A CHANCE OF BONES

 A Chance of Bones

by Stephen Gearhart

The great warrior urged his warhorse onwards towards the goblin army of darkness, waiting for the moment to charge, to lead the army of light against the villainy that plagued the land. The sun glinted off of his breastplate; he took in a deep breath of the pure, morning air and briefly reflected on his life...

Thrainstus started life in the small village of Aranstak, on the outskirts of the great and ancient city of Hallania. He was not born to a noble family. He had no knightly lineage. He was, in fact, a nobody. It was his luck to be born as an orphan. Dirty and living on scraps, living in the mud of the alleyway. Until the village blacksmith, in a brief moment of sobriety and mercy, took Thrainstuts in. 

He worked at the forge everyday until his sixteenth year of life. Creating tools, weapons and armor, learning the trade of his adoptive father. He sweated, he toiled, his body responding to the heat of the bellows and the work of the hammer and tongs. Thrainstus was prepared and eager to eventually take over the forge. To continue the legacy and to be an important man in Aranstak. To live in relative comfort, and to carry on his mentor's legacy.

He grew to be tall, lean but full of muscle. His black hair and blue eyes catching the looks of the local lasses. He learned the arts of fighting with the weapons he made. By doing so, he became a better blacksmith, but would also be able to help in the village's defense. Much to his own surprise, he became literate as well. Thrainstus became a young man of many talents. Soon, he would take over the smithy and enjoy a life of respect and importance.

Or, he would have if Dain of the North hadn't come to the village that one day. Dain, a powerful wizard, had come to Aranstak, looking for Thrainstus. The village obliged him and took him to the smithy. After all, no one wanted to be on the bad side of a wizard. The two met and retired to the Golem's Inn to talk.

By the next morning, Thrainstus would leave the village forever, never to come back. Dain, the wily old wizard, convinced him to travel to a nearby abandoned tower to clear it of evil that had plagued the local dale. He would soon meet with a small group of men, women and other human-like beings that would join him and Dain on a new quest to rid Hallania of the giant worm that lurked in the ancient city's catacombs. With just a sword and dagger, Thrainstus would find a new family and start his life anew as an adventurer.

They would go on many quests. They would save countless villages. Save the daughters of local nobles. Save entire kingdoms. Their names, including his, would ring out ahead of them. Their deeds of bravery were unmatched.

He fought and killed the trogs in their dark and slimy underworld. He slew the wizards Argan and Slath who wanted to bring the Void to the world and plunge it into darkness. He outmatched all of the minions of the demon Norusta…and seduced his daughter. He would find the mighty claymore blade known as The Ages and slew the ancient and powerful dragon Mardook.

Thrainstus would lead armies into battles. They would follow him as he charged on his white warhorse, screaming like one of barbarian Scorts of the hinterlands. Bodies of mercenaries would lay in mounds as tall as small hillocks. Thrainstus would become the hero of many sagas. Soon, even the generals would place their swords in fealty at his feet. And in time, so too would the bodies of the evil kings he had struck down. 

Thrainstus was now leading a new army and his old friends on one last adventure. There would be the one last battle. All of the forces of the Void against the forces of the Light in one final battle for the world. Thrainstus, now a great general and leader, would win and lead all of the lands as emperor. To bring the world to peace and prosperity.

He rode his mighty, white warhorse ahead of the thousands of screaming warriors of the light. He held the Ages, his claymore on high. The Ages seem to scream and cut into the wind as he kicked his horse into the final charge.

Thrainstus never felt more alive. He felt himself in the now of this historic moment. It was his moment of history, the moment where he would change it all with this last battle against the darkness.

As his mighty horse charged down on the first line of goblins, he started to bring his blade to bear for the first strike and with relish, he saw the eyes of the first goblin grow wide as it understood that its death was coming. He swung and took the goblin's head off at the neck.

His grand warhorse reared unexpectedly and Thrainstus was thrown to the ground. Quickly, he jumped up and swung the Ages at the three approaching goblins. All three fell, cut neatly in half. Thrainstus roared in delight as more white horses surged past him and into the goblins, felling them by the dozens.

