A Dragonfall Shrike


The helo-plane hovers with its wings tucked while the pilot surveys the beach for high tide indications and a good spot to set down. The companion-pilot, a dragonfall shrike, leans out of the soft spot below the helo-plane to circle the high-walled cove. At this time of the morning the wind falls softly from above with few gusts or swirls. The shrike circles a tree and a tree-house then rises up nearly to the forest above before tucking its wings into a dive and inserting itself into the water. It comes up juggling a fish. Innacule Brin has been informed this helo-plane, an amphibious model, can also belly-land in the sand like a curlew nesting. Inna hopes she won’t have to kill the pilot in order to hijack the plane; he seemed like such a nice man [on the phone].

140 words on day 860

Exploring a Guerrilla


Varsha was a short brown woman with long black hair and bit bigger ass than any of us could handle if we’d ever been allowed to handle it at all. When she first came to us on a rainy day she told Yolo she was married, she told Chit she was a widow, and she told Mattie she was gay. Me? Well me…me she told to fuck the hell off. We had no trouble believing all three stories were true, and I just pretended she was my little sister—until that got creepy.


Chit counted ammo in the shade of a travelers’ tent we erected on a sand bar. The awkward height and angle of the poles presented the lumpy aspect of a large boulder, but against the white gravel and sand near the river it must have looked like a target because in ten minutes Chit would be hurrying to rid himself of his current ballistic inventory in a rapid orderly fashion.

“See anything?”

Varsha swiveled to eye Chit in the tent; she left her arms akimbo and her feet in place.

“See anything?”

She swiveled back continuing to survey downriver. “No.”

Varsha’s denim leopard-patterned cargo-capris were tucked into a pair of laced on sune-ate. Those shin guards were so big for her they ran from her ankles up past her knees.

Gotta stop here.

225 words on day 847

A Little More Notion

“How far down that bridge.”

Rabbit erased his smile and swallowed. “Halfway.”

“Then I’d better give you two.” She fanned the single shim into a pair of coins. Rabbit didn’t resmile, but he did nod.


With a hand on his back, Mother Notion directed Rabbit to her pushcart of belongings near the wall by the lake. Rabbit immediately noticed how well the woman packed. Black nylon straps cinched down the symmetrically stowed gear under a waterproof tarpaulin like a spider would wrap its prey. A red tear-away day-pack lay within easy reach of the pusher, and fore of that a long water bag defined the spine of the load. A bright blue tube snaked from the water bag up the left-hand handle of the pushcart to the dashboard. Rabbit dared not touch any of it.

Mother Notion tecked a switch on the dash between the two handles. The pushcart rocked up on its skids like a llama standing from a kush. She swept her hand over the dash and moved back. Recognizing the invitation, Rabbit stepped into the vacated space and took the handles that came nearly to his chin. He felt foolish using an overhand grasp, so he switched to an underhand one. That made him feel like he was hanging from the cart—which was no better. [He looked around for something to help]

“There,” Mother Notion said and pointed. Rabbit crouched under the dashboard to the adjustment bar she had noted. He dropped it one notch, came back out from under to try on the size, then went back under to drop it another. That felt right.


271 words on day 838