Essential GPS: A Scribings Special Edition

By Jamie Alan Belanger

The Greater Portland Scribists writing group first formed in July 2010 and published their first anthology the following June. Since then, they have been publishing an anthology every summer. After the publication of their fifth volume in 2015, they decided it would be fun to look back over the years and choose the best stories from each author. With the help of fans in autumn 2015, they have selected one story each from current and previous members. This collection is a great sampler of work spanning the years that we've been working together.

Stories contained in this volume:
- What Time Is Our Torture Session? by Lee Patterson (from Vol 1)
- In the Business of Rotting by Cynthia Ravinski (from Vol 1)
- Secret Under the Sand by Jamie Alan Belanger (from Vol 2: Lost Civilizations)
- Otherkin by Steven Inman (from Vol 3: Metamorphosis)
- Breed by Timothy Lynch (from Vol 4: Miscreations)
- The Joke by Richard Veysey (from Vol 4: Miscreations)
- Sand Fleas by D.L. Harvey (from Vol 5: Inversions)
- Wolf and Raven by Shelli-Jo Pelletier (from Vol 5: Inversions)
- Repurposed by Matthew Stephen D. (from Vol 5: Inversions)
- Better Alive Than Dead by Robin Hansen (an all-new story exclusive to this volume)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lost Luggage Studios, LLC jamielostluggagestudios.com
• Release date: Nov 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781936489237

Jamie Alan Belanger

Jamie Alan Belanger started programming computers when he was about six years old. He earned a bachelor's degree from the University of South Florida in Computer Science with a minor in Mathematics. He currently devotes all of his time to Lost Luggage Studios, where he is a programmer, writer, editor, publisher, graphic artist, photographer, and more. In short, Jamie is a workaholic who is rarely more than two days away from having a meaningful conversation with his toaster. His hobbies include WW2 and computer history, artificial intelligence theory, cooking, beer, nature, photography, and designing worlds he'd rather live in.

Book preview

Essential GPS

A Scribings Special Edition

Jamie Alan Belanger, editor

Published in 2015 by Lost Luggage Studios LLC

What Time Is Our Torture Session? © 2011 Lee Patterson

In The Business of Rotting © 2011 Cynthia Ravinski

Secret Under the Sand © 2012 Jamie Alan Belanger

Otherkin ©2013 Steven Inman

The Joke ©2014 Richard Veysey

Breed ©2014 Timothy Lynch

Sand Fleas ©2015 D.L. Harvey

Wolf and Raven ©2015 Shelli-Jo Pelletier

Repurposed ©2015 Matthew Stephen D.

Better Alive Than Dead ©2015 Robin Hansen

Reproductions of this work, in part or in its entirety, is strictly forbidden without prior written permission from the authors.

ISBN: # 978-1-936489-23-7

Discover other titles published by Lost Luggage Studios LLC at:

http://www.LostLuggageStudios.com/books/

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Acknowledgements

Cover art and design by Jamie Alan Belanger. All parts of it were created by Jamie except:

Essential text written in Chopin Script by Claude Pelletier (no relation to Shelli-Jo that we know of)

Scribings text written in Vera Humana 95 Bold

Scroll shape from IgniX on Wikimedia Commons (but texture by Jamie)

Fountain pen from mr_t_77 on Flickr

Table of Contents

Introduction by Jamie Alan Belanger

What Time Is Our Torture Session? by Lee Patterson

In The Business of Rotting by Cynthia Ravinski

Forced to find a new passion after a revolution, a jeweler-turned-distiller is determined to forgive and forget. But a new discovery changes the nature of her business.

Secret Under the Sand by Jamie Alan Belanger

Terraforming exposes an Egyptian pyramid in a very unlikely place: the Gobi Desert.

Otherkin by Steven Inman

Marcie saw life as sink or swim, but her new friend led her to depths she didn't imagine.

Breed by Timothy Lynch

He's fighting for tradition; she's fighting for survival.

The Joke by Richard Veysey

Morality is no laughing matter.

Sand Fleas by D.L. Harvey

Music can upend the world.

Wolf and Raven by Shelli-Jo Pelletier

Fates of worlds rest on one choice.

Repurposed by Matthew Stephen D.

We lose ourselves in times of war.

Better Alive Than Dead by Robin Hansen

This never-before-published story has been a favorite in our workshopping sessions.