Thrainstus found his horse snorting and stomping its hooves. Thrainstus rushed to it, ready to leap into the saddle. And as he got near, he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. A goblin had played dead, was now rising. Thrainstus whirled around and raised the Ages over his head just in time for the goblin to-

Brad rolled his twenty-sided die and paused to look at the result while Darren waited anxiously for the fate of his warrior character. Brad grimaced and said, “Dude, your guy just took an arrow to the dick. Sorry, man.”

Thrainstus had fallen.  

DIGITAL PRAYERS FROM THE PAST by Stephen Gearhart

DIGITAL PRAYERS FROM THE PAST

by Stephen Gearhart

    Sipping at his tea, he leaned out the window and did a visual check of the solar panel array below. He had already checked the cabling snaking up the side of the ramshackle tower this morning. According to the readout on the transformer next to the panels, he had more than enough to flick the switch and power up the building to start the day's work.

    He took another sip of tea, the mint was from his own garden. He had traded an Asimov book, The Caves of Steel, for the ginger and honey that completed the tea. He wasn't worried; he had multiple copies of the book. In a very real way, he was the richest man around. He had luxury goods to trade away for the essentials.

    He set the tea down and undid the padlock to the metal cabinet. No matter how much he oiled it, the hinges still screeched. With two hands, he grasped the large breaker handle and pulled down hard. There was a loud chunk sound, a flickering of lights and the hum of power as little by little, the top floor of the tower powered up.

    He sat down and looked to his right to watch the old read-out. The red bar inched across until it was at the 80% point and turned green. He watched for power spikes. The meter held at 80%; it was safe to turn the station on. He flicked another switch and the power shot up to the multiple antennae on the roof. Once powered, he sent a pulse out and was satisfied to see he could broadcast on radio and use the radio waves as a carrier for those communities that might still have a functional television or two.

    What was most important was that WiFi signals were strong enough to get to the chain of routers he set up. One chain ended in the community of Roanoke, the other ended in Baltimore. Both node operators worked their own tech to get the signals out. Still, work parties had to check on the router chains monthly. The work was serious business.

    Since the Tarda Collapse fifty years ago, this was the first time that remote communities could communicate with each other. It was an important first step to get back to a world none of them had lived in.

    He looked out the window, saw in the distance the quiet ruins of Washington DC. He had heard rumors that a new settlement was taking place near the giant obelisk. But if they had a radio, or the rare television, he did not know about it yet. 

    What was even more rare was the online connections. As far as he knew, his counterparts in Roanoke and Baltimore were the only ones so far. They met weekly online (he often wondered about that intangible world) for a sharing of information from the past. Their meetings were listened to on the makeshift radios that almost anyone could make. Communities would gather around the rare television sets at the appointed time. While the primary goal in the other broadcasts was to help this generation use technology for the use of survival and moving forward...this particular weekly broadcast provided something else just as important: how to cope with boredom by using fifty years old entertainment.

    Even after fifty years, the technology was still around. Books, uncommon items anywhere, could still be found to help guide them. And it was that particular paper treasure that saved those who survived the Collapse. Fifty years ago, the economy sputtered to a halt. There were two plagues, one right after the other. The governments weren't able to maintain the infrastructure.  

    And everything just slowed down and stopped. It took fifty years to bring the people back to where they were now.

    He sipped his tea and ruminated on how his grandfather, a man he never got to meet, and that man's friends were able to save the knowledge and just enough working technology to help the survivors of the Collapse to live in a world devoid of most comforts. When he read about how dependent those people were on technology to do the simplest things...he wondered if bringing all of that back was a good idea. 

    His computer rig finally powered on. He adjusted the microphone, put on his headphones (he made very good ones in his spare time) and saw the green light on the small camera blink on. He heard the dings that informed him that his compatriots from the two nodes were ready as well.

    They flickered into view. The one in Baltimore forgetting to turn his microphone on as always. Once he pressed the right button, they started talking. They still had thirty minutes before broadcasting so they caught up with each other. Finally, he picked up the special box from the floor and showed the DVD's inside. From Roanoke and Baltimore, he could hear their excitement and cheerful demands to know what they were this week.

    Right before he flipped to the general broadcast that radiated out for hundreds of miles, he briefly looked out the window towards the off-white obelisk. Was there a settlement out there? If they had a radio, they would certainly find this station. What if they were able to maintain a television? Would they also reach out and expand the communication lines a little further?

