Hey, everybody. I decided to post a new story I'd been sitting on for a while partially to make an announcement: after some deliberation I've decided to launch a account. In as much as my stories have garnered some attention, and finances are a bit slim, I've decided to dig this mine a little and see what turns up.
My material will still be available for free on and Archive of Our Own, but pending sufficient interest I'll allow sponsors first look at my stories in progress, plus the chance to voice their preference on which stories I give the most attention. (Full disclosure: I can commit to updates every month, though I hope to be able to do more). Depending on the level of interest, I might offer other incentives as time goes on.
Patrick wiped sweat and unruly red hair from his forehead and waved away an insect buzzing in his face. As it flew off, he went back to staring up at the coconuts. He hated coconuts, but who cared at a time like this? The food he had managed to gather was almost gone, and he'd been forced to ration what remained so tightly that even the empty wrappers looked tasty. His stomach gnawed, seeming to grow emptier and emptier at the sight of fresh food so close yet so far away. The tree's bark was too smooth to climb, and there weren't any rocks around he could throw to try and knock down a nut.
As he stood considering how to get at the fruit, a rustling sound caught his attention off to the left, somewhere behind a large cluster of ferns as tall as he was. Turning to confront whatever made it, he instinctively reached for his sword and braced himself for an encounter. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and spread his feet, bracing for a fight.
"If you know what's good for you," he challenged, sounding as tough as possible, "come on out of there!"
Nothing could have prepared him for what came next. With an explosive force that drove him to spring backward, a beast the size of a Saint Bernard shot out of the ferns and into view, snapping its jaws on where he had just been. Patrick screamed and scrambled backward, forgetting in his haste to draw against the creature.
That lapse of memory cost him dearly as the animal lunged forward again. Patrick, scrambling again for the sword hilt, seized it and grasped clumsily as the beast bowled him over with a ram of its too-large head. As he struggled to get the sword loose with his weight on top of it, the brute bore down and snapped at him, seizing a hastily raised left arm.
Patrick screamed again, this time in pain as the beast yanked back on his limb. Teeth as big as the blade of his pocket knife dug to the bone, threatening to sever his arm halfway down to the elbow. Sheer pain and panic were only amplified by the total impossibility of his attacker, which stood on two legs as foreclaws tore at his thigh. Impossible as it was, there was no question of his attacker's identity.
Several Weeks Earlier…
A clanging sound broke through the distinctive roar of a welding torch as Patrick worked to add another piece of metal to the project he was working on.
"Be right there!" he called out, his voice muffled by the protective face shield. He wanted this project to be perfect. It was just a woodstove, but he'd been working on smithing and welding for years for Mr. Jacques. The old man said that if the client liked this project, he could start learning to make weapons and armor for the reenactors – and maybe, just maybe, some for himself.
Finishing the weld, Patrick shut off the torch and pulled off the helmet so he could wipe the stingy sweat from his eyes. He was sixteen, with a well-proportioned figure and a boyish face. Turning to the source of the sound, he found old Mr. Jacques himself standing in the doorway.
"How are you doing, young man?" he asked.
"Good," Patrick replied, grabbing a nearby bottle of water and taking a long swig. "Very good. I should have it all finished by the end of the day."
The man strode up to appraise the effort, stroking his short white beard as the sun gleamed off his bald head. He tested the attachments, seeing to it that what shouldn't move didn't and what should moved smoothly. He moved with a grace and assurance that belied his eighty-plus years, his form still well-muscled from decades of moving metal for a living. Despite formalities of safety and labor regulations, he had taken Isaac on as a kind of apprentice for his business, paying in cash – and paying well, too. Over the years he had taught Patrick just about everything one could teach about welding and forging, fueling the teenager's hopes of one day joining up with a professional blacksmith or armorer outfit. No cheap replicas or fancy costume work out of their shop. Whether it was a nodachi or a woodstove, people came to Mr. Jacques for quality and function, and he would sell nothing less.
After an almost agonizingly long inspection, he smiled. "You did good; very, very good."
Patrick grinned his thanks. "Thank you, sir. I hope the Wilsons like it, too."
"Oh, they will. I'd be pleased to take credit for this myself."
"You could," Patrick offered agreeably, grinning as he dropped the other shoe. "Just add the difference it makes onto my pay."
Mr. Jacques chuckled, shaking his head. "You know I would, but no. You've done an excellent job. You deserve credit and more."
Something in the old man's tone – a sort of falling away at the end – made Patrick uncertain. He scrunched his face, trying to understand. "Is there a problem, sir?"
"I'm afraid there is," Mr. Jacques replied. "I heard back from my doctor today."
Patrick's stomach dropped. "Is it bad?"
The man nodded and sighed. "Colon cancer. He says I need to start treatment soon if I want to do anything about it, and it's going to wreak havoc on my…" he trailed off for a moment, looking around and gesturing to the whole of the shop. "Well, my everything."
"But you are going to try to fight it, right?"
Mr. Jacques looked him in the eye. "I would have to renege on teaching you or even employing you, indefinitely."
