The Future and Other Fictions

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Archive for the category “Urban”

A Trick of the Light

A little something for Hallowe’en…

“There’s someone at the door,” said Hannah.

Sean couldn’t help but feel proud. Only five years old, and way ahead of the curve. His daughter was at such a precious age, fearless and inventive and a veritable sponge for knowledge. But also so fragile, so in need of protection – from cold winds at night in her pyjamas, from the harsh realities of the world, from her own insatiable curiosity.

“Bed time now,” he told her, advancing down the long entry hall, trying to keep his voice stern. “Go say good night to your mother.” He smiled as she cheerfully obeyed, skipping off towards the front of the house. Sean approached the front door to see their alleged visitor.

The front door of the house was a slab of oak two inches thick, perfectly balanced on its hinges so it could swing open with the merest of sighs; during this past summer more than once the warm breezes had swung it shut unexpectedly. Inset into the door were two tall frosted glass panels, lacquered with a design of dolphins, looking for all the world like an attempt at very cheap lead-lighting. That door was the sheer door-itude of Fort Knox married to the whimsy of Disney.

On the front porch, visible through the dolphin glass, a man stood dark and motionless.

A moment later, and Sean saw his mistake. The silhouette of a man was actually just a trick of the light; the lamp-post on the street outside masked by trees on the front lawn and the porch’s own overhanging roof. All the same, he could see why Hannah had been confused; through the frosting and at first glance, it could so easily have been someone standing on the front steps, a man silent and menacing in his intent solitude.

He’d never seen this pattern of shadows before, and a moment later he realised why. The porch light had not come on with the dusk, for the first time since they moved in. Normally this light, burning automatically for a few hours after the fall of night, triggered by a tiny sensor on the wall, would have kept the door brighter and dispelled the shadows. When they had first bought the place, Sean had wondered about that light, about its unusual settings; rather than turning on at the disturbance of motion, or as required from a light switch like normal lights, why would you have a light turn on every night of the year? Now, he guessed, he could see why. The shadow man was unsettling. More than unsettling; it gave him goose bumps, and the cold he felt was more than the autumn breeze under the jamb of the door.

He resolved to find a new bulb for the porch light as soon as the stores opened in the morning. It was too cold and too dark to be playing around with electric lights right now; the morning would be soon enough. It felt like an excuse even if it was true. He left the front door firmly closed.

As he went in search of his daughter, who was bound to be hiding from him by now in a vain effort to avoid her bed for a while longer, he felt watched.

*

“I think he’s lonely,” said Hannah.

“There’s nobody there, darling,” said Rebecca, spooning scrambled eggs onto toast for breakfast. She was unable to completely mask her annoyance; despite her best efforts over the past month, she hadn’t been able to convince her daughter that the curious shadow was no more than a trick of the light. It didn’t help matters that Sean was reluctant to be drawn on the subject. Whenever required, he would support his wife, but neither she nor Hannah could have been entirely convinced by his half-hearted insistence.

“He’s just shadows,” he said now. “When I can get the light working again, you’ll see, he’ll be gone. Light chases shadows away.”

“Lonely,” said Hannah stubbornly. Rebecca pushed a plate of eggs under her daughter’s nose, and as the girl started shovelling she shot a glance at her husband.

“When are you going to get the light fixed?” she asked.

“I’ll try again this evening,” Sean said. “There’s a store in Fairfield that might have the right bulb.” And it might not, he didn’t add. So far there had been six different bulbs, all supposedly the same as the one he kept tucked in his coat pocket, none of them giving the slightest glimmer in the porch light fitting. He was starting to become slightly more comfortable with the front porch; spending his evenings out on the step as the shadows fell, light blazing out through the dolphin panels from every light in the entry hall, had not so far harmed him. And the man-shaped shadow was only visible from within the house, seen through the door; open the door and the shadows remained but became formless. It didn’t stop him wanting, more than anything, to get the light working again.

He was secretly terrified of the entryway to his own house. He didn’t think Rebecca had noticed yet, but he spent as little time as he could there, ducking in and out under the cover of daylight as much as possible; he wouldn’t step outside at night without every light burning behind him that he could find, and preferably with a torch at his belt.

Over the past weeks, as autumn encroached, the winds and the waving of the trees had given the dark shadow a semblance of life and movement. Sometimes it even seemed to be breathing, shoulders rising and falling. And last night…

Last night it had seemed bigger. Or closer.

