip his own face off.

"Ah. We've been looking for you. You were supposed to earn your angel wings this morning."

"I'm a demon."

"We know. We made an exception."

"Uhh..."

"Did you make all this mess?"

"Well, yeah."

"Never mind, then."

Microstory 9: Sticks and Stones

Young Samuel Doolin sat in his class, hardly paying attention to what the teacher was saying. He was brighter than the other students, and should have been placed at least two grades higher. But he didn't care enough about school to let anyone know that. One phrase the teacher said, however, caught his ear. "Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me."

Samuel cleared his throat, prepared himself, and raised his hand. Once called on, he said, "you're a stupid f***ing c***."

In the principal's office, Samuel was calm and collected. The principal, of course, asked him where he learned those words, and why he felt that it was necessary to say them. "Well, I speak English, don't I?" Samuel asked. "And they were necessary to illustrate a point."

"Which is?" the principal asked, curious.

Samuel began the apology. "There are three things wrong with the sticks and stones rhyme. First, it's just a lie. Words are powerful. And they can hurt deeply. Walk into a room of black people and say the "n" word, and just wait for the reaction. Secondly, the rhyme gives bullies free rein to say whatever they want, without repercussions. Obviously, that can't be true either as I am sitting right here. Thirdly, the rhyme places the responsibility on the victim to change their behavior. The bully was just saying whatever they wanted, as they are free to do. Should the victim is simply grit their teeth and ask for more?

Samuel continued, "you may either punish me for my actions, and reform your policies, or you can let me go and stick to your outdated and ridiculous values. But I will not stand for hypocrisy. Either I can say what I want because words can't possibly hurt others, or I can't, and the rhyme should be abolished from the curriculum."

The principal sat for a long while after the speech. "Okay. That makes sense. I won't punish you, because you brought up some good points. But we will change."

"No," Samuel insisted."You absolutely must punish me. That's part of the reformation. I did this in order to elicit change, not to get a rise out of you and my teacher. If I expect you to not be hypocritical, I cannot rightly be so myself." He was given detention for a week. And things began to change. Slowly.

Microstory 8: Siftens Landing (Part II)

Click here for the first installment of this series.

Previously on Siftens Landing:

Mama Siften, of the Junglewood Forest Siftens, has tried to formulate a plan to fix their problem of new neighbors. But things get complicated when she accidentally invites them over for dinner.

And now, Part II of Siftens Landing:

The youngest little Lander, of the Junglewood Forest Landers, was smarter than the others. While Mama Siften was their leader, Moe Lander fancied himself a mastermind. As his brother used the new shovel to start digging four holes in the Siftens' backyard, Moe did nothing but think. He wondered how bad the dinner would have to go to get the new neighbors to consider moving away. There's that fine line between not bad enough to work and a felony. He finally had what he thought was the best idea he's ever had. While the children of the new neighbors hopped over the wall to help dig the holes, Moe snuck away to find a frog.

Next time on Siftens Landing:

While the three families search for little Moe, Allison Siften finds herself falling in love with one of the new neighbors. Can their love survive the rift? Will Moe find that perfect frog? And just what do they plan to do with the rope, the sawdust, and the distilled water?

Find out when Siftens Landing returns, which will be whenever I think of what happens next...

Click here for the next installment...