They met up two times a year, when each of them took their mandatory vacations at an exclusive resort in St. Lucia. Paradise–the best place for emptying the mind of all but the most pleasurable distractions. Also the best place for idle conversation between two old friends.

Idle conversation between two genius scientists working together in different divisions of a government project involving the highest of high technology can be inspirational–especially on an empty mind.

A particular inspiration occurred in December of 1954, when Jimmy, after a long pull on the straw in his chocolaty rum drink, said, “We need a bigger computer.”

Buck watched the rolling waves. “Geez, really? Isn’t your computer as big as this island?”

Jimmy laughed. “I think so. But we need more computing power.”

Two islander girls in bikinis strolled by. One was an off-duty cocktail waitress. She waved.

Buck waved back. He said, “Too bad we can’t link our computers together and use both of ’em as one. We could always use more computing power, too.”

Jimmy snorted, “Yeah, we could hook ’em together with a cord stretching from New York to Nevada! Like a telephone line or something.”

They giggled and stared at the ocean.

“Hmm,” said Buck after about two minutes.

They looked at each other.

***

Jimmy and Buck worked on a project that allowed them access to technology that wouldn’t become public knowledge for twenty years or more, along with money, manpower, and scientific carte blanche.

One year after their chat on the beach, a fiber optic cable system linked their two computers together, along with two in Washington D.C.

From Paradise, the Internet was born.

***

One afternoon, a month after establishing their interconnected computer network, Buck realized that they could talk to each other on it. He called Jimmy and they set up an interface.

Cool, typed Jimmy.

Cool, typed back Buck.

This is like typing over the phone.

Yes. Our internet is like an electronic instant message system.

We can keep each other informed about the project from our workstations. We won’t even have to pick up the phone and dial. Internet?

You’re right! That’s brilliant. But we’ll have to type. It’s a little slow for me here. I didn’t want to type out interconnected network so I smooshed the words together.

Oh. It’s slow for me, too. My secretary would be good at it.

We should tell someone about this.

We should.

I have to go. I’ll be right back.

Okay.

And so it went. Buck and Jimmy talked to each other with their instant messages more than they’d ever talked before. Both improved their typing skills. They forgot to tell anyone about it.

One day, when he opened the instant message network and switched on his monitor, a bright light and a loud pop from the terminal sent Buck sprawling backward off his chair.

Standing, he saw his monitor displaying the impossible.

There was a photograph on the screen–a screen that had previously amazed Buck by visually representing a bicolored cube. Buck leaned close to get a look at the picture of a middle-aged woman with jet-black hair and too much makeup on her bright white skin. Under the photo was a title of sorts:
Hater Bait
Suck it if you can’t take a joke.

Buck read the writing in the column beside the photo of Hater Bait.

It was a journal entry. Or, a blog entry, as he learned later–after scrolling through months’ worth of such entries.

“How fast can you get here?” Buck asked Jimmy over the phone.

***

“I think it’s because of the accelerator,” Buck said after he showed Jimmy the blog. “It was running when I opened the network. I think it made some sort of electronic bridge to the future.”

Jimmy stared at Buck.

“Well, I don’t know, Jimmy. It’s just an idea.”

But Jimmy was stricken. He’d finished the latest blog entry. It was dated October 6th, 2008. The straggled writing of Hater Bait’s horror-ridden blather lay below the title, WTF? TV. GET YER HEAD OUT YER ASS!

It read in part: tv is my god but the internet kicks it’s ass allover. If TV doesn’t catch up with the internet soon it’s gonna be dead. like for instence, this. I love that show The Destructinator: Kara Sawyer’s Chronicle. omg I love that chick destructinator. She’s so hot. but then I think while i’m watchin it that maybe id like to see that chick in a bikin, or maybe i want to see her tits. I can’t just open a window on my tv. Thank god for the internet. i can pause the fuckin tv and go look up that chick;s name and find pics of her tits in like, two minutes. Fuckin Sweet Internet.

Without the intertent, we’d never see any famous chicks tits.

And all you pervy nerds out there wouldn’t get ta see mine. btw, got a new pushup and my webcams hooked back up–show soon.