    He picked up the first DVD. He had already checked it for damage and he was pleasantly surprised to see the disc in good condition. It had the picture of a giant robot on the box cover. The lettering was in English and also in what he thought was probably Japanese. 

    Mobile Suit Gundam.

    

    

Terror of the Shadow King (a story written by an AI)

 (This is an AI-written story. I had gone to OpenAI and used the ChatGPT function and entered “Write a story about adeptus in Baltimore”. An adeptus is a type of NPC in Genshin Impact. Here is the the story the AI wrote with title by me.)

Once upon a time, in the bustling city of Baltimore, there lived a group of individuals known as the Adeptus. These individuals possessed extraordinary abilities, far beyond that of any normal human. They could control the elements, bend time and space, and even teleport at will.

The Adeptus kept their powers hidden from the rest of the world, only revealing themselves to a select few. They lived among the citizens of Baltimore, leading normal lives as doctors, lawyers, and businesspeople. But when danger threatened the city, the Adeptus would come together to protect it.

One day, a powerful villain known as the Shadow King emerged, determined to take over Baltimore and bend it to his will. The Adeptus knew they had to act fast to stop him. They used their powers to fight off his minions and weaken his hold on the city.

The leader of the Adeptus, a woman named Ava, used her ability to control the elements to summon a raging storm that battered the Shadow King's stronghold. Another member, a man named Lucas, used his ability to bend time and space to transport the Adeptus into the Shadow King's lair, where they engaged in a fierce battle.

Finally, the Adeptus emerged victorious, and the Shadow King was defeated. The citizens of Baltimore hailed the Adeptus as heroes, and the group decided to continue protecting the city in secret, always ready to defend it from any threat that may arise.

But even though the citizens of Baltimore knew nothing about the Adeptus and their abilities, they felt safe knowing that they had protectors watching over them, powerful beings that would always be there to defend them and their city.

Part One of Making a Dungeon: Setting the Scene for the Adventure

 SETTING THE SCENE:

    The narrow road that has led the adventurers through the forest takes a turn to the right and within moments, brook can be heard. It is the only sound that anyone can hear at this moment. A mile previously, the adventurers had notice that there were no sounds of wildlife and as the day was still, no wind in the branches could be heard. 

    As they continue along the road, they will notice that it gets wider. Along the way, they will see roads start to come off of the one they are walking. The first road goes to the left, away from the brook. The adventurers will feel a distinct desire to quickly pass by due to an almost suffocating sense of dread. The road disappears into the foliage and darkness made by thorns and gnarled trees that seem to block sunlight. The adventurers will only be able to see about 60' down the road before it fades into the lack of light. 

 (DM's Note: the magical effect automatically makes the party move on as the effect increases in intensity as it grows darker and then when night takes into effect)

    

    The time that the adventurers come across this road is shortly before nightfall. They are very close to a hamlet and two farms where they can spend the night. As the road continues, they will come across two others: each a small farm where they can spend the night in the barn and be given a simple dinner of mead and cheese for one copper piece. The head of each household will inform the party that the town is just ahead on the main road if they do not wish to pay for the night. 

    The head of the household will respond to any questions about the dark road with, "Death is down that road...and death comes from the road only at night, but a horrible death it would be. Stay here and stay safe behind the locked doors, or hurry on to Sar Es-Salaam!"

     The adventurers will be safe at the farms or will make it to Sar Es-Salaam about 30 minutes before twilight. Either way, as the party makes it way to the hamlet, the road becomes wider with several wagons tracks and runs parallel to the brook, on the right. The forest gives way to an open plain where they can see Sar Es-Salaam.

    Sar Es-Salaam is one of a handful of hamlets that are close to the northern frontier border of the kingdom of Salatine. The hamlets are each connected by east-west roads with one road going south. And no roads going further north. To the north are the wilds where no human kingdoms exist, but the are the lands of fantastical creatures and lands of other races.

    Sar Es-Salaam has two reasons for existing like the other hamlets. First, they are trading posts with some of the more friendlier races to the north. Races like the dwarves and the little folks known also as halflings. Elves are also known to trade and appear in these small villages. Most of the time, the elves are mostly half-elves. Every few decades, a trade delegation from the Grey Elves may pass through. The Wood Elves deal with the humans as little as possible...but are reliable in passing on warnings to the hamlets of any evil afoot. 

