Writer's Retweet Read online

  Writer’s Retweet

  Piers Anthony

  Writer’s Retweet

  Copyright © 2016 by Piers Anthony

  All stories are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein, and are reproduced here with permission.

  Cover Art

  Mac Hernandez

  Design

  Niki Browning

  Editor-in-Chief

  Kristi King-Morgan

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2016

  ISBN 13: 978-1535513319

  ISBN 10: 1535513314

  Dreaming Big Publications

  www.dreamingbigpublications.com

  Contents

  Introduction

  “Experiment”

  “Discovery”

  “Mission”

  “Dull Street Incident”

  “Forbidden Fruit”

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Introdu

  ction

  When things went wrong with traditional publishing, I moved on to self publishing. That is, I went to a company that facilitated self publishing, so I wouldn't have to struggle with every detail myself. I'm a writer, not a publisher. This meant no advance payments, no big promotional budget, and I had to pay for things like covers. I could no longer get mass market paperback editions, which had been the mainstay of my success. It was now mostly electronic. But I had pretty much complete control. No editor could pick and choose, rejecting my best work in favor of what he thought was more commercial. No copy editor could substitute her notion of proper English usage for mine. I have a BA in Creative Writing, over fifty years’ experience as a commercial author, and was once an English teacher. I get annoyed when my correct usage gets overruled in favor of error by someone who wasn't born when I started selling fiction. I had freedom at last. So there were tradeoffs, but on the whole I was satisfied.

  The self publisher asked me to provide a series of Tweets as a promotional device. That is, little messages, each limited to 140 characters or less. Now I am old, and I come from another century; these newfangled gimmicks are for the birds. Indeed, to me a tweet is something a little bird says as it looks for a place to deposit its droppings. Saying something meaningful in such short measure is problematical. So I was somewhat at a loss.

  Then I got a notion: suppose I told a story in tweets? Each individual tweet might be beneath notice, like a bird dropping, but a few hundred of them could add up to fertilizer for some real poop.

  Thus came to be my series of tweeted stories. I understand fans liked them, but of course it was hard to get the whole thing one tweet at a time. So now I have collected the five stories I did piecemeal into one volume, and anyone who was frustrated about missing sections before can get the whole story now.

  I tracked the tweets by labeling each a chapter, coded by my initials, the story, and the chapter. The first one started out like this:

  PA1ch1 This is the story of a man and a mystery, titled “Experiment,” told in Tweet chapters designated PA1ch1, PA1ch2 etc.; track them. [Okay, I edited out part of that as no longer relevant.]

  PA1ch2 Once upon a time, in a universe near ours, there lived and worked a man who thought he was beneath notice.

  But this would become tedious after a few seconds. So for this volume I have deleted the tweet structure and formatted the stories conventionally. There are still some minor problems. For example, to maintain clarity with one line a day I had to identify characters often, and that can become annoying in an all together text. But I wanted to keep the same wording, so I hope readers will tune it out or suffer through.

  So what did I find to write? First I wanted something dramatic enough to attract and hold a person one day at a time; philosophical depth was unnecessary. So for “Experiment” I made a really dull character who gets thrust into a really wild adventure. You know, like a typical reader discovering one of my books. That's humor; I prefer to think of my readers as superior folk with excellent taste. I developed that through three short stories. When that was done I was working in my back yard clearing out the chronic weedy overgrowth, getting sweaty and scratched and all, not really enjoying it. I wondered what it would take to make it interesting, and that led to the slightly naughty story “Dull Street Incident.” Finally I did a novelette, “Strange Fruit,” that starts with an odd fruit in a refrigerator and leads to something like Heaven and Hell.

  No need to bore you any further with incidental commentary. Get on into the stories, and I hope they make your own dull life more interesting.

  “Experim

  ent”

  This is the story of a man and a mystery, titled “Experiment,” told in Tweet chapters.

  Once upon a time, in a universe near ours, there lived and worked a man who thought he was beneath notice. He was not particularly smart, handsome or rich. He had hair-colored hair, blue-brown eyes, and a barely average nose. His name was Bigelow Bilge, but we will call him Bigelow. He gave ordinary a bad name.

  Naturally, Bigelow's prospects for fame, wealth, or even romance were scant. He was bored with his dull job and his duller life. As Bigelow walked home from the subway stop Friday afternoon, little did he know how drastically all that was about to change. Had he but known his near future, he might still have lacked the imagination or the fortitude to change it.

  Suddenly a heavy safe crashed onto the pavement barely two feet ahead of him. One more stride and he would have been flattened.

  Bigelow gaped stupidly at the mass of metal. Sheer blind luck had saved him from being lethally squished. Which was weird, because luck had never been kind to him before. Had the cosmos made an error?

  He looked around, but there was no one else in sight. No one had witnessed his narrow escape. He was almost disappointed. It was, after all, just about Bigelow's only possible claim to fame: almost getting squelched by a falling safe.

  He looked up into the sky. Tall buildings rose on either side, but none overhung this spot. So where had the safe fallen from?