*

“I told him to come in,” said Hannah. “He was cold.”

Outside it was sleeting, the wind pushing the wet almost horizontally. The icy wind swirled through the entry hall from the front door, standing wide open with his daughter’s innocent eyes upon his. Slowly he approached. She was in her flannel pyjamas; warm enough for nights within the shelter of the house, but not nearly enough protection against the rage of winter.

“Close the door,” he said. “You’ll catch your death of cold.” He had to help her with it, the wind seeming to fight their attempts. Fort Knox stood open.

With the door finally closed, he turned to Hannah. Her hair was tousled and her cheeks flushed. He felt her shirt-sleeve; it was cold, slightly damp from the rain. “Your PJs are wet. You need to change into something dry. Go ask your mum to help you.”

She grinned at him, seemingly none the worse for wear. The indestructibility of kids, he thought wearily. He watched as she skipped away.

Turning back to the door, it took him a moment to recognise the change. When he realised, he caught his breath, then let it out through his teeth in a long hiss.

The man-shadow was gone. The mottled shades of the trees outside flicked left and right, swaying in the wind, but the glass panels remained resolutely free of man-shaped silhouettes.

He didn’t have time to make up his mind to feel either relieved or consterned before the porch light flickered… once, twice… and came to life. The globe he’d left there weeks ago, an exercise in futility, his last attempt to get it working before the nights turned too cold and he started making excuses. The new globe shone like a young star, casting a warm orange glow into the entry hall. The shapes of dolphins leaped across the floor at his feet. Two dolphins in graceful flight, and a third below them.

It looked for a second like a grinning, toothy, malignant face, but that was surely just a trick of the light.

Seconds later there was a loud pop, and Sean started violently as the lights in the hall behind him blinked out. Every light in the house was dark. But the porch light shone on, the dolphins on the floor mocking him. “What the hell?” he muttered.

And that was when the screaming started.

The Orichalcum Hive-Mind

Gavin stood on the edge of emptiness and let vertigo roll over him.

In truth the plate-glass window overlooking the central plaza was inches thick and could take the weight of a thousand men, but he enjoyed the sensation of being suspended over infinity. The Residence was five hundred stories or more high – every time he thought he had its measure he would meet someone else from a floor he had not known existed. Sometimes he wondered if there was a practical limit at all; perhaps the City really was endless, and if you could find an elevator to take you all the way up you’d find your way back to where you started. One day, he thought, he might try.

Somewhere, far below, ten million men were going about their lives. When he considered them, he felt like a cog in a vast machine. Every day he would ride the elevator down to Ground 85, and every evening he would ride the elevator back up. His shift for today had ended an hour ago, hundreds of men on the next shift entering the Processors as he made his way out. The Processors generated food and air and power for the City and they never stopped. Day followed day and shift followed shift, and he grew older. One day he would be replaced. And the City would go on.

There was a knock on the door.

He had never had a visitor. Why should he? He was just a worker; every day he ate his ration, went to work in the Processors, made his way home, ate, and slept. What interest could anybody have in him?

He thought for a moment about the appropriate response. Clothes. He had dumped today’s clothes in the clean-chute when he got back to his apartment. Opening the wardrobe he took down a fresh pink tunic and shrugged into it; the yellow tunics hung at the end of the rail, as ever untouched. He didn’t even know why they were there, he would never wear them. Once, years ago, he had dumped them all into the waste disposal; the Controller hadn’t taken the hint and the next morning his wardrobe was restocked again with equal numbers of yellow and pink, all pristine and fresh-laundered.

There was a man at the door dressed in yellow. This was almost as unusual as the knock had been. This was a Pink area; over ninety percent of the inhabitants of this level were Pink. The man gave no sign that he had even registered the door was open. The man’s eyes were blank, unseeing. “Hello?” Gavin ventured experimentally.

The man in yellow’s hands lashed out and wrapped around Gavin’s throat.

The two of them went barrelling back into the apartment, and far from yellow and pink, Gavin’s world was going grey. And then the hands at his throat were gone and the man in yellow flopped aside; brilliant red leaked from his scalp. Another man stood over Gavin, and this man was neither yellow nor pink. He was dressed all in grey, and that was impossible.

“I’m sorry. I came as soon as I could,” the grey man said.

“Who are you?” Gavin demanded, getting to his feet and rubbing his bruised throat. “What do you want with me?”