I remember the detructinator movie when it came out was so scary. Robots killing people with nukes. i mean, in the 80’s were all scared of gettin blown upby russia or somethin. that was the scariest shit–robots or russia. Not so scary now, after 911. now we know we can get blown up at any second by any terrorist dick on the street. AIDS, global warming, stock market crashin. shit man, i read the news online every day. THATs scray.. Robots with nukes aren’t scary anymore.

But man that chick has great tits

“Jimmy?”

“We have to dismantle our network. And never tell anyone about electronic messaging. And never use the word internet again.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what half of that gibberish says.”

“But it’s bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Ow!”

“Watch it.”

“Who d’ya think you are?”

Cordelia ignored them all.

“Yes!” She snatched the latest Ruby Rare bestseller from the shelf and kissed it, before hugging it to her ample bosom. For seven hours she would live the life of a high-flying courtesan in Regency England.

When you’re unloved and unloveable, spoiled and rich, you take your romance where you can.

Cordelia stumbled in her eagerness to reach the counter and buy the book. An arm reached out and caught her, halting Cordelia’s fourteen stone as she plummeted to the floor.

“Thank you.” Cordelia gasped as she stared at her rescuer. Pitch black hair, devilish eyebrows above burning eyes, a sensuous mouth, and he held her fourteen stone effortlessly well, almost effortlessly. A small grunt did escape.

“You’re welcome,” said the handsome unknown. “What are you reading?” He plucked Last Chance for Love from her grasp.

“Hmm…” The stranger stared down at the drooling, lust-struck Cordelia. “Are you looking for love?”

Cordelia nodded dumbly and the stranger tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and tossed the book onto a shelf. “Shall we discuss your requirements?”–and he led Cordelia out of the store. She waddled beside him, hypnotised by her good fortune.

They sat in the food court, surrounded by noisy teenagers and the scent of frying food.

“Let me introduce myself. I am Lucifer.”

Cordelia’s mouth dropped open.

“You know, Satan, the devil.” The handsome stranger sounded a mite impatient, then his gathering scowl smoothed out. “I do like bookstores. So many people looking for new lives; hoping to slip into a better life for a few hours. Cordelia Jones, I offer people the opportunity to make their dream lives permanent.”

“P-p-permanent?”

“Of course. No shoddy deals. I have my reputation to consider.” Lucifer considered Cordelia’s round, not-too-bright face. “What’s your favourite book?”

“Ruby Rare’s Passionflower, where the heroine, Jasmine Knights, is slim and raven-haired with lips like ripe cherries, and every man who sees her wants her.”

Lucifer looked faintly sick, but he recovered. “I can transform you into Jasmine Knights.”

“You can?”

“Easily. A small matter of altering the fabric of reality, and I’ll be sitting across the table from the desirable Jasmine Knights.”

“D-d-desirable?” faltered Cordelia. She looked into Lucifer’s burning eyes and imagined his hands touching her, his body desiring hers, worshiping her. “Do it.”

“First there is a small matter of a contract.”

“I know.” Cordelia had a burst of brilliance, her intelligence momentarily enhanced by her fantasies. “You want my soul.”

“Something like that.” Lucifer handed over a sheet of paper and an elegant pen. His fingers brushed Cordelia’s wrist. “Jasmine.”

She signed quickly. “There.” She pushed the paper back at Lucifer. “Now change me.”

“Look into my eyes.”

***

Lucifer carefully re-capped the pen and folded the sheet of paper, slipping it into his jacket pocket. He left without looking back at Cordelia, who sat staring at nothing.

Two minutes later, Jasmine Knights stirred from her trance. She admired her slender fingers with their tapering nails, then ran her hands slowly over her delectable body. She tossed her raven hair and frowned. She would need new clothes to go with her new life.

Jasmine sauntered out of the food court, hips swaying seductively. Men stood aside for her. Behind her, teenagers snorted with laughter at the fat lady vamping it up.

In the car park, Lucifer cursed as he read the signature on Cordelia Jones’s power of attorney: Jasmine Knights.

