Yeah. Proud of that.
Author: G. Derek Adams
Author of Spell/Sword. Trouble maker.
452 Words About Grief
Other people’s grief has always made me deeply uncomfortable. Averting my eyes, and scurrying out of the area as quickly as possible.
Grief was this grey-jacket loomer, an insurance salesman with faded hat — pushing his pamphlets, with a concrete-block hand flopped on his customer’s shoulder.
Seeing their eyes, their tears, the megaton-emotion radiating — I accelerate and ghost out of the room. Relieved and glad as the sun and wind found me on the outside, and away.
But then, one day for all of us — the knock at the door.
Grief slides in through the keyhole, looking for a place to hang its hat and dripping rain on the linoleum. It smiles a greasy smile and guides you to a chair, water and paper spattering on the kitchen table.
Now it’s your grief.
Now it’s my grief.
He visits each of us in turn. Sometimes rarely, sometime with pop tart regularity — sometimes he moves right in, propping his big rubber shoes on the ottoman, ruining the fabric with rain, and stays and stays. A few find a way to love their Grief, holding him close in the fish-clammy darkness of their beds.
Grief is a devoted husband.
Grief will break you, if you let him. Gum you slowly into oblivion, catfish jaws working and dripping dripping dripping.
My Grief is mine. If I try to explain what brought him to my door, you will nod and seem to understand — but you won’t. Just like I won’t understand if you tell me about your grey-fish insurance man. We all lose souls, and only the client knows what brings the pamphlet-pusher.
All I want to say, as I get heavier with rain and concrete — is that I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I ran out of the room when your Grief came to call.
And some advice, that a very wise friend once gave me. The Three Rules of Grief.
Every day you must:
1. Take a shower.
2. Eat.
3. Go to work.
That’s it. That’s all you should ask of yourself. If you do those three things you can feel as bad as you want, for as long as you want. If you don’t do those three things, you will follow them down into the grave.
If you need to break the rules, you will. That’s okay – it’s the Fourth Rule.
Handle it as you can, when you can – and recognize that you’ll sometimes snicker, or sing a song, or smile in the sun – and your Grief will sigh, and look very importantly at you over his glasses. And you’ll feel like you should cry a little harder to make up for forgetting that he was in the room.
Don’t.
Life and sorrow get in the way.
Expect this blog to be fairly quiet this week.
Story on Demand
Make me tell you a story. Drop a comment, and I’ll pick the shiniest idea and write a short scene piece of microfiction this weekend — just for you.
Crack the whip.
Okay, enough star- and navel-gazing. Back to the grind, gotta burn a village down and introduce a set of wyvern-riding badasses.
75 pages by this weekend.
Divine Retribution
I think yesterday’s post was the first time I’ve ever directly referred to That Thing as a “book”.
And I’m freaking out slightly — like the heavens are going to open and rain down lightning bolts and ninja cats on me.
Anybody else have this psychosis?
This is what my book is about.
Sing in me, O Muse
the tale of two travelers, the ones who burned
across ruddy hill and serpent trail —
the last golden days of youth
before the fall.
Spell and sword,
song and steel-
the green hills roll on, and the dark forest waits
but before the sun dies,
let the thousand tales be told again,
forgotten cradle-rhymes spun again,
glory-gold and terror-black,
the tale of two
before the shadows fall.
[A scribble – possible foreward for That Thing. Or is that too pompous to even talk about? And YES – I have huge nerd boner for Homer.]
In Communist Russia, Kindle reads you!
I’ve been doing some very basic research on Kindle Direct Publishing — and I’m curious, what do you WordPress illuminati think about it?
Personally, I’m very intrigued — it seems like a fascinating tool to self-publish, completely doing an end-run around the paper-publishing brontosaurs.
Ultimately, this is all Top of the Mountain stuff, while I labor mightily on the slopes — but still rolling it around in my mind palace. [Sherlock reference — sorry, thought this was Tumblr for a second.]
Thoughts – opinions-actual experience?
Glass Dogs
The latches of his guitar case were brass, but they hadn’t closed properly in years. The case was cracked red leather – an elaborate network of twine kept it shut for travel, and generally he had plenty of time before a show to tease loose the knots.