  Bigelow shook his head. Was he losing his indifferent mind? How could a heavy safe fall from nowhere and almost pulp him? Something was distinctly weird here. But he couldn't dally indefinitely pondering the senselessness of it. Bigelow stepped around that fallen safe and resumed his walk toward his completely unremarkable rented apartment. He was looking forward to another dull pre-fab frozen meal, the kind suitable for incompetent single men.

  A speeding car whipped around a corner, heading right toward him. Bigelow threw himself to the side barely in time. The car zoomed on, never even swerving to avoid him, never pausing. It seemed it didn't care what it hit.

  Bigelow had just suffered another impossibly narrow escape from death. What the bleep was going on here?!

  Now Bigelow was eager to get on to his dull home base. At least he would be safe there. Then he could forget these scares. He picked himself up, dusted himself off, and resumed walking.

  A stray dog came out from behind a trash barrel. Bigelow did not care one way or another about stray dogs. But this one looked strange. Foam showed on its muzzle.

  Uh-oh. Maybe the dog had been into foamy trash. But this one was eyeing him with what looked like rage. In fact it looked like a rabid dog. Bigelow did not like this at all. If the mad animal charged—

  The rabid dog charged. Bigelow knew that one bite, one scratch, could infect him with rabies. Bigelow threw himself to the side, just as he had with t
he rogue car. The charging dog just missed him. He scrambled for the nearest alley. He launched himself up the first fire escape. Panting, he looked down and back.

  The rabid dog was gone. It must have given up the chase when it saw Bigelow pull himself up out of reach.

  Bigelow had just survived a third deadly threat in as many minutes. His heart was pounding. Had the world gone crazy?

  He climbed cautiously down from the fire escape, alert for the mad dog, but it did not reappear. Someone else's misfortune? Bigelow went to the end of the alley and peered out onto the street. Nothing. Was it safe to resume his walk home?

  He nerved himself, took a deep breath, and put a foot forward. And paused, because he heard something ominous. There was a sound above him, as of something crumbling. He looked up. Part of the wall was coming loose over his head. In fact it was detaching from the building and tumbling down toward him. He barely pulled back before it crashed where he had been.

  That was Escape #4. Now Bigelow knew something was going on. But what? Was fate itself trying to eliminate him?

  He hurried down the alley, not venturing back into the dangerous street. These narrow escapes were beyond coincidence. But he was a completely unremarkable man. Why should anything remarkable ever happen to him? It did not make sense.

  As Bigelow approached the far end of the alley, he saw flames and smoke. There must have been an accident that caught fire. At least this one was not happening right where he stood. He had time to avoid it. But he was trapped in the alley.

  He checked the buildings on either side. In a moment he found a door. Maybe it was the exit of a restaurant or something. Bigelow tried the door handle. To his surprise it turned; it was unlocked. He opened the door and stepped into the building.

  He stood in a small hall leading to an elevator. But he didn't want that; he wanted safely out. So he passed it by.

  The door ahead of him opened suddenly. A young woman entered. She saw him and hesitated. “Uh, hello,” Bigelow said.

  “Oh, you're real!” she said, seeming relieved. Then she reconsidered. “Or are you?”

  Bigelow was taken aback. “I am real, as far as I know. But the past few minutes have been exceedingly odd.”

  “Let me touch you,” she said, approaching. Bigelow, surprised again, merely stood there. She touched his sleeve.

  “I'm afraid I don't understand,” Bigelow said. “Am I not supposed to be real? My name is Bigelow Bilge, short for Bilgewater.”

  “I am Paula Plain, short for Plaintiff.” She smiled, and that greatly improved her aspect. They shook hands. “You see,” Paula continued, “I have recently been beset by nasty illusions. I needed to be sure you weren't another.”

  “Illusions?” Bigelow asked, having a nasty suspicion. “I just escaped several remarkable threats. I wonder—”

  “So it's happening to you too!” Paula said. “Oh, that's such a relief! I mean, I'm sorry you're suffering, but it really helps me.”

  “You thought you were losing your mind?” Bigelow asked. “I thought I was being attacked. Are they really illusions?”

  Paula smiled again. Bigelow really liked that. “We can verify it. What did you last see?”

  “A fire in the street. After a falling safe, a rogue car, a rabid dog, and a crumbling wall. I was really scared.”

  She took his hand. He really liked that. “Let's go see your fire. I believe I can prove it is illusion.”

  They went to the door he had entered by. They exited the building, still holding hands. Of course that meant nothing; still...

  Still, it meant that he had to hold the door open for Paula while she slid past him. Her modest bosom just brushed his chest. That was closer to romantic contact than Bigelow had been in years, even if it was purely coincidental. He knew it didn't mean anything. But he was secretly thrilled anyway. To be this close to a real live girl!

  Then they were outside. Bigelow was almost afraid that the fire would be gone, but it was still burning brilliantly.

  “Where is it?” Paula asked, peering both ways down the alley. “Where's the fire?”

  “You don't see it?” Bigelow asked. “It's right at the end, that way.” He pointed toward the fire.

