Notes from An Alien

~ Explorations In Reading, Writing, and Publishing ~

Tag Archives: Original Stories

Friday Story Bazaar ~ Tale Fifty-Seven


And Who Shall Train the Little Ones?

by
Alexander M Zoltai

~~~~~~~~~

No one thought much about training teachers—mothers did the earliest basics and some of the leaders did the rest—a casual arrangement, to say the least…

The village was large—1,000 families.

There was no chief, only the elected tribal leaders.

Meng had finished his work for the day and went to chat with his best friend.

“Hey, Uren, slow down!”

“Meng, you are finished early.”

“Yes, I have extra energy—something is making me angry.”

“What?”

“The way the Olufa brothers seem to be working to make others vote only for one of them for leadership.”

“This you know?”

“This seems obvious to me; but, Legni has seen them roughing up certain folks and whispering in their ears…”

“My…”

“Yes…”

Time crawled on and the elections showed three of the Olufa brothers elected with five others from five different families. Not many people noticed or cared; but, they would have the usual year-long-period to experience what the Olufa’s might do…

~~~~~~~~~

Six months on and a pattern had developed—most everything was being done the way one of the Olufa family wanted it to be done.

Especially the teaching of the little ones—only those from the Olufa family were allowed to be teachers.

~~~~~~~~~

Nine months on and the pattern had born fruit—the little ones were all being taught to fight, fear was in most of the villagers’ hearts, and most expected war with the tribe in the hills…

~~~~~~~~~

Meng and Uren had been talking to people all along; but, most seemed to have no ears. Still, they had a group of six, with them making it eight; and, they began to hold public talks.

They were immediately scolded and put in the caves for punishment…

This stirred more interest—questions circulated—discussions tended toward action.

Even the little ones wanted a change—getting ready for war was no fun compared to learning about the plants and animals—learning the cycles of the heavens and the weather…

The Olufa brothers called a meeting and didn’t let any of the other five leaders speak… The brothers were good at one thing—threatening others…

Still, the meeting was a little war of its own…

Eventually, the elders encouraged the little ones to talk about what they were learning.

The little ones had, surprisingly, elected a leader, named Chinga. He was big for his age and had his own small following of well-muscled boys…

Chinga stood up on the rock and said: “We are tired of the war training, we want more fun learning. We also have made a decision…”

Most of the people were visibly shocked…

After he walked through the tribe and looked each person straight in their eyes, Chinga stood back up on the rock and said: “We think there should be a new election before the year is up—if we all vote for it now, it will be the tribe speaking, more important than just the leaders speaking…”

There was a general hubbub for nearly ten minutes until the elders took their turns on the rock, endorsing the need to vote—each being protected by Chinga’s friends from being thrashed by one or more of the Olufa brothers…

One hour later the tribe had their election and the new leaders made a ruling—the Olufa brothers were to be banished to the hills…

~~~~~~~~~

There were a few scuffles with the tribe in the hills from time to time; but, word was received in the following year that the Olufa brothers had been banished from that tribe also—no recourse for them but long travel to a tribe in the mountain valleys…

The little ones continued to elect a leader of their own; and, the adult leaders always welcomed them into the tribal leaders’ meetings…

The elders were encouraged to open a school to teach teachers…

The little ones were beginning to feel quite big………

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Friday Story Bazaar ~ Tale Fifty-Six


Who’s In Charge Here?

by
Alexander M Zoltai

~~~~~~~~~

State-run News Headquarters:

“The rallies being held are not productive of tranquil conditions for the Capital…”

Opposition WebSite:

“The government is using fancy words to hide their corruption…”

Message from the National Unity Group:

“We regret the insincere actions of the Government and abhor the violent nature of the rallies…”

State-run News Headquarters:

“Any further rallies will be met with force—we are not going to let a few rowdy people disturb the smooth operation of public services…”

Opposition WebSite:

“Meet at the River Crossroads football field at 1pm, Saturday…”

Message from the National Unity Group:

“We’re praying for sanity and calm…”

State-run News Headquarters:

“We have no alternative—troops will quell the riot…”

Opposition WebSite (through mobile app):

“Resist with all your might — we must give our all—our lives—for freedom…”

Message from the National Unity Group:

“True liberty isn’t won by violent means—may the two sides see their way clear to engage in productive consultation…”

State-run News Headquarters (sent, encrypted, to troops on the ground):

“Shoot, on sight, all people on street—don’t ask Captains, just shoot…”

