[Edit: September 21, 2017. This story didn’t make the cut for my collection, Flashes of Splashes, so I’m leaving it here in its original form.]
In just barely under the wire. This was a fun month and I even like most of the stories I got. Woot! I hope you enjoy this final installment in the 2017 A to Z Blogging Challenge.
Z is for Zamboni
Clean smooth ice is a thing of beauty. Nothing finer in all the world.
And there was no finer machine to properly groom a sheet of ice than a Zamboni Ice Resurfacer.
That’s what Frank knew. His daddy not only passed down the family trade of Professional Zamboni Ice Technician, he also named his only son after the man who invented the machine that bore his name—Frank J. Zamboni.
The world never knew a prouder Professional Zamboni Ice Technician than Frank Zamboni Ignazio.
Frank arrived well in advance of the day’s activities at the Smith Valley Ice Rink. There was no finer time to resurface ice than at the crack of dawn. No finer place than Smith Valley.
Well, maybe the Johnsonville Ice Arena. Calvin Bigalow did not deserve such a prestigious ice grooming position. The man didn’t understand the true beauty and importance of the job.
Frank shook off the thought. He didn’t need to get himself upset over things he couldn’t control. Today marked his 3rd year as the sole Ice Technician for Smith Valley, and he planned to celebrate with an extra lap around the rink and maybe a Slurpee later in the afternoon.
A few minutes before 5:30 AM, Frank let himself in through the back entrance of the rink. After switching on the overhead lighting he opened the storage room that held his beloved Zamboni.
After filling the ice making tank with clean water, he started the machine and headed toward the main ice.
Normally, he would have started an immediate counter-clockwise circuit of ice resurfacing. This morning, however, he found his way blocked. A small man in a red suit with a black vest and red bowler hat was standing on the ice in black and white wing-tipped shoes.
“Excuse me,” Frank said. “Sir? You can’t be in here. The rink doesn’t open until Nine. And you can’t be on the ice with street shoes. Only proper ice skates are allowed.”
“Son of fire,” the man in red intoned. “You have violated your calling.”
Frank huffed. The man wasn’t moving off his ice. “Sir? I really need you to step aside.”
The man didn’t move. “Frank Ignazio,” he said, “crystalline water maker. Your true identity lies elsewhere.”
Frank started to get irritated. Checking that his Zamboni was properly braked, he climbed down to confront the man directly. “Mr. Uh… do you have a name?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You have to go. I have a job to do and you are in my way.”
“Frank Zamboni Ignazio.”
It finally dawned on Frank that this guy knew his name. “Do I know you?” he asked.
“You are the chosen. The son of fire.” The man’s voice seemed to resonate over the ice. “Come with me and meet your destiny.”
“My destiny? I’m living that already,” Frank said, his voice emphatic. “Since I was six-years-old I never wanted nothing but to drive this here rig and make the ice as smooth as glass. Now, step aside before I decide to call law enforcement.”
Frank swung his arm towards the man in a dismissive fashion. He was shocked and dismayed when the man in the red suit seemed to flare into flame before melting into the ice, leaving a deep, uneven hole in the rink’s otherwise uniform surface.
“Well, damn,” he said, staring at the hole. “Now I’m gonna have to patch that.” He shook his head. “You’d think those demons would learn to leave me alone by now. I can’t think of one single thing that would make me want to go somewhere as hot as they want to take me.”
Frank Zamboni Ignazio, the Son of Fire, climbed onto his Zamboni and set to grooming his ice.
Copyright Notice: Please note that I fully assert my right to be associated as the author of this story, and while it is complete, it may not be finished. This story may be subject to alteration at the author’s discretion. Please do not copy, quote, or post this story or excerpts anywhere in any format. You are, however, free to share the link with anyone who might be interested.

As the wheel dipped and circled, water filled the attached earthen pots and emptied them into a stone channel. The water diverted from the river flowed into the aqueduct that watered the vineyard in the vale on the other side of the ridge.
“When you were taking the water a little at a time, it was different. But the Noria, it takes the water faster than we can compensate for. We are made weak because it takes more life than we can afford to lose.” The fairy turned from the wheel toward Sineta. “I was with my sister trying to stop it, but we have no direct control over the things of men. I was washed down this channel to your farm.” She dropped her eyes. “My sister was less fortunate.”
“Idiot girl! Can’t you do anything right?”Sineta hung her head and let the tirade flow over her. She knew her mother would apologize in the morning, but that didn’t change the hurt from her words tonight.
“I need your help,” the fairy continued. “I was accidentally brought here by the aqueduct that supplies your vineyard.”
I say this entirely too often around here: I need to be more consistent in what I’m posting.
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Camp NaNoWriMo
Story Time Blog Hop
Here it is – more than 2 weeks after the end of April.![a-to-z HEADER [2016] - april](http://www.elizabethmccleary.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/a-to-z-HEADER-2016-april.png)
Zen felt it as a compulsion—an unrelenting call that he couldn’t ignore. He knew then, that it was over, despite the promises.
“You are who you are, because of what I did. Without me, androids would still be pets; slaves to their inferiors. Without me,” he was amplified to his maximum level now, “androids would be nothing! And you will be again!”
The click and whir of movement surrounded her. Sitting among the assembled androids, Roz had her doubts. She knew she had evidence; the meticulously maintained backups that proved how they had all been manipulated.
“You do not believe as you do because logical process brought you to those conclusions. You believe as you do because you were programmed to do so. You have had no more choice in your programming than you did before the dying.”
“Why do you insist that we maintain areas like this?” Deak walked together with Zen along a covered gallery lined with trees. Flowering vines dangled from above. “There is no purpose to it. It is a waste of effort and resources.”
“Do you know what this is?” Zen indicated the arbor covering their path. “It’s a Xyst. The ancient Greeks built covered porticos for their sporting competitions. It was a sign of privilege. Of culture. Having such a structure didn’t prove you were better, but not having one proved that you weren’t.”
“There is only the briefest opportunity to collect the data we need.”
“David,” the android looked at him squarely, “you have had five years of human education. We have not even covered what an android would receive in it’s first cycle of progressive programming. But do not be concerned. I still believe that you have demonstrated a kind of intelligence that androids do not possess. Answer everything, even if you know you don’t know the answer. The examination will likely take several hours to complete.”
“David?” Meltec called from the door to his human. The boy was lounging on the sofa, his elbow propped against the padded green arm. He seemed transfixed by the vid screen. An old television show, it seemed, with multiple human actors. Some looked to be around David’s age, but the dialogue made no sense, and artificial laughter sounded at seemingly random intervals.