    The second reason is that they are starting points for most adventurers. Each hamlet has an inn, a stable and a small store to equip adventurers with in addition to three or four huts that house the main families. Given the size of these hamlets, there are no forces from the Salatine army to protect them. Often adventurers are hired for special missions or to help guard the hamlet for a time. 

    The road will enter into the middle of Sar Es-Salaam. However, the brook will continue to go to the right of the town and then go north into the tree-line just 100 yards beyond the hamlet. The east-west road cuts straight through the hamlet to take travelers to the other hamlets. 

    The first thing the party will see is a recently destroyed, wooden structure. There is only one, charred wall standing. The party will see as they move on, black and fallen wooden beams laying in great mounds of ash. It looks as if the building could have held the entire population of Sar Es-Salaam easily. The ground around the burnt down structure is black. The last thing the party will see is a graveyard just to the right of the ruin...with six newly made and filled in graves. 

    As the party enters the hamlet, the sky darkens and they head towards the Blacktree Inn. There is no one outside and the hamlet appears dark except for lights from the inn and a couple of the other structures. The inn is on the left side of the road, with a stable attached to it. Next door is the hamlet forge and a small building that serves as the trading post for the hamlet. Across from the Blacktree Inn are five family dwellings. While Sar Es-Salaam is a small hamlet, it services several area farms. Or did. 

(DM's Note: Use equipment and tavern item price lists as provided in D&D source materials.) 

    The inn is fairly large and has room for the party to secure lodging for the night. The mood is subdued inside the large tavern room, which is only a quarter full. Everyone is looking down, not really eating much, but drinking somewhat heavily. As the party enters, no one looks up and there is no greeting from the bar. 

    Once the party goes to the bar to secure lodging, the bartender and owner of the Blacktree Inn, Silus Sareni will inform the party that a funeral service has just been held and that some of those present are family members of the deceased and apologizes for the lack of festivities and barmaids. If asked what happened, Silus will shake his head and politely change the subject by seating them at a table and have a meal served. 

    As the party eats, the door to the inn opens and this time, the patrons look up briefly before looking back into their cup of mead. A large man with a scar along his left check steps in and surveys the inn. He is wearing a dark cloak, the hilt of a sword and a dagger sticking out from underneath. 

(DM's Note: hidden underneath the tunic he is wearing is a chain mail shirt, giving him an AC of 14)

    The man sees the party and immediately walks up to them, pulling back his cloak so that they can see his weapons. He is dark-haired and of serious demeanor. He speaks in a deep voice of authority and reveals himself to be the Sarif, the leader of the hamlet, and says his name is Cavadal Pherenti. He is a 4th level fighter (St:15, Dex:13, Con:13, Int:16, Wis:11, Cha:11) and is well-regarded.

    He tells the party he saw them entering the hamlet. He will pause for a moment...and then offer the party a job....

(let me know what kind of monsters that a 1-3 level character can handle you would like to see in the comments!)

    

The Quest for the Mini-Bottles of Cinnamon Fireball Liquor, Part Two: The Rise of Car

 The Quest for the Mini-Bottles of Cinnamon Fireball Liquor, Part Two: 

The Rise of Car

by Steve Gearhart

Car sipped at his cup of two-day-old black coffee. He winced. It was more acidic than he wanted it to be. It needed a little bit more of a tasty kick. It wasn't that he couldn't handle the sharp taste of the acid reflux to come. After all, if he could handle the ulcers that had been festering in stomach for the past thirty years, he could certainly handle the oily, black liquid in his unwashed mug. That wasn't the problem... 

It was just that Car wanted to down his hate coffee of acid with some kind of taste that was remotely enjoyable. He wasn't a total heathen...just a white-trash version of a horseman of the redneck apocalypse. And as such, he wanted a little bit of pleasure with his very, very angry cup of coffee. 

Car shuffled around his dirty kitchen. He set down his gray coffee mug that he hadn't washed in five years. Once upon a time it was white and brand new. And much like many of the things in Car's life...it simply gave up and gave in. Another victim of Car's neglect. 

He looked at the small counter next to the sink. The sink had little flies flitting around. Car grunted. He supposed he would have to set off another bug bomb and then rinse off the dishes. His rheumy, yellow eyes scanned the bottle-strewn counter. Nothing but miniature bottles of Moss Eisley's Cinnamon Fireball Liquor. All of them empty.