“My name is Herald. I’m from the Grey Men. And you,” said the man in grey, “are our best and only hope. The lives of millions of people rely on you tonight.”

And that, of course, was the most impossible of all.

*

“You’ve got the wrong man,” he said as they rode the elevator down. Herald had insisted Gavin use his ident to operate the lift, as he didn’t have one of his own. This at least was something Gavin could believe; the Grey Men were ghosts and legends, and ghosts didn’t have idents. “I’m just a worker. I’m not a Protector.”

“If you were a Protector, I wouldn’t be within ten miles of you,” Herald said. “There’s no mistake. It didn’t have to be you specifically, you just happened to be one of the first attacked. You were fortunate I was following.”

Gavin was wearing a grey top over his tunic, obscuring his colour. Herald had told him, It may soon become unpleasant on the streets for those in pink, and we can’t afford the time. Gavin didn’t understand this. There was nothing about this he really understood. The lift was descending, far below Ground 85. Deeper than he had ever gone. He watched as they passed Ground 12. As if in reflection of his earlier thoughts, their descent seemed endless. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“We’ve going to see Sol,” Herald told him. “In the Undercroft.”

The Undercroft – the subterranean world that delved deep underneath the City, filled with Creepers and miscreants and Grey Men, was as much a legend as the Greys themselves, so Gavin thought this seemed perfectly consistent. “I’m just a worker,” he said stubbornly. “It’s not even my shift.”

The Undercroft was much like the Processors, Gavin found. The same cramped, narrow corridors; the same spacious chambers full of arcane equipment; the same ubiquitous strip lighting. But where the Processors were stuffed to overflowing with workers, the Undercroft was empty – Gavin barely saw a soul as they walked. And where the Processors were sterile and light and clean, the Undercroft was dark and dank, slime dripping off the walls.

Sol turned out to be a grizzled old man, with the kind of beard you could never get away with above ground. He met them, flanked with two other Grey Men, in one of the open chambers, his voice echoing in the hollow. The chamber had been converted into a garage of sorts, hovercars and trikes lined up in neat rows. “I’m sorry for the brusque welcome,” Sol said as Gavin entered. “I would have preferred to meet you more formally and with more time in hand, but things are falling apart out there and we need to move quickly if we’re to prevent wholesale slaughter.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” said Gavin. “What slaughter?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” said Sol. Herald and Sol’s acolytes shepherded Gavin into the back seat of a hovercar; he was joined in the rear seat by Herald and the old man. As the vehicle smoothly and silently accelerated away, Sol made good on his promise. “It begins, and ends, with the City. You see, the City is not a city at all. It’s a giant experiment in artificial intelligence.

“The experiment is intended to force the whole City to decide between the Idea and the Possibility; to declare for pink or for yellow.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Gavin. “Pink is so much better. Pink makes us stronger, faster, better.”

“And yet,” said Herald, “just minutes ago a man in yellow was within moments of killing you. Can you explain that?”

Sol laid a wrinkled hand on the younger man’s arm. “What Herald is trying to say is that there is no practical difference at all. All yellows believe the same of their colour as you just asserted for pink. What might surprise you more, is that people can change their allegiance over time. The experiment is all about the way in which that change can occur.”

Gavin listened in growing incomprehension as the old man talked. Snatches of his explanation rang true. “All citizens are implanted with their ident at birth,” was one statement that he could agree with. But the old man continued with: “The ident is a way for the Controller to keep track of the populace and where they go. Without idents, the Grey Men are limited in where we can go and what we can do. We can get to the Ground levels, but we don’t have access to the Residences or the Centre.”

“How can you not have idents?” Gavin asked.

“Sometimes children are born who will never be able to work. Others meet with mischance and lose their abilities. Sooner or later, all such end up down here. We take them in as Grey Men.”

The Undercroft walls were flashing by the windows, innumerable chambers and passages all tending upwards, as Sol explained that the ‘experiment’ would be over when all of the people of the City wore the same colour. “When the experiment ends, it is our belief that the Controller is programmed to shut down the City. Along with everyone in it. Until then, the City will go on – as it has for hundreds of years. We know this, because here in the Undercroft there are records, dating from before the earliest histories. We think that the Undercroft is another City, another experiment, completed ages ago. When it was done, the Builders built the City – our City – on the ruins of the old one.”

“So what do you want with me?” Gavin asked.

“Freedom,” said Sol. “Self-determination. We want to shut the whole damn thing down – we can’t allow the experiment to come to an end.”

