Born between worlds, Silvie fell in love with Earth when she first visited it.
She just didn’t like the culture, the politics, the noise.
So she decided to remake it the way she wanted it. Improve it. Civilize it. Regardless of who thought themselves in power.
Because they didn’t know real power. Silvie did. And had to prove it to several races who had tried to extinguish hers. Saving her own life was nothing new.
Compassion for others was.
Only a simple farmer in the middle of nowhere could stop her rampage before it started. And it was a good thing he wrote mystery stories for a living – because she was a living mystery…
(Part 2 of 4)
The Training: Sylvie – New Fiction Writing by S. H. Marpel
“Who the hell do you think you are? What are you doing here? Why shouldn’t I just end you right now?”
The dark-tanned young woman with white highlights in her coal-black hair had just quit throwing flaming fireballs at me. I had been hidden behind a lab table, whose top was covered in electronic projects. One of many lab tables in this vast steel-walled room with a burnished steel-tiled floor.
I’d been brought to this unknown location by another young woman, naed Tess, who could fold time and space. But she had disappeared soon after this dark woman in front of me started shooting fireballs by us.
The only evidence I had of her was the woven steel cable that used to anchor us to each other. A single fireball had parted it, and so lost me my only way back to the tiny Midwestern cabin where I wrote mystery books when I wasn’t managing a heard of white-belted mixed-breed cattle as a day job.
I knew who I was. And why I was here. The only question was whether that mattered enough to this dark woman that she wouldn’t “end” me right now.
“Hello. I’m here to have you tell me your story, so I can write it down for others to read your history.” Figured that the straight truth was simplest and most direct.
She stopped stock still at this. Here hands still fiery, but this took a bit to process.
I wasn’t begging for my life. I was certain of who I was and why. All I wanted to do was to help her.
And in my opinion, if she wanted to end me – well, it had been a nice run. That certainty gave me an unflinching look, and that bona fide attitude that made her pause. Just the effect I wanted.
“How do you figure I have a story that needs to be written?”
“At least your story needs to be told. If only to me. I haven’t met anyone that doesn’t have a story. Even infants who are only days old have a story. The question is really: Is your story worth telling? At least once…”
She was still stock still. Un-moving. The only change was that the fire in her hands went out. If she didn’t blink her white eyes occasionally, and breathe, you wouldn’t know she wasn’t a statue.
At last she cocked her head to one side. “OK. You’ve got a deal. I tell you my story. Then I’ll decide to end you or not.”
(Part 2 of 4)
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