Damn the woman. He had been a scrawled signature away from controlling the Jones’ fortune. Lucifer, a.k.a. Bobby Jones, lit a cigarette and smoked viciously. The taste of failure meant he’d be back to the hell of hypnotist shows on cruise ships. Blast the woman.

Inside the mall, Jasmine vamped on.

So, from now on, we will still be running interviews on the 15th, but one month later. The interview with October’s most-read author will be airing on the 15th of December, and November’s most-read author will be featured in January.

Today’s interview is with September’s most-read author, Greta Igl, author of “Free“. We hope you enjoy it!

Interview with Greta Igl 

EDF: What should people expect when they see a story with your byline under it?

GI: I pay close attention to psychology in my writing, what makes my characters tick, what their compulsions might drive them to do. My characters often have a black hole, some wound that leaves them empty. How they fill it drives their stories.

Beyond that, I’d say my signatures are setting, poeticism, and intentional ambiguity. I treat setting as a character in most of my work and I love using poetic imagery to lull and immerse the reader in it. I like the ebb and flow of language in a paragraph, how words and punctuation work together to create rhythm and pace. And I like to let the reader bring his or her experience to complete the story. I respect the individual life stories of my readers. They have every right to work in tandem with the text to create their own subjective meaning from it.

EDF: The protagonist in “Free” sees the fantastic in a loved one, but chooses to remain rooted in the mundane. Is this a common theme in your writing?

GI: Yes and no. I tend to favor the same kinds of unanswerable quandaries. The tension between our perception of the world and the world as it really exists. The choice of whether or not to act. I like a character who’s hiding just a bit from his reality. He has both his real world consequences and his illusions to lose.

EDF: Your blog, “For Write or Wrong“, mentions that you are currently working on finishing your 2007 NaNoWriMo novel, Jamieson’s Folly. Do you approach flash the same way you approached novel writing? What differences did you encounter?

GI: In general, I take the same approach. The character creates his or her own critical situation. From that, a story arc emerges.

The obvious difference is length and, with a novel’s length, the opportunity to develop the story arc. In flash, there’s generally a single plot point, so story arc is more straightforward. In a novel, I build the story in sections, creating several smaller plot points that build in suspense to the final climax. There are more opportunities for the main character’s fortunes to wax and wane. And more opportunities to develop intriguing subplots and supporting characters.

EDF: Your bio lists a plethora of writing credits, reading like a who’s who of the flash fiction markets. What techniques do you use to write effective flash?

GI: I always start with character and from character, the tension I mentioned. Once I know that aspect of a character, I see the critical problem that needs to be solved. I pay close attention to creating an immersive setting and building a complete story arc. Even with a short form like flash, you need a beginning, middle and end.

EDF: What has been your best moment as a writer so far? Your worst?

GI: My best moment was completing NaNoWriMo in 2007. I’m not a fast writer and I had to step outside my comfort zone and trust my creative instinct to just move my story forward. I tried things I’d never tried before, like working with a basic blueprint. Before I started Jamieson’s Folly, I had a clear idea how it would end, but little idea of how I’d get there. Mainly, I just jumped in with both feet and prayed. At the end of the month, I’d written this surprisingly cohesive novel. In that moment, I knew I was a real writer.

My worst moments were the months and months of rejections I endured before I had my first acceptance. I think as writers, we put tremendous pressure on ourselves to publish if we want to be “real writers”. I’ve since learned being a real writer is about sitting my butt down and writing, that it’s about commitment rather than some magical talent. But back then, I wasn’t so secure in my ability to get there. I needed the validation.

EDF: Where and when do you write? What music or other background noise do you prefer, or silence? And does the physical / background environment influence or affect your writing?

GI: I write in my crowded, messy office while my daughter naps or attends preschool. I’m a stay-at-home mom, so my writing time is tight. I write whenever I can. I don’t like any distractions, but I’ve learned to work with Beauty and the Beast playing in the background. I’m learning to be flexible and to work with what I’m given.

The physical environment influences me greatly. I find travel stimulating and rarely come home from any trip without at least one story. I find characters everywhere I go. And the natural world makes me hunger to paint it in words. I always travel with a fresh notebook and a fistful of pens. If I can, I bring my laptop. And I never, ever leave home without a small notepad in my purse.