Patrick's stomach sank. He had never enjoyed work half so much anywhere else as he did working for Mr. Jacques, who was almost like a fa… well, an uncle or something, anyway. Calling someone a father figure was complicated for Patrick. On a more pragmatic level, to stop working at the shop would force Patrick to find another income to help his mother cover the bills.
Still, it was no contest. "Your health is more important," he said. "You get back on your feet and then we can pick up where we left off."
The old man smiled warmly. "You are a good man," he answered, clapping Patrick on the shoulder. Then he fished a business card out of his pocket. "I took the liberty of recommending you to a friend of mine who fixes cars. He's expecting to hear back, if you are interested."
"Thank you, sir." Patrick pocketed the card, then shook Mr. Jacques' hand. Then he looked back at the woodstove. "Guess that means I should finish this up sooner rather than later so I can get home and call the place."
Mr. Jacques shook his head. "You've done enough work for one day. You can finish tomorrow."
Patrick hesitated. It seemed too abrupt, and rather heartless to leave the man alone just after exchanging such serious news. Though, having said that, it was also pretty rough to talk of just immediately getting back to work. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," answered the old man, fishing several bills out of his wallet. "And tomorrow's Saturday, so you can come early if it makes so much difference to you."
Patrick glanced at the money; twenty dollars over the usual day's pay, at least. 'Ane he should be saving his money for treatment,' he thought. "I will," he promised, pocketing the bills. He'd have to find a way to slip the extra money back the next day when Mr. Jacques wasn't looking.
With an exchange of waves between them, Patrick got on his bicycle and kicked off the homeward ride. His stomach sank as he replayed the news in his head. 'Colon cancer. Going to wreak havoc on my everything. Going to work for a friend who fixes cars.'
Patrick had worked for Mr. Jacques for over three years now; roughly half the span of time since his parents divorced. It had been unusual to say the least for a thirteen-year-old to work in a metalworking shop, and ultimately Mr. Jacques had only hired him because he made such a pest of himself about it. Even then he had started out as strictly a go-fer, and only managed to make his way up to where he was through great persistence; a trait Mr. Jacques begrudgingly admired.
Arriving at home, Patrick wheeled his bike into the shed behind the house and put it inside, locking it to one of the wall studs and locking the shed for good measure. He didn't know how far it was to the place Mr. Jacques had recommended, but it wouldn't be a good time to lose his only independent set of wheels.
His hopes of calling Mr. Jacques' friend right away were brought to a halt as he opened the door and heard his mom talking on the phone. No cell phones on their budget; only a landline. She kept pausing every sentence or two, and was clearly annoyed with the person on the other end.
"We agreed on weekends."
Pause.
"Yes, yes, I know you skipped a few, but this is short notice."
Pause, irritated sigh.
"Well, you could try acting like it a little more often. You didn't even call for his birthday."
Pause again, and an irritated half-octave rise in her voice.
"Some present. You know he's not into these kinds of trips."
Pause.
"Can you at least try and delay it a week or two so he can give his boss notice?"
Shortest pause yet.
"Yes, he has a job, you know. Some of us do still have those."
Pause.
"I am not being sarcastic. Acting like I liked this would be sarcastic."
Patrick sighed wearily. There was only one person on the planet his mom talked to like that; Dad.
It had been six years since his dad decided all the marriage counseling was just a waste of money, and five since the divorce was finalized. Patrick knew whose side he was on, though it hadn't been an easy call at first. He'd missed his dad for the first year or so, and looked forward to going to see him on weekends. Then Dad got… well, fancy. He started upgrading everything as he moved up the corporate ladder. As of the present date he owned three houses, two boats, who-cared-how-many cars, and two airplanes.
Patrick and his mom, meanwhile, lived in a trailer park where just going to the mailboxes took guts. There was never any knowing if one of the chain smokers who hung out there happened to be a bit more temperamental than usual. He daydreamed of thrashing them into surrender once and for all, but his mother had been adamant that he not, under any circumstances, throw the first punch. Besides, they outnumbered him three to one on an average day, and he wasn't stupid. So far he'd never had to use the spare bike chain he kept in his pocket, but he might as well be prepared.
He waited until his mom noticed he'd come in and ended the call. Even after all this time, and even over the phone, she hated to let him see her fighting with his dad. Why he didn't know. He thought about as highly of the old man as he did of the punks at the mailboxes.
"Hey, honey," she greeted, going to the fridge. "Lemonade?"
"Sure," he greeted, trying to put at least some warmth in his tone. He gestured to the phone. "Dad wants me to go on a trip?"
She nodded as she pulled out the pitcher of homemade goodness. "Yeah, some deal with a company in Japan, I think he said."
It would be Japan, of course. Ritzy architecture plus traffic lights with more tech than his mom's whole car; just his dad's kind of place. And the Japanese were huge on respecting one's elders, so he'd be 'counting on' Patrick to be the model son. Blech.
He moved to the cabinet and handed her a couple of glasses. "Wants me there for a week or two?"
"Maybe three," she answered, taking the cups. "He says it's summer and you should be on vacation anyway."
That was rich, coming from the guy who might as well live in the Waldorf.
"So, how was your day?" she asked, pouring the lemonade.
He bit his lip. "Well, the good news is…" he began, wondering how he could put a good spin on the fact that the man he wished was his father was possibly dying.