About the Authors

About the Greater Portland Scribists

Lost Luggage Studios Catalog

Introduction

Way back in 2010, I got an email from Lee Patterson asking if I'd be interested in writing, editing, and publishing an anthology. He knew me from another writing group in the Portland, Maine area called Rocketship Unicorn. He knew that I was in the process of learning how to indie-publish for books my brother and I were writing. I met him and Cynthia Ravinski at a Starbucks and the Greater Portland Scribists (GPS) were born.

Since those days of learning how to go from idea to print book, I have published fourteen titles through my company, Lost Luggage Studios. Five of those titles are issues of Scribings. Over the years we have had some members come and go. Some published one story and went on to other things. Others stick around for a few years. Our meetings are somewhat chaotic and full of conversational tangents, but we do manage to publish a high-quality indie anthology every year.

In the summer of 2015, we were putting the finishing touches on our fifth volume, Inversions. Someone mentioned doing a Best Of compilation. Timothy Lynch suggested calling it Essential GPS. We all loved the idea. I made a survey on my website and we invited our friends, family, and fans to vote for their favorite stories. It's hard to call this volume before you a Best Of since there are some amazing stories that did not make the cut. But, much like in Highlander, there can be only one. In this case, there is one story from each author we've worked with throughout the years. For most of us, the voting was very close; a few were almost two-way or three-way ties. The stories in this ebook are certainly among the best we've written. Each is prefaced with an introduction by the original author (or me, as the editor). In the back of the ebook, the About the Authors section lists all the other stories each author has contributed over the years, and which volumes of Scribings contain those stories. Every story listed will be available in an Omnibus Edition, coming in December 2015.

Thank you for grabbing a copy of Essential GPS.

-Jamie

At one of our first meetings, Lee suggested we do a writing exercise. This piece of flash fiction he wrote was so enjoyable we decided to include one piece of flash fiction each in the final Vol 1. We still do writing exercises to this day, but have not published any flash fiction since.

- Jamie

What Time Is Our Torture Session?

by Lee Patterson

I know what evil lurks in the minds of... no no. That just sounds like the start of a corny old radio show. How then shall I start this, Once upon a time? Somehow I don't think so. That would, after all, suggest an ending like, They lived happily ever after. Don't make me sick.

I want to tell you a story about real evil. Evil so tangible that you could reach out and touch it, like a mist that envelops you and seeps into your mind.

Let me then tell a story about a close friend. The queen of her realm. Her subjects pander to her every whim. But imagine if you will, those subjects decide to rise up and wield a mighty mechanical weapon, built for the sole purpose of rending chunks from your person.

First they feed her tasty treats, oh yes, very tasty indeed. Her senses dull and she finds herself in a wonderful euphoric state where her mind drifts atop fluffy clouds and she flitters around with little bunnies.

Then a buzzing sound, distant at first.

The bunnies. No longer carelessly frolicking, are all looking at her. The once innocent pink-rimmed eyes turned cloudy and red. Fangs bared.

The first bite she doesn't feel, a clean slice though her fur. Then the chewing begins. Again and again teeth bite into her and rip clump after clump of fur out.

An eternity. Then the buzzing stops, her bonds released, and one of her subjects say, Okay, kitty. You can go now. All your mats out! She gets scratched behind her ear and offered another kitty treat.

---

You can read more about Lee and his Scribings stories in the back of this ebook.

About Lee Patterson

This was supposed to be a flash story. In fact, this was written as a game. Based on the prompt, What time is our torture session tonight? we were supposed to write a flash story. The first scene that popped into my mind was of a table in a candle lit room covered in cut gemstones of all types. A private showing, and it was a secret.

As I revised and drafted I considered how people react when their passion is taken from them, what they do to fill in the gaps, what they would risk to get them back and more importantly what they wouldn't. Soon it grew beyond a flash. This story demanded more substance. When I finished, I was surprised it hadn't tried to turn into a novel like most of my other short story attempts.

At the time I wrote this story, I had been exploring my own passion with jewelry making. I've been a longtime gemstone fanatic, but I liked working with metals, hoping to soon learn how to solder and make my own settings, and someday perhaps cut my own stones. Well, that hasn't yet happened, but I got pretty good at wrapping polished gemstones in wire. I have not begun making moonshine, however, I have continued to write more stories. I hope you enjoy In the Business of Rotting.