Opposition WebSite (through mobile app):

“They’ve killed most of us; plus, hundreds of innocent bystanders—hide in the hills until we can regain our strength…”

Message from the National Unity Group:

“We hereby register condemnation of the Government’s actions—its slaughter of people.
“And, we express concern for the protestors, because of their shortsighted and foolhardy responses to the Government’s actions.
“We’ve obtained a permit for a public gathering at the River Crossroads high school auditorium at 1pm, Saturday. We’ll do all we can to ensure that all parties attend—government representatives, protest leaders, and distressed citizens…
“We’ll be discussing the following topics:
How Can We Find Common Ground.
“How Can We Live in Peace.
“How We Desperately Need Each Other.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Friday Story Bazaar ~ Tale Fifty-Five


Why Don’t You Just Get A Life?

by
Alexander M Zoltai

~~~~~~~~~

Prologue:

I’m really nobody; but, there’ve been times I thought I was Way important…

Those days are over…

~~~~~~~~~

This getting a life thing got started by being born to religious parents…

I suppose the fact that Mom was sincerely living her Faith and Dad was horribly conflicted about it all was what got me going on the whole Maverick life-style—what else to do when you have two nearly completely opposing models of what being a human means…

I’d have to credit Mom with the influence that kept the Maverick restrained for so many years—pretend you’re growing up just fine, doing all the things folks expect—act like you’re getting a life…

High school was when the cracks began to appear—acting out against teachers who didn’t really know what they were doing—being unable to socialize appropriately with the other kids—beginning my over forty years of drinking…

Then, the whole farce of trying to go to college—three attempts—three strike-outs…

Of course, since I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was a Maverick, I thought I’d better do something that would “re-shape” me—help me get a life.

I joined the Navy…

Got a little knowledge, travelled to a couple foreign countries, picked up my drug habit—still a roaring Maverick…

So, I spent my 20s and 30s working my brain to a frazzle, still trying to get a life…

When I turned 42, I had finally done enough living and studying and conversing to realize a good thing when it came along—I became a member of an extremely modern but little known Faith…

Nearly thirty years later, I’m writing this “story”—still a Maverick, though somewhat civil about it—no longer doing various drugs—attempting to be healthy—struggling harder than ever to get a life…

Epilogue:

What does it mean to “Get A Life”?

What does “Life” mean?

What is “Meaning”?

Epi-Epilogue:

Pretty sure ya have to want to get a life; then, define, within yourself, what life means; then, define what meaning means; and then… things should go fairly well………

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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If you don’t see a way to comment (or, “reply”) after this post, try up there at the top right…
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Grab A Free Novel…
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Friday Story Bazaar ~ Tale Fifty-Four


Break Free…

by
Alexander M Zoltai

~~~~~~~~~

Muzar was carrying his wife, Yaleza, in the glare of explosions, to the refugee spacecraft…

The attackers had arrived suddenly, from the dark side of  Bulon’s moon, and devastated eighty percent of the land…

Their children had been killed in the bombings…

Yaleza hadn’t wanted to go—wanted to die on the spot…

Muzar had dragged her from the building and, after she’d passed out, carried her toward the outlawed spaceport.

Muzar laid his wife down near the access hatch of their escape ship. He doubted the old and small craft would get into orbit, let alone to the supposed haven-planet, Zelun; especially with all the people he was sure had already boarded.

He paid the fee to a disreputable looking fellow (every bit of the money he had), picked his wife back up (hoping she would, eventually, waken…), and entered the overloaded craft…

Right after Muzar laid his wife down where a youth had just been lying, right after Muzar thanked the youth, right after Muzar wondered what he saw behind that youth’s eyes, the spacecraft fired its main engine and lifted off.

Those aboard had no idea how lucky they were, as projectiles fired from a ship in orbit narrowly missed their craft but incinerated two just like it on the ground, now smoldering ruins of metal and flesh…

The youth was still standing over Yaleza and Muzar…

Muzar spoke: “You’re from Aurenga?”

“No, from Lueen—I swam the thin passage up north…”

“Parents dead?”

“Last year…”

“Why do you seem… distinct… apart…?”

“I was a soldier.”

“Yuan bless you—you’re so young…”

“Not as young as last year…”

The boy shoved his way through the packed refugees.

