Both Stories available now in one book–
A preview of The Spiral–
The Spiral
by David Rogers
Let’s get one thing straight. I’m a thief. Or was, anyway, before my adventure in the Spiral. I’m not embarrassed about what I did for a living.
Many–including the Prophets, the Moshedrin, the Jesada–would say I’m still a thief, whatever role I now play. Well, who isn’t? Everybody steals. The actor steals words from the playwright. The audience steals words from both. The reader steals words from the writer. You paid a copper penny read the book, see the show, hear the poem? A lifetime of work, joy, or agony went into those words. You could not begin to pay for them. Bankers steal from lawyers who steal from, well, everybody. And everybody steals from plants and animals to get the energy to survive. Animals even steal from each other. Stealing was the necessary invention without which evolution would have been impossible.
Don’t get me wrong, I was—and am—as fair and ethical as the next economic vigilante. Maybe more so. I stole only from crummy people who had more than they needed. That’s two criteria, mind you. Crummy. Rich. No necessary connection between the two. Looks can be deceptive on both points, but if you pay attention, you know what people are like. I’m also generous. Widows and orphans don’t go hungry on my watch, not if I’ve got an extra dime. These days, I have plenty of dimes to spare.
I was taught how to survive by a kindly benefactor, an older lady named Gnossa. She was the closest approximation of a mother to me. I was an orphan before she took me in. My earliest memories are of scavenging in alleys, looking for food and anything of value. While I grew up, I never knew my parents or their fate, whether they were killed, died of some disease, or simply abandoned me.
I clearly remember the day I met Gnossa. One of her girls came in the alley to empty trash and found me about to make off with a half-eaten sandwich. I might have been seven or eight years old, possibly as young as five or six. Assuming the girl would try to take the scraps from me, or worse, as often happened, I took out my one weapon, a rusty-bladed knife, and waved it as threateningly as a starved waif like me could.
The girl, of course, had no intention of taking my morsel or harming me. Eventually, she coaxed me inside with a promise of a whole new sandwich, all my own. Since I had no name that I knew of, Gnossa, after hearing the tale of my discovery, decided to call me Rusty Blade.
Rumors sometimes whispered that I was the son of one of the girls Gnossa took in and looked out for. Looking out for them meant seeing that customers were respectful and paid a handsome but fair price for all services. [. . .]
You can get the ebook for 99 cents, paperback for $4.99, or free for Kindle Unlimited:
Both stories also available from Jayhenge Anthologies: https://us.amazon.com/Whigmaleeries-Wives-Tales-Jessica-Augustsson-ebook/dp/B08HGL7LNY?ref_=ast_author_mpb and https://us.amazon.com/Chorochronos-Archives-Jessica-Augustsson-ebook/dp/B092588CJC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3FA8RBZ6PA05L&keywords=chorochronos+archives&qid=1684249500&s=digital-text&sprefix=chorochronos+archives%2Cdigital-text%2C185&sr=1-1