- Cindy

In The Business of Rotting

by Cynthia Ravinski

I swirl my new creation in the wine glass. I've discovered a new recipe. A clear green film clings to the sides. I tip the glass back, a smooth burn slides down my throat.

Hoof beats echo in the forest around my home. Someone is coming down my trail, not the road. At least I can hear them this way.

I will see shortly if I've replicated the result. I put the empty glass down, crushing a crinkly green leaf left over from my mixing stage. I'm usually much neater, but I won't get in trouble for that ingredient. The recipe was an accident. I'd never have considered a distillation of this combination. Apparently not all irregularities ruin fermentation. But I don't have to tell anyone about this particular blend, especially not what gives it its special attributes. I'll just keep it to myself, I think.

The hoof beats grow louder.

When horses from the nearby trading village of Genhallie get loose, sometimes they come here, and sometimes interesting folk come searching for them. It seems in another lifetime, but I'd once made a very good friend that way. I hasten for the gates, lest they come to find me and get curious about my methods.

The horse kicks up dust on the rarely-traveled trail to my home, or what they left of my family's once-famous distillery, with dozens of outbuildings. The peasant rebels united across Loquatha and swept over the demesnes. When they pulled me out of the survivor's corral, they tried me and decided to release me. I came from a line of master distillers and liquor is a popular commodity. Widowed and kinless, I acquiesced to fate and continued my family's work, and put away my hammers and gemstones maybe forever.

A glint of poorly-polished silver flashes through the last of the trees. The badge of a herald. No one interesting after all. My eyes linger on the turning leaves—patched with the fiery hues of autumn. But those leaves will soon fall to the forest floor and rot. I cannot distill anything potable from them, but their leaf mold is kind to my gardens. The herald enters my courtyard. His gray-brown clothing is dead compared to the scarlet messenger uniform the former Baron issued. Greetings, I call out, though I don't mean it.

In answer, he holds a crumpled letter out to me. His brow furrows as he searches my face; I assume he's wondering who would send me missives.

I accept the letter, wondering who would send me official, logged mail this time of year.

A swirling E on blue wax—an Embrian ambassador.

Jareem. He's here. My hands quiver, or is it from my glass earlier? I could tell him about what I've made... I could tell him how.

The seal clicks. Formal Ulnoykan characters scrawl across the parchment. A language written only on an island far overseas, thousands of years ago; no one in Loquatha has any business reading it. Two years ago he taught me this phrase. Our secret keeps us safe.

What time is our torture session tonight?

My lungs fail to expand. He'll have new gems! A quiet voice in my head prompts, Can you do this again? You only entice yourself for things you cannot have. What harm is looking? I argue back.

An answer? the messenger mumbles, looking back toward the village.

Yes. Going before dark would be risky. Genhallie, like all Loquathain towns, has no prisons. Thieves lose their fingers, liars lose their tongues, the rich... I shudder as I think of the former baroness.

Tell him five.

Five what? His eyes pierce into me.

Bottles. Damned nosy herald.

Right, he says, then kicks his horse.

Thank you for coming all the way out here. At least they can't say I don't try to be nice.

I read the line again. What time is our torture session tonight? Chances are Jareem posted the letter himself. I can see his grin. They think he's only a member of the Eastern Spice Conglomerate. No one in Genhallie knows his true vocation. They unwittingly cater to one of the highest-ranking lapidarists in the guild. If they knew what he brought with him... I shake my head and walk slowly into my house.

The New Law forbids expenditure on frivolous items or services. Vices, they call them, distract from responsibility and in thin times absorb too much coin. I race up the stairs to my chamber.

Unlocking my wardrobe, the scent of cedar and lavender washes over me. My four dark dresses sulk on their hooks but I pull out a dusty dressmaker's box from Trethaway, still wrapped in floral paper. I unfold my dress and shake out the wrinkles. Gathered emerald brocade with gold embellishments flow out of a cream, fitted bodice highlighted with black lacing. I've never worn it.

I fumble with the laces as I tie myself into it. My fingers have lost their cleverness.

I reach into the back of my wardrobe, shift a plank aside and reach for the ivory box I hid back then. It holds my cloth-of-gold ribbons, jeweled hair combs and gem-studded sticks that they never found. These are not comparable to my once vast collection. My heart weighs as heavy as the box in my chest.