“We need to destroy the Controller without the experiment ending,” said Herald. “Destroy the Controller, we end the experiment without ending the City.”

Gavin frowned. “Life isn’t so bad as it is. Yellow and pink are closely matched. It doesn’t sound like it’s all going to fall down overnight.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Herald.

“We’re out of time. That man who attacked you is one of the first. Everything has changed.” Sol took up the story. “One locus of the Controller has found a solution to the impasse. Through the ident, it is able to directly control its people. If it can’t persuade the Pinks to change, it will eliminate them.” The car was exiting the underground now, turning onto a ground plaza. Gavin watched in horror as the view out of the car’s windows became clear. The city was burning, and all around he could see violence.

“It’s begun,” said Sol. “Yellow will decimate Pink. Soon enough, the imbalance will become critical. It will be a genocide. Yellow will win, and the City ends.”

“Unless you can destroy the Controller,” Gavin guessed.

“Unless we can destroy the Controller,” said Sol.

“And that’s why you have to help us get in,” said Herald.

*

The Centre was a pillar of chrome that stretched into the sky like an accusing finger. The size of a city block, it anchored the centre of the City like a spindle. As Gavin and Herald left the hovercar behind and started across the open ground towards the base of the Centre, Gavin could see the mayhem around him escalating. There, a small group of yellows armed with metal poles were ambushing pinks as they exited the Processors. There, a yellow man armed with a knife chased an older man dressed in pink up the road; the man in pink stumbled, and the end was quick. Elsewhere, a team of zombie yellows were laying explosives at the base of a Residence. Gavin wanted to go and interrupt them, but Herald caught his arm. “Leave it,” he said. “They haven’t seen you yet, but if they catch a glimpse of pink under that shirt we gave you then we’re both dead. This will all cease if we succeed.”

“Let’s be quick then,” said Gavin.

As they approached the giant silver needle, Herald continued his exposition. “We need your ident to get into the Centre – it will open for a Resident. The experiment is designed to be self-limiting. But without idents, we’ve been unable to get access.”

“You can’t make your own idents?” Gavin asked.

“We are few in number, and we have limited resources. But the most critical resource of all is orichalcum, a metal with unique resonance properties. It ties the people together into one big neural net and connects them to the loci in the Controller. And of this metal, we have none at all. It does not exist within the City – except in trace amounts within the ident chips. Even were we to retrieve ident chips from City residents, we would be unable to extract and work with the trace amounts.”

That was the moment at which three identical men in white tunics stepped around the nearer corner of the Centre building. Herald and Gavin were crossing open space and there was no cover; the Protectors saw them immediately. Moving as one, they lifted their arms and pointed in Gavin’s direction.

Run!” Herald cried, and demonstrated the method. It was all Gavin could do to keep up. They crossed the remaining metres in seconds and Gavin slapped his palm against the reader next to the great double doors. Ponderously they began to open, and amidst the thock! thock! thock! of gunfire, Gavin and Herald dashed inside.

“That was close,” Gavin panted, unaccustomed to exertion.

Herald put his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting. “They were Protectors,” he said. “Protectors don’t miss.” His grey shirt was slowly going black as blood sheeted down his chest. “Go on,” he said. “Last chance. Take off… shirt. Protectors… won’t follow you… ”

Gavin left his grey overshirt behind him as he moved deeper into the building. Behind him came the terrible sounds of the Protectors reaching Herald; programmed to immediately destroy anyone not showing their colours of allegiance, they were brutal in their efficiency. The path into the building was straight as an arrow and without turn-offs; the sounds receded quickly as Gavin followed the corridor to its end, silver doors flanking another elevator shaft.

This carriage rode up and up endlessly, but Gavin was used to that by now. Eventually it came to a halt, and the doors opened onto a large room. In the centre of the chamber stood an obelisk of obsidian, inlaid with an intricate pattern of circuitry in golden copper.

A soothing voice filled the air, higher pitched than any man he’d ever heard; it was disturbing, but also somehow pleasing. “Welcome, citizen. Have you come to adjust the running parameters?”

The words were strange but he divined their meaning. “I have,” he called.

“Ready,” said the voice. “Please indicate preferred colour.”