  Paula looked that way again. “I don't see it,” she said. “Don't worry; I do believe you. This merely proves something significant.”

  “It does?” Bigelow asked, feeling moderately stupid. “You're not seeing what I see proves something?”

  “Yes,” Paula said. “It proves that the illusions are specific to each of us. I don't see yours, and I'm sure you won't see mine.”

  “Uh, okay,” Bigelow said. Mainly he was pleased that she was still holding his hand. “Should we go there?”

  “Definitely,” Paula said. “Come on!” She tugged him along after her, walking toward the fire.

  They came to the fire. Bigelow heard the crackle of it and felt the heat. If this was illusion, it was mighty convincing.

  “You're still seeing the fire?” Paula asked. “It hasn't faded out? Please answer honestly; this is important.”

  “It's still there,” Bigelow agreed. “It's really hot. I'll get burned if I go much closer.”

  “Then this should really impress you,” Paula said. She let go of his hand, then walked straight into the blaze.

  “Watch out!” Bigelow cried. But he was too late. Paula was already in the fire, walking through the flames.

  And the flames weren't hurting her. They wrapped around her slender body and sifted through her brown hair, harmlessly.

  Paula turned, standing in the middle of the fire. “You see, for me there is nothing. It's your illusion, not mine.”

  Bigelow had to believe it. The fire, real as it seemed to him, was not affecting her at all. Paula stood completely untouched.

  “Now you can come to me,” she said. “To demonstrate that it is illusion. That it can't really hurt you.”

  But Bigelow hesitated. “That blaze is awfully real to me. I hate to look like a coward, but I don't have the nerve to risk it.”

  “That's all right,” Paula said, coming toward him. “My illusions terrify me too. But let's try something else.”

  “Something else?”

  Paula came right up to Bigelow. She took his hand. “Will you trust me?” she asked. He nodded, uncertain what she had in mind.

  “Close your eyes,” Paula told him. “Let me lead you blind.” When he hesitated, she leaned close and kissed him briefly. “Please.”

  Bigelow closed his eyes. What else could he do? He was mesmerized by the kiss. No woman had ever done that before.

  “Keep them closed,” Paula said. She led him on. All he was conscious of was her soft little hand in his, and her faint perfume.

  After a short distance they stopped. “Now look,” Paula said, letting go of his hand. “Look back the way we just came.”

  Bigelow looked. There was the fire, behind them. Could he really have walked right through it, hearing and feeling nothing?

  “Now do you want to try it with your eyes open?” Paula asked. She took his hand again and led him toward the fire.

  Bigelow hesitated. Would Paula be mad if he balked? Or, more importantly, would she kiss him again if he cooperated? He decided to cooperate. He followed Paula toward the fire. He felt its rising heat, but he kept going. They stepped into the fire. And it didn't burn him! It was all around him, fiercely blazing, but it wasn't hurting him. Bigelow stopped in the middle of the fire. “It really is illusion!” he exclaimed. “I see it, but am not being touched.”

  “Yes!” Paula agreed gladly. She flung her arms about him and kissed him again. Then she drew back. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

  “That's all right,” Bigelow said. “I—” He paused, gathering his gumption. “I liked it.” Would that turn her off?”

  “You're nice,” Paula said. “I'll try not to embarrass you again. I just wanted to prove to you that we are dealing with illusions.”

  “You proved it,” Bige
low said. “But that only raises big questions. Who or what is doing this to us, and why?”

  “Exactly my question,” Paula agreed as they walked on down the street. “Let alone the technology required. How—” She froze.

  “What's the matter,” Bigelow asked. “Why are you standing there looking as if you are seeing a ghost?”

  “Because I am seeing a ghost,” Paula said. “Or at least an illusion. There's a coiled rattlesnake in front of me.”

  Bigelow saw nothing. “Not for me. It's definitely illusion. Evidently programmed for you, not for me.”

  “Yes,” Paula agreed. “But a terrifying one. I hate snakes! I know most of them are harmless, and all that, but I can't go near one.”

  “Then maybe I can help you,” Bigelow said gallantly. “Take my hand, close your eyes. I'll lead you past it.”

  “Yes,” Paula agreed faintly. “I made you do it. Now it's my turn.” She paused shivering. “But oh, I'm terrified!”

  Bigelow took her hand. Paula closed her eyes. Then he led her forward, right through where the snake might be. After a suitable distance, he stopped. “I think it's safe now.”

  Paula opened her eyes and looked back. She shuddered. “That rattler is still there, ringing its bell,” Paula said. “But when I walked with you, eyes closed, I heard nothing.”

  “That seems to be the way it works,” Bigelow said. “It is primarily sight oriented. When you tune that out, the rest fades too.”

  “Yes,” Paula agreed. “So now we can counter it, with each other's help. But there's still the question of who is doing it.”

  “I see maybe two options,” Bigelow said. “One is to do the opposite of what the illusions are trying to make us do.”

  “So maybe after a while they'll give it up as a bad job,” Paula agreed. “And leave us alone. Maybe together.”