EDF: What is next for you as a writer?

GI: Finishing Jamieson’s Folly! It’s a long haul editing a novel when your writing time shrinks daily. But I’m determined to get this novel out there. My protagonist, Nick, is an amazing guy and he’s given me an amazing story. He deserves for me do him justice.

EDF: Thank you for your time.

His watch blinked 10:08. Damn! His school night curfew was 10.

Sheldon’s galcit rocket was so cool–eighteen inches long, aluminum body, steel fins, annealed nozzle–that Larry forgot he was three miles from home and not just across the street at Jimmy’s house. Sheldon planned a big launch Saturday, on the hill behind his house.

Imagine that! Sheldon lived where all the space was not taken up by buildings.

Larry sprinted down Dimsdale Drive, halfway home. What a change a friend made! This morning, when Michael wanted him to skip school at the pool hall, Larry said no. Now that he had a friend, school was not so hateful.

He bounded up the steps to the porch of their end row house. Catching his breath, making as little noise as possible, he pressed the latch of the screen door.

Locked!

His father had been doing this at Michael’s midnight curfew, but Larry hadn’t thought he’d do it to him.
He was only a few minutes late. He pressed the doorbell. No sound inside. He pressed it again. Still no sound. Phase two of his father’s prevent defense was enforce, disable electricity to the outside.

Larry rapped on the aluminum screen door. It made a good, loud sound.

Larry’s knuckles stung in the cold air, but still no response from in the house.

He started banging on the door with the flat of one hand while shaking the handle with his other, amplifying the noise.

Finally, a light came on in his father’s bedroom. Heavy footsteps came down the inside stairs.
The chain rattled and the door swung open a few inches. His father’s grey eyes peered over the metal chain. “What!”

Like his father didn’t know. “Open the door,” Larry said.

“No.” His father shook his head. “You missed curfew. You know the consequences.”

“One time, Dad.” Larry heard the whine in his voice, but the ridiculousness of this lockout overwhelmed his control. “Just fifteen minutes.”

“I can’t make exceptions. You know that. Even a little soldier can’t be late. A miss is miss. Sleep on the porch tonight. Dismissed!” He slammed the door.

“But I’m not a soldier,” Larry screamed.

Frustrated, Larry pulled the summer lounge chair to the inner corner of the porch, where the overhang was greatest and the wind least. He slipped under the worn cushion. The metal of the chair was cold.

After he closed his eyes, a shiver started at his ears and worked its way down to his toes. That passed, Larry forced his mind to more pleasant thoughts. He imagined the smoke trail the galcit rocket would leave. He wondered how much higher it would go than his best launch, twice the heights of the twin oaks at the park.

***

Larry heard the crunch of leaves on the sidewalk. His eyes popped open. “Michael?”

A shadowy figure in the yard stopped and looked around. “Larry?”

“Up here.” Larry swung out from under the foam pad. “I got locked out.”

Michael came up to the porch. “I guess you’re not letting me in tonight.” He grabbed the screen door’s handle and shook it and banged on the panel. It made a terrible racket. Sure to bother neighbors as well as their father.

“I was late.” Larry grabbed his brother’s arm. “I deserved it.”

Michael shook him off and banged the door louder. “Nobody deserves it.”

Lights came on in the next house. Through an opened sash, Mr. Corci yelled, “Stop that noise. It’s after midnight.”

“You better stop, Michael.”

“Never!” He pounded the door. Still no sign from inside.

He kicked the metal front panel. It bent in with a distinct crunch.

Finally the front door opened again. “Two rule breakers!” Dad’s eyes tightened; his lips pulled back, showing his teeth. “I should have guessed. You both know the rules.” He paused. “The cool air is good for you.” He slammed the door.

“Cool air is good for us!” Michael yelled back.

Larry jumped up from the lounge chair. “Then it’s good for him, too.”

He folded the chair, picked it up, and threw it through the front window.

Lights came on in more houses.

The front door swung wide open. “What the hell?” Their father pushed the screen door, but it was jammed in place.

Larry and Michael jumped off the porch.

“Come on.” Michael grabbed his brother’s sleeve. “We can stay at the pool hall tonight.”