Forward Into The Distraction Zone (and a chapter of fiction!) (Patreon)

Dear heroes,

The times are upon us. Exhausting. Terrifying. Sad. Worse is yet to come. I am praying for all of us to come through these difficult weeks and months safely, with health and loved ones untouched by the horseman pestilence.

I spent almost all of last week in a frenzy of communication and preparation. Trying to alert friends and family, local authorities and journalists. Anyone and everyone I could reach. It's taken a toll and I'm exhausted, but ... I think I did some good.

I'm now going to (try) and stop keeping up with all the news. I've done what I could. I don't know how long things will last, but they will be hard. I now don't know when I will be able to return to Korea, since all flights are cancelled and the last local airport is shutting down from tomorrow. I'm missing my wife terribly, and the uncertainty eats at my insides like acid. At the same time, I take comfort knowing that she is in a country that is taking the pandemic seriously and doing its level best, and that I've stocked up my mother's house and ensured we can stay at home for the next four weeks. There's nothing left to do except occupy myself and try to stay healthy.

So ... I'm going to go back to writing, drawing, and publishing games. If Boccaccio could write the Decameron, well, I could write something, too.

...

In fact, I have written something ... (there is a poll at the bottom of this post!)

Chapter 1

It had been a morning like spilled milk when Kocha took Dara out for her walk.

A small bird had landed next to the tin dog bowl. It cocked its head. One side. The next. The bowl’s lip was taller than the dun and white bird. A second bird joined the first. Then a third. They hopped back and forth a bit. Nerves? Egging one another on?

The third bird seized the initiative and flung itself onto the edge of the bowl. Dust grated between tin and tile as the bowl shifted under the bird’s weight.

There. Chunks. Bits of boiled lung and heart. Cooked carrot. Flecks of rice. The third bird hopped into the bowl.

The other two birds looked at each other for a moment. Perhaps that jerky twitch of the heads was a couple of shrugs. Hop, they leapt up as well.

The third bird stared at them, a chunk of mammal flesh in its sharp beak. Were they going to rob it? No, there were a lot of leftovers. The dog was well fed. The dog had been in a rush. Whatever. Still. Better not wait. Three little birds would draw crow. Cat. Even kestrel or falcon.

Feathers fluttered as the little birds jostled in the bowl.

Kocha watched them quietly through his glasses. A bit blurry. He’d have to replace them soon. The third little bird leapt up, wings rustling. A whirr. There it went, for the juniper bush. Chunk of Dara’s breakfast in its little beak.

Hungry. Always hungry. Terrified. Always terrified. The smallest fish in the pond. The frailest bird in the bush.

The cat must be somewhere nearby. It had come whiskering around a quarter of an hour ago. Reclaiming territory from Dara. Checking for food. For people who’d stroke it.

Kocha’s finger trembled slightly over the typewriter’s return. He could strike it now, the little birds would flee, and Miz Cat would catch nothing. He could wait, and see the hunt play out. Or perhaps there would be no hunt. He could get up, shoo the birds, scoop up Dara’s leftovers, put them in the feeder. Then the little birds would be safe from Miz Cat. But the two fat turtle doves would come. And then the crows.

Couldn’t save all the little birds, no matter what he did.

Just like the little folk. Boys and girls, peasants and laborers, fathers and grandmothers, cripples and corpses. Excess human economy. Genetic diversity reservoir. Tribalists and survivalists.

A shadow at the corner of his eye. Silent. Soundless. Past the terracotta troll picking its nose. Under the hydrangea now. No more than three meters.

He hit the carriage return. The roller turned. The guide clattered to the beginning of the line. The two birds in the bowl fluttered. Their tiny talons scraped against greasy tin. Miz Cat sprang from under the hydrangea. Too far. Too far. The return lever dinged. Miz Cat pawed at empty air. This time the two little birds escaped to their juniper bush. Grains of rice? Chunk of carrot? Leftovers.

Miz Cat sniffed at the bowl. Looked after the birds. Turned to stare at Kocha, annoyed.

Kocha smiled. Sometimes it was good to help the little creatures. He held his hand out and Miz Cat came to nuzzle his hand.

“Not now, Miz Cat, not while I’m watching. Not while I’m working.”

Miz Cat eyed his lap with some determination. The checked wool blanket looked warm. Compensation for a lost hunt? Perhaps. Dara was asleep. The human owed her one.

The feline leapt up and started walking in circles, before settling down comfortably for her. Somewhat uncomfortably for Kocha. She stared pointedly at the page in the typewriter.

“Can you read it Miz Cat? No?”

In Kocha’s imagination, she shook her head.

“It’s not your kind of literature. Report on the extra-marine intruders apprehended in Nova Dzhenova. Svetovid Kocha, rightmaker federal responsible,” read Kocha.

The cat meowed.

“Yes, yes. I’ll paraphrase a little. You don’t want me to read every bit of bureaucratese? Every date, dot, jot, and tittle?”

Miz Cat stared at him.

“Well, even if you do, I won’t.”

He scratched the cat’s neck. Between her shoulder blades. She started purring. He stared out past the typewriter and its half-written report to the rockery and the evergreens and the dwarf pines and the junipers with the warbling birds.

Kocha’s free hand reached out to a clay bowl and rummaged inside. Paper rustled. Metal and plastic clinked. It pulled out a snow white neva cigarette and a cheap lighter. A rasping clack. A whoosh of flame. The crackle of dry leaves and bleached paper catching fire.

He glanced around carefully. All quiet. Dara asleep. The milky air turning to pearl with the promise of the sun behind the peaks.

“It began five days ago. Do you remember the sad, slate blue Monday. The day you came to the terrace door, wet as a sewer rat?”

--- to possibly be continued?

***

I have two ideas going forward, hence this 4-option-poll.

1. Both Seacat and Red Sky are biggish things, where I can't predict precisely how to cut them up in advance. I propose to post an update for each when it makes sense, or when I reach 5,000 words (about $0.20 per word). I promise I won't write random nonsense just to pad the updates.

2. I've also been writing some fiction in the background. Would you be interested in me adding pure fiction to as paid posts, or should I set up another channel for publishing those?

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Again, thank you so much for your support, heroes, and thank you so much for supporting one another in the days to come.

Peace and health, everyone.

—Luka