~~~

Halfway through their desperate journey, Yaleza woke and proceeded to cry for thirteen hours…

~~~

The ship was nearly at their hoped for haven.

They could hear the crew talking to someone on the planet:

“We measure 20,000 selks.”

“Confirm. Set course on transmission band 22.7 ret—use evasive landing maneuvers.”

“Copy.”

“How many migrants aboard?”

“200.”

“Got our pay?”

“Confirm that.”

“Copy—hope a few of those migrants live through re-entry.”

The men laughed…

The boy was back with Muzar and Yaleza. He looked to them and said, “Migrants…?”

Yaleza answered: “They lie to protect themselves. We were promised understanding people would be waiting seven selks from the landing port. Muzar was given directions…”

Muzar said, “Perhaps, we are beginning a new life…”

~~~

The ship landed—they transferred funds by radio-link, still making a large profit; then, immediately took off again, interceptor missiles following…

The trio watched their escape vessel expand into a golden-orange fireball—it lit their way into the forest that hid their further escape…”

~~~

They arrived at the camp, exhausted and bloodied from their pitch-dark stumbling travels.

They were given liquids and food…

They stayed in a cramped room—the people in charge thought they were a family.

Eventually, they were all sent away (after useless struggles that only bloodied them more) in different vehicles…

Yaleza wasn’t driven very far and was promptly raped to death.

Muzar, driven to a hidden detention center, existed for a year before he expired from grief.

The boy fought his way free from his captors and, after long secretive travels, hired on to a pack of rebel fighters—he didn’t wonder what happened to Muzar and Yaleza, just like he didn’t wonder about anything, his entire focus on learning how to kill as passion—kill for relief—kill for its own sake…

There were internal conflicts on Zelun for many years and it suited him just fine…

He died an old man, on an island that had too many superstitions swirling about it to be inhabited—died alone, except for the fantasies that called themselves mother and father, the fantasies that confused themselves with Yaleza and Muzar, the fantasies that welcomed him as a weary refugee………

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Friday Story Bazaar ~ Tale Fifty-Three


For the Children

by
Alexander M Zoltai

~~~~~~~~~

We’d travelled to the mountains—found the hidden valley—discovered the training camp…

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but would soon light the valley…

Our film crew was there to do a documentary…

The team had been carefully selected—no one with a record of government involvement…

The documentary was to be about the most fearsome terrorist organization in the world.

They, of course, did their own horrific promotion videos for the Internet; but, my reputation as an independent film-maker apparently gave me the highly questionable “privilege” of showing the world the inner workings of their main training facility.

We’d been cautioned to not film on the way in; but, now that we’d arrived, we scrambled out of the two four-wheel vehicles and immediately began creating the establishing-footage; during which, I couldn’t help but notice all the children—some teens; but, many younger—all carrying guns and ammo belts…

I told the team to focus on the kids—the swelling sunlight made some wonderful dark/light compositions…

We spent all day filming—wildly ripping through digital storage capacity—knowing this was a set of one-takes that would need very careful editing. We were assured by the camp leader that one of their outside agents would contact us in three months to view our finished product…

I kept urging my team to include as much of the kids as possible, even if we’d been instructed to interview various adults—angle the shots to include the children.

Near the end of our time, I was introduced to two of the children, not yet teens, and the translator began to relate their tale as the cameras rolled…

The slightly older one, a boy, began:

“We are fighting for God’s Cause—we have special training to infiltrate a tourist area in a major European city and become glorious martyrs for the Prophet.”

The younger one, a girl, continued:

“We have no fear. God is Great and we will receive wonderful rewards in the Next Life.”

Much more was said, all of it seeming to be desperate justification for what these young humans would commit…

We finished our work in the mountain valley…

We returned to our civilization and realized it would do no good to alert the authorities—we didn’t know which city was targeted; still, we passed the word to our military contacts…

But, there were exploding martyrs all over the world—it seemed there was no way to stop them…

Our one thin hope was that we would be guided in our editing to show a powerful sub-plot with the children as the center of the action—praying our finished documentary would meet with the terrorists’ agent’s approval—praying the exposure of the kids would spark international action…

We certainly knew how to get it aired all over the place…

We certainly didn’t know how to protect those children…

All we could do was help them become the tragic stars of their own treacherous tale………

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read More Story Bazaar Tales

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you don’t see a way to comment (or, “reply”) after this post, try up there at the top right…
Read Some Strange Fantasies
Grab A Free Novel…
Visit The Story Bazaar

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Google Author Page
For Private Comments or Questions, Email: amzolt {at} gmail {dot} com