Crazy at work, new puppy, editing the book, Lodestar – sorry I’m neglecting you.
I’ll be back.
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Pilgrim’s Progress
I’m about 65% done with my first read of the rough draft, and DAMN I BE POV SWITCHIN’.
But the chase/pitched battle against the Froggians is pretty sweet.
And there was a halfway decent hangover description.
Trying to stay positive, amidst the rubble and my fierce hatred of my own work.
Star Prophet V
Bite and tear,tears and bytes and the constellation Sagittarius. Will I ever be okay, like the fat children tumbling down the Sunday School Steps? The funeral limo smelled of peanuts, and I was empty as a comet — ice and light and empty black hurled tennis-ball across the net. The edge of a floppy disk in my bag, I stole it from Enrichment even though my uncle’s house has no computer. Just to hold it, just to slide it between my hands and think about the little packets of numbers, the glowing green lines of longitude — the way they formed lego-stout another planet.
Everything’s all mixed up. Everything happens at the same time.
Star Prophet flopped down on a dune, and skimmed a coke can across a few waves. He was pretty good. My uncle’s fist slams into my face again and again, and I’m full of waves, salt water in a ziplock bag full, fuller — then burst. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. The boy, and his fingers and the moons, and the rocket ships burning , solid state fuel of pain. My uncle’s hand on my chest, and I’m glad I’m still flat but it won’t be long. Star Prophet’s red goggles are fogged up , and he pushes them up his face and leans in close and plants a graveside kiss on my brow.
“It’s all still out there. Waiting for you. For all of us. It was promised.” There’s snot on his nose, it’s November, white star peeling on his head like a crown of lilies. “Don’t forget.”
“What?”
“Don’t forget the Cheetos.”
Hunter in the Dark I
–th of Handspan, 11–
I write these words carefully.
Quill in my right hand, nib pressing against my left hand’s fingertips. I don’t know why it concerns me to write these sentences evenly, as I will never read them – and I have no plans to share these words with another soul.
From what my new companions tell me, it has been over ten years since my sight was taken from me. I was an old man even before my time in Dra’Lusair, many lives and turns of the road — but in my favorite I was a scholar. I find comfort in the scratch of the ink on the page. The words slide through my mind, then disappear into the dark.
The only candle I have left is my imagination and my memory –and oh, how they flicker.
Maybe after all the years in the dark it is a comfort to put my words somewhere, instead of them endlessly whirling around in my tiny teardrop cell. Or perhaps because there has been little opportunity for conversation since my … release? Deliverance?
My new companions are an interesting group. A master swordsman, a cultured riflewoman, a cowardly wizard, a reckless gladiator, a driven soldier, and their leader, Simon. A paradox — he seems the most carefree and feckless of them all, but each of them follows him without question. He is a man who laughs first and often, but I can hear a familiar sound in his voice. The breaking sound.
And of course, my closest shadow — the Tyr