Car grunted in disapproval. It was the only thing he liked to drink with his coffee. The coffee on its own wasn't enough to get him going...artificial anger could get him going only so far. He needed something to get him from anger to the energy of hate...the true thing that got him going. The cheap cinnamon flavored liquor was what did the trick. 

Now, Car was going to have to leave his redneck apocalyptic paradise and go down to the liquor store off of Mill Swamp Road. A small shack of a store with the imaginative name of 404 Liquors. No one knew what the 404 was supposed to mean. 

Car hated leaving his property. Car hated having to travel to 404 Liquors where that idiot boy with the greasy hair and pervy beard stood by the cash register. Car hated that kid. Car hated having to go into 404 and spend his hard-earned Social Security money on the only, small pleasure he had in life. He hated how that boy smiled smugly, knowing Car couldn't really afford more than ten miniatures of Moss Eisley's Cinnamon Fireball Liquor. Car hated his predicament. 

Car shook his head at the sad state of his world. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Just then his body reminded him of the three packs he had been smoking since age sixteen and doubled him over in a fit of violent coughing. 

After a minute, Car stood up and glanced at the sink and the small cloud of tiny flies swarming. He hawked up a huge loogey and spat at the sink. He tracked the ball of bio-goo and hoped that it hit some of the tiny flies, smothering them to death in his own phlegm.

Car scratched at his stomach as the blob of mucus splattered on a dirty plate, agitating the swarm. He turned and shuffled through the kitchen, through the living room filled with the odds and ends of a detestable life. 

Once reaching the bedroom, he followed the path he made that wound its way through the debris. The path branching off one way to the yellowed, sad mattress that was on the floor, he took the opposite path to the open closet. 

Car looked at himself in the closet door mirror. He looked at himself and knew instantly that if he was going to be remotely successful today, he was going to have to wear a shirt over his wife beater that was covered in mysterious stains.Not that the wife beater was the problem.

All that was remaining of his left arm was a short nub protruding from his shoulder. Car wiggled it and he let out a cackle. It was such an alien, little nub. Scarred and useless. Well, Car thought, not completely useless. When he wanted to make small children cry, he would wiggle the nub at them.

Car reached in and got the least offensive smelling plaid, button down shirt. With years of practice, he got it on quickly. When he first lost that arm twenty arms ago it took him forever to get his clothes on. Even so, he still blamed that raven-haired beauty of so long ago for what happened. It was her fault that he lost the arm. He woke up every day since, blaming her. 

With his shirt on and the left sleeve properly pinned in place, he looked at his hair. A dirty gray now. Sickly thin on top. Spiked up here and there. He slammed his greasy and cheap, dark green cap over his head. Wash day was in three days. He would handle his hair then. 

He walked out to his tiny foyer and snatched his key ring off the small table near the door. He undid the bolts one at a time. Finally, he opened the door and blinked his old eyes in the light. It was actually overcast that day, the sun was not in sight. However, Car lived in the gloom of his home for so long, any amount of light caused him to squint. 

He stamped down the steps and surveyed his front lawn. It really wasn't a lawn, but more of a junkyard of dead dreams. He had multiple trucks and cars on blocks. Companion pieces next to each murdered vehicle. Whenever a gearhead or mechanic would drive by, they would choke back a tear. They would recognize the total abuse of what were once proud and valuable wheels that had the potential of power and speed. But were now nothing but rust.

As Car walked by the hulks, he cursed. He was sixty-eight now. Back when these hulks were things of potential. Back when he was a talented mechanic. Back when he could make cars better, faster and beautiful...and get paid handsomely. Back when he had both arms. Back then...he had a future. She took it away. That raven-haired beauty of destruction. 

Car closed his eyes and pushed her out of his mind. He had a mission. He had to get his Moss Eisley's Cinnamon Fireball Liquor for his hate coffee. 

He shook his head as he got to his only mode of transportation. The state of Maryland had decided that he had no business driving a car again. Or a truck. Or a motorcycle. Not even a scooter. He had crashed the last car he would ever drive into the side of bank.