Gemstones are honest. To cut a stone, one must touch its soul. Before cutting, one must intimately know every line, inclusion and nuance of its essence, every desire it has. Ignore those and the stone, like a person, will die under your hands, shattering into useless bits. But, with enough care and attention, each meeting of planes creates perfect geometric symmetry. Attention to polish will encourage the stone to show its radiance, its soul. Done correctly, the stone will proudly and freely display its indescribable mystery.

I select a dark jade stick with black diamonds, leftovers from a commissioned project I'd saved, and plunge it through a twist in my red curls. I almost feel like my old self.

I still need a gift for him. My new... what is it exactly? He'd find nothing like this anywhere, even in a place like Embria, where the people thoroughly enjoy a wide selection of vices despite their priests forbidding fermented fruits and grains.

I sit at my table and watch the sun clinging to the horizon, feeling a buzz and swirl in my head—signs my new, fourth batch matches the first. I should be doing other things, bottles need cleaning, the wines need rotating, but images of gems keep flashing through my mind, so vivid I want to touch them. Glowing light seeps away behind the trees, leaving them dark and shadowy in the wicked autumn breeze. Time to go.

The rustle of silk sounds strange, and feels strange on my legs. Have I changed so much? Have their changes wrought me so?

From the grassy outskirts of Genhallie, I see villagers—all in browns and blacks—in the dusty streets making their last purchases of the day. Haggling and shouting, parents claw for their young with one hand and their goods with another.

I see no one smiling. My old friends avert their eyes from me. After two years, these people still don't see me as one of them. They took all my earthly belongings, all my family's money, and even my husband. And now they act like they are better than me, as if their sins aren't as bad as mine. Or maybe I simply remind them of theirs. I pass by the vendors and enter the square.

Sellers put away their wares. Tools, clothes and food. A few rugs at least were stripped with two alternating colors. No more sculptures, carvings or fine garments in delicate colors. I can't help myself, and look beyond the dreary market.

She's still there, tied to the post. It's a wonder she survives. Wearing nothing but the remnants of her silks and all her jewels, including the sapphires that I set for her not so long ago. I broke two chisels on those noble gems, spent months on the necklace only to have them scratched and dusted by passersby.

Dead eyes stare blankly at me. Does she recognize me, or does she stare into her past? Red welts highlight her swollen wrists where precious metals once chimed. A flash of light from behind me. I slip on a cobble, my cloak flapping open. Did I see that? Perhaps, my perfectly polished gem still has a sparkle left in it.

Her jailor, the new governor, slinks up to the post with his lantern.

You done lookin' or what? he scolds me before tugging the knot free and dragging her listless body to the stone basement they let her sleep in. I guess Genhallie does have a prison.

I look up the road. I'm going to see Jareem's finest. And I'll tell him everything. I quell an urge to run home immediately, lest I go to prison too. I exhale slowly. It is dark. I'll be fine.

Jareem's horse waits outside the last trader's way house, furthest from town. I rap at the door and wait in the dark.

Rosy brilliance from many candles reflecting on perfect facets breaks the darkness and outlines his tall, shadowed form. Forsythia, it's been too long. He takes me in his arms and kisses my forehead. My dear, you've lost weight, are you well?

His voice is soft. A tightness in my chest fades. I didn't think I could miss someone like this, again. I feel like my old self. He makes me remember, but I am no longer who I was.

He squeezes me once more. I can feel your ribs.

I've been experimenting, distracted— I shed my cloak.

Well, I've got something to put life into your eyes.

I grin because I know he'll love my new creation. And I to tempt your tongue. I uncork a bottle and tilt it toward him.

His head jerks back when the bouquet reaches him. Loquatha is not ready for that.

I think of the ingredients. Not by far. I relinquish the bottle to him. What about Trethaway? They didn't proscribe my ingredients.

Let me consider, he whispers, inhaling again with closed eyes. Sweet covers something bitter and there are tones of your forest at play. He licked his lips. But there is something I don't know. How did you make this?

My conditioning in the family business makes me want to keep the secret. But he is the only person I can tell. My mouth moves before I can stop it.

I was in my old shed, the only one that hadn't burnt during the change. I needed to set up another still and that was the only place I had room. I guess my father had hidden some uncut diamonds there. He never told me, maybe mother knew. I paused to get back on track. "I'd just finished adding my dry blend to the still when I was searching for the cap and found the diamonds.

"I'd knocked over an old rake, which knocked a beam loose and a box of crystals spilled all over the floor. I hastily gathered them into