Running through the midnight streets, breathing hard, with seven ghost-faced dogs on his heels, Max wished he had scraped up the coin to get the latches fixed.
He tumbled over a cart full of purple pears, and watched as the guitar case went skidding across the cobblestone street. He ignored the cries of the cart’s owner, and the blood coming from his scratched hands, and crawled after the case desperately. He laid one hand on it, as the first dog skidded to a stop.
Someone had spent a pretty purse on their construction, brass tubes vented steam, and through its transparent skin Max could see the fierce engine cackling and turning. The dog’s hide was mostly turtle-glass, with strips of steel binding the seams and joints. It opened its crystal jaws, and growled – the sound of breaking crockery.
Max’s face stretched into a smile, and he ran a hand through his hair. It was silver-gold this month, and looked absolutely absurd and didn’t go with the electric blue of his long leather coat. Max had a deep, abiding belief in absurdity. I’ve got to get this damn case open, which means I have to…oh, Sid and Nancy.
He pulled his case close, and barreled his way towards the burning-glass dog, trying to angle his shoulder protectively.
Glass dogs are hard.
Max managed to carom off the construct’s left flank and spin into the street. Just in time to see the other six tear around the corner, and point their glass-snouts at him.
“Aaaaaaaah.” he said, quieter than he would have preferred. He was still sucking in air after hitting the first dog.
Max stumbled forward, and climbed up on the first high point he could find. A jewelry stand, made from a couple of boards stretched across two empty metal drums. The shopkeeper screamed at him, but fled upon seeing the glass dogs. Max quickly dug into the front of his black slacks, and fished out the small knife he kept for emergencies. He sighed as he laid the knife to the first knot. These are going to be a devil to re-tie.
The old guitar case popped open, dirty twine falling on top of his blazing green boots. It had cost a month’s wages to have them actually light up, but Max had never regretted the purchase. Great art, requires great sacrifice.
It was red. Strings and steel, and love and pain. His guitar.
Max pulled the strap over his head, and turned to face the seven glass dogs. He nodded to them, as courtly as a queen — and hung the travel amplifier from his belt. Thumb on the power switch, all the lights turned green.
The bard pulled the pick from behind his ear, and tightened his Gamma string. The lighting on this street was less than optimal, but for an impromptu performance it would have to do.
He could still put on a show.
Max raised his hand to the heavens, then brought the pick down across the strings.
A roar of sound – a beginning. Cracks appeared in the faces of the first two dogs.
A quick arpeggio to loosen up his fingers. One of the dog’s steam engines began to suck in exhaust — condensation and fire forming inside the transparent creature.
A moment of silence, to gather his audience in — the glass dogs howled and leaped forward.
Max momentarily considered his song choice. These were lifeless machines sent to tear out his throat, they didn’t really have a say in the matter. Maybe he should go easy on them.
Then he remembered the cut knots. And he smiled.
Max played ‘Eruption’ and the dogs exploded. A thousand shimmering shards of glass and steel flew backwards from his music. Max played his guitar in the midnight streets, and the glass dogs were no more.
“That’ll teach you to tangle with a rock and roll god.” he said to the rubble, and did his best to correct the tangle of his hair.
“Yeah. A god.” he added, and stepped down off the stage.
[A story on demand for HereThereBeSpiders. I hope you enjoy it!]
[Here’s a link to the Van Halen song I referenced, if you are woefully uneducated. ]
A Prompt Prompt
I’m at my parent’s house this weekend, in the Elven Forest — and the internets are a weeeee little trickle, so probably no posting today or tomorrow.
Despite my unglamorous descent into fanfiction last weekend [thanks for the trolling, Jonathan.] – I still really dig the Story on Demand each weekend. So, throw a comment on this post with a bit of micro-fiction you’d like me to write. Setting, characters, genre, any other weird little wrinkles you want to throw on top.
I had been writing the story for whoever commented FIRST. But, this time, I’ll leave it open for 12 hours or so, and just pick the one that seems the most fun.
spell-sword.com 