The courts took pity on him, thinking that the one beer he had that night had gotten him drunk, causing him to loose control of his car and go careening into the bank. Car let them think that. He was too embarrassed to admit he was trying to smash the ATM to rob it of its cash and failed. 

Car let out a deep and heavy sigh. He stepped up on the foot deck, swung one leg over the seat and plopped down. He found the small key on the chain and reached down. With practiced ease, he stuck the key into the ignition and turned. The engine coughed a few times, caught and started to run. Car took the parking break off and hit the gas.

He turned right onto Mill Swamp Road. It would take him about thirty minutes to get to 404 Liquors. He kept himself on the side of the road. The last time he drove on the actual pavement, he got a ticket from a state trooper for creating a traffic jam that went back three miles. 

The Sears Suburban Tecumesh Garden Tractor was pushing out vile and noxious smoke as it maxed out its twelve horsepower engine to its limited limits. The only consolation that Car had as he rode it was that the noise his riding lawnmower made would ruin the morning of anyone he passed by.

As Car puttered along on his lawnmower of impending doom, a lawyer from Washington DC who supposed to be on his way to Bay Bridge somehow got off of Route 50 and wound up lost on this back road. He pulled up alongside Car's ancient riding mower. 

The lawyer pressed the button to lower the window of his Lexus to ask Car for directions. Car, looking irritated, parked his mower and turned his head. The lawyer opened his mouth to ask how to get back to Route 50 when Car smiled.

The lawyer saw that Car was missing all but four of his teeth. The lawyer gaped and then slowly looked up into Car's almost dead and black eyes and saw nothing but malice. Wisely, the lawyer peeled out and opted to ask for directions in Edgewater instead.

Meanwhile, Car started chugging down the side of the road, cackling his mad and hateful laugh...getting closer and closer to his Moss Eisley's Cinnamon Fireball Liquor......

The theme song for this part:

(Author's Note: this is NOT an entirely fictional story)

  

The Quest for the Mini-Bottles of Cinnamon Fireball Liquor

The Quest for the Mini-Bottles of Cinnamon Fireball Liquor

(Part One)

by Steve Gearhart

There are many ways to get to Edgewater, Maryland...not that anyone would willingly want to actually go there.

Edgewater started as a small fishing village. Everyone knew each other and went to one of the two churches every Sunday. There were no stop lights but plenty of white, picket fences. This was a place where people were called folks and they were so friendly and lovely. Just a hamlet of nice neighbors who woke up every morning to an achingly beautiful Chesapeake Bay universe.

Edgewater is one of those Bay locales where it almost became one of those quaint waterway towns. Edgewater almost became a home to multiple bed and breakfasts where the pancakes had fruit in them, the fish and crabs were fresh and the bread was always home-made. Edgewater almost became one of those clean, tourist towns that the rich seem to find and make their own.

However...the rich never made it there; the rednecks found it first. 

Now, the once, white-washed piers are packed with grimy fishing boats. Piloted by hairy, pot-bellied men who max the volume out when that one country song about the stripper who worked a pole in a bar off the highway exit died due to a meth overdose comes on the radio. 

Their loud boats slowly cruising out into the oil-polluted waters. Hard-working men who are already drunk by eight in the morning, resplendent in their filthy caps and wife-beater shirts with ketchup and Lord-only-knows-what-else stains, trying to make sure they don't crash their boats onto the tiny beaches.  

The beachfront itself is about three feet wide and littered with cigarette butts, condoms and a syringe every twenty feet or so. Garbage from the piers wash up on the tiny shores. Only the brave, heroin heroes of Edgewater will lay down their towels on the crusty sand to sunbathe.

There are many ways into the dead-end town of Edgewater. Most of the sad sacks who decided to live in this redneck paradise often find themselves coming into town via one of the two major roads. Roads that actually have asphalt on them. The potholes even get repaired.

However...sometimes, a person can get lost. Sometimes, some poor schmuck from outside of Washington DC takes a wrong turn and gets confused. Trying to use a side-road to turn off of, certain that it will take them back to the highway and civilization. 

That person will drive down a back road very slowly. A road like Mill Swamp Road. The road itself is only partially paved. A lot of potholes. But there is a lot of green on either side. It's breathtaking. For a moment, the driver forgets being frustrated at having made a wrong turn.