This was it. The moment his life had been building towards. He brought the heavy hammer out from behind his back and advanced on the obelisk. Standing over it, at the centre of all he had ever known, he couldn’t bring himself to swing the weapon. An hour ago he had been a mere worker; now he held the fate of the City in his hands. It was too much responsibility, he didn’t want it. He choked back a laugh, a strange kind of hysteria overcoming him.

“Chartreuse,” he said. “Orange. Cyan. Turquoise. Brown! Blue! Charcoal! Green! Yellow! Red! Vermilion!”

“Yellow accepted,” said the voice. “Altering parameters. All uniform repositories set to yellow.”

He was struck with a sudden horrible certainty: his dresser now containing nothing but yellow. By this time tomorrow, nobody would own a pink tunic. He had brought the experiment to its conclusion. He had damned them all. “No!” he shouted. “Pink! I want pink!” But his words met with no response. In sudden rage, he lifted the hammer high, about to bring it down on the obelisk, the object of his torment. As the hammer reached its apogee, however, he reconsidered. The controller was a dumb machine, and it was only doing what he had told it to.

And yellow was such a nice colour after all. He let the hammer fall back to his side. What was the problem? Everyone should be yellow. It was logical. Yellow made them stronger, and faster, and better.

He had to get home, back to his residence. He was just a worker, and the City would go on, and his next shift was in twelve hours, and he was happy in yellow.

Written in response to Flash Fiction Challenge: “Roll for your title” on TerribleMinds.

For those who might be interested, the human brain processes ideas and decisions in a similar way to the Controller – by generating possible options and systematically suppressing them until only one remains. See http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=you-have-a-hive-mind.

The Beggar and the Owl

“This is all your own fault, you know,” said the owl.

The beggar had been steadfastly ignoring his avian goad for the last hour, but this was too much to be borne. “I see,” he said. “So I whipped up that magic gateway myself, did I? Stripped myself of my powers? Pray tell, where do you think I might have hidden them? I’d rather like them back.”

The breeze had turned cold during the morning, and it cut cruelly through the threadbare cast-offs that this ridiculous mortal body was wrapped in. He had asked several passers-by for their jackets, rather politely he had thought, but nobody was playing. It had been a good five hundred years since he had last been fully mortal, and he wasn’t used to discomfort.

“What are you hoping to achieve?” The owl swooped by him, so close he could almost have reached out and grabbed it, but he wasn’t falling for that lure again. It alighted in the branches of one of the elms that lined the river, its brilliant white feathers standing out stark against the russet autumn leaves. “Just apologise to her. You know it’s what she wants. She’s not about to relent just because you’re too proud to talk to her.”

“Apologise?” The de-powered God snorted in derision. “I’m the King of Olympus. I don’t have to ask bloody Hera for permission and I’m not about to apologise for having a bit of fun!”

The owl ruffled its feathers, giving a remarkably accurate facsimile of a shrug. “You may be the King of Olympus but you’re also a homeless beggar and it will be night soon. I don’t want to see you suffer.” When the old beggar tightened his lips and kept walking, the owl changed tack. “She gets upset when you have your ‘bits of fun’. There’s been a dozen this year alone. What was the latest – that Spaniard?”

“Alberto,” said the beggar. “He was a sculptor. I showed him a few things about the male form.” He smiled at the recollection.

“I’ll say you did,” said the owl. “If you’re that tired of Hera, why not just leave her? If you must dally with mortals, why do you have to keep rubbing her nose in it? You might even be free to marry again.”

“Never,” snorted the beggar. “One three-hundred year wedding night is enough for one existence. No, I’m not looking for another wife.” His steps paused for a second. “Hera doesn’t get free of me that easily.”

“You still love her,” mused the owl.

“Nonsense! It’s just… I like being comfortable.”

Their perambulations were taking them past a street mime. The owl left his side for a moment, perching high above the sparse cluster of the audience on a street lamp. A barely visible wave of force that nobody human could see, and suddenly the mime was accompanied by a voice, clearly enunciating in the cold air. “If I climb this ladder, I can see over the wall. Now what…”

The mime froze, hands raised on an invisible sill, and his head whipped around as he tried to find the joker. The audience looked on bemused, and the mime, disconcerted, went on with the act.

“…what do I see? Ah, there’s a door on the other…”

The mime broke character, glaring furiously, but the owl had departed, swooping back to the beggar’s side.

“That was petty,” he said. “You’ve grown more malicious as you’ve gotten older.”

“I hate mimes,” said the owl. “Where were we? No, more to the point: where are we? Where are you going?”

“I’m still looking for that girl,” the beggar growled. “I might as well have something to show for all this. She can’t escape me – even mortal, I’ll sense her.”

“That girl?” The owl’s voice lilted with amusement. “You mean this girl?”

Suddenly, for a moment, the owl was gone, in her place a young brunette in a stereotypical maid’s outfit – garters and all. “Does anybody really dress like that, these days?” the girl asked merrily. Then she was gone, and the owl sat on a post, blinking inscrutably at him.

“You! That was you!” the beggar roared, stating the bleeding obvious. One wrinkled hand lashed out, crooked finger pointing in the owl’s direction. If he’d been in full possession of his faculties, the owl would no doubt have felt a right smiting, but Hera had stolen his thunder and he was left huffing impotently. “When this is over, you’ll pay for this,” he said, voice low with fury.

The owl shrugged again. “Don’t blame me, this wasn’t my idea. I wasn’t the crone and I didn’t set up that gateway. I just did Hera a bit of a favour; you’re the one that followed me.”

“Well, can you blame me? That little dress was irresistible.”

Their random peregrinations had brought them somewhere recognisable. The beggar continued without pause to the gateway marked Parc Zoologique de Paris. Here the peculiar invisibility that afflicts the indigent worked to his advantage; nobody sought to bar him entry or to ask him to pay, perhaps feeling that the former would be cruel and the latter futile. The owl swooped through the turnstile after him, likewise unimpeded.

“Look at you,” said the owl. “Are you looking to take shelter from the night in the monkey house? Have you truly sunk so low?”

“No,” said the beggar, pausing by an artificial lagoon. “I’ve come to pay my respects to a colleague.”

“A colleague?” asked the owl, the slightest tinge of unease in her voice, but then the water exploded, a geyser of fury, and engulfed her. Then the water coalesced into the form of a giant crocodile – and the owl found herself trapped inside a cage made of ivory.

“Athena, I’d like you to meet Suchos,” said the beggar. “I’ve had him trapped here for the last four hundred years since he transgressed one of the Precepts. He’s just awaiting my command and his power will be restored to him.”

“Father? Don’t do this,” said the owl, suddenly frightened. “You know Hera, I couldn’t very well say no to her.”

“I’ll grant you that,” said the beggar. “But now I’ll have my powers back. Suchos, in two minutes from now, your debt is paid; you will be free. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The crocodile didn’t answer, but that might have been because he had his mouth full and he was trying to be polite.

“My dear, do you remember how you came into being? They had to chisel you out of my head,” said the beggar. “In two minutes, it looks like they’ll have to chisel you out of Suchos’ stomach.”

The owl beat her wings against the toothy barrier but Suchos was still a god, and impervious to her talons. When a crocodile grins, it can’t be denied, and Suchos was obviously having a fine time.

“Very well!” the owl screeched. “There! You’re restored! Tell him to let me go!”

“Let her go,” said Zeus, and Suchos reluctantly opened his cavernous jaws. The owl flew out and immediately out of his reach, perching high atop the enclosure fence.

“That was cruel,” said the owl.

“Effective, though,” said Zeus, shedding the beggar’s form effortlessly, suddenly resplendent in golden armour. “Suchos, your debt is paid. Be a good lad. Next time I’ll have to trap you somewhere truly unpleasant; maybe a croc farm in Malaysia.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” said the crocodile as it disappeared. A second later there was a loud pop as the space where Zeus had stood filled with air; the few remaining visitors to the park glanced around them in confusion, but of beggar, owl or crocodile there was no sign.

The halls of Olympus were hushed as Zeus strode through them. The rest of the pantheon must have been watching, but none had deigned to help him. He couldn’t entirely blame them, he supposed; Hera’s wrath was a fearsome thing when roused. But that didn’t mollify him; somebody would have to pay for this outrage.

The throne hall’s golden doors split asunder under the force of his rage as he entered, but then he froze on the verge, startled. Before him stood a young brunette girl, dressed in a french maid’s outfit. The garters were a lovely touch.

“I’ve been looking forward to you getting home,” said Hera slyly.

Slowly, Zeus smiled.

Written in response to 13th Floor Paradigm Mythology Workshophttp://13thfloorparadigm.wordpress.com/2013/08/25/mythology-workshop-1/
I received a prompt as follows:

Zeus is lost in Paris.The only other being that pays attention to him is an annoying talking owl that keeps following him.

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