The lost driver gets distracted in the verdant beauty of the green surrounding the road. Huge trunks packed together, stretching high into the sky. The branches are lush with the leaves of so many different types of trees. They creep out over the road, creating interesting shadows in the wind, playing with the light of the warm sun.

And these thick forests will suddenly give way to great, open fields. The grass is emerald and grows high. At certain points of the day, the driver may get a glimpse of deer grazing. Or perhaps spot a hawk flying with the blue sky and perfectly white clouds above it. 

These awe-inspiring views are suddenly ripped away as the lost driver comes across a pocket of the redneck apocalypse. 

Dead lands of hatred for nature thrust themselves out in scenes of angry, rusted metal. Fields of discarded, hateful, half-assed and petty dreams. Trucks and cars that will never enjoy being driven at full-throttle up on concrete blocks. So many unremembered metal shards hiding in the brown and chemically changed dirt ready to give a deadly dose of tetanus and lockjaw to the unwary traveler.

And as the lost driver recoils from the sight of mangled and diseased land, he or she may come across something odd. An oddity off to the side of Mill Swamp Road. An oddity that triggers an automatic response within the lost driver that is as old as mankind.

The most basic of instincts will suddenly appear in the lost driver's brain, a warning of do NOT stop, keep moving, this thing you are seeing is odd, curious and somehow odious, keep moving, keep moving, KEEP MOVING!!!

That odd thing will be a man.

A man who calls himself...Car. 

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: this story is NOT entirely fictional. You have been warned.)

LCD Music by Stephen Gearhart

A whir. A hum. And a click.

A squat box-frame on the table makes a very slight, swishing noise. The fan inside the frame quickly ramps up the speed. More clicking noises as the circuits come alive as small, red lights blink from behind belt-ribbons and wires. The lights and clicks synchronize after five minutes, becoming one, the internal fan increasing its speed, causing a barely audible whine.

A small, black box glides upwards on the pneumatic shaft. Smooth and sure, extending upwards until it can't. Silent, graceful and satisfying against the backdrop of the frame's pulsing lights and metronome clicks.

From the small box, two LCD-green lights flicker, become solid and pulse into intensity. A solid, almost death-like glow inside the dim room.

The small box, from its mount on the shaft, angles smoothly downwards, the dull and bright green lights scanning the wooden artifact. The pallid lights pulse once and then return to their nominal status.

Shadows of gears from inside of the frame start to move. Well-oiled, almost no noise, movement happens. A stick of dull metal pushes out from either side of the frame. The sticks start to telescope smoothly, joints from recessed points appearing to create articulation.

At the end of each stick, much smaller slats, connected to each other by black-diamond filaments slide out and dangle before they stabilize and become webs of structure and fine movements. A sub-routine allows the webs to go through a test series of movements.

In an odd jerky movement, the sticks and webs move to the object on the table but still nimbly pick it up. There is a long pause: the next movement carefully plotted.

The right stick and its web gently and slowly moves to cradle the body of the acoustic guitar. The left stick and its web gingerly hold the neck, not touching the strings. The right stick makes an adjustment and its web hovers over the strings. Another pause as the internal application uses a random algorithm to make a choice.

It's not known where the Martin D-18 1947 instrument came from. The dull wood shows the guitar's age. It's fragile as it's held by the sticks and web, looking as if it is about to be destroyed in a violent and crushing action by the webs.

The algorithm makes its random choices.

The web over the body starts to pick and strum at the six strings in perfect time. The web on the neck glides over the frets, the right pressure to make the notes happen. Pressing down to make the single notes, squeezing with predetermined strength for the bar chords when called for. The web strumming causing the right string vibrations.

The webs move fluidly, playing Victor Young's “Beautiful Love”. Pausing at the end to allow the algorithm to upload the next song to play...Vivald's “Concerto for Guitar in D minor”.

Perfect movement. Perfect articulation on the strings. Perfect timing. Perfect notes.

Once done, the sticks and webs placed the instrument down. Gently. The webs slipping back inside of the metal sticks. The sticks move back to within the frame. Small swish noises as the parts glide back into their housing.

The dull lights flicker off. The shaft glides downwards, taking the small box with it into the frame. The clicks and blinking lights slowly move out of syncopation until they stop. The fan shuts off. The almost inaudible whine fading away.

A whir. A hum. And a click.

The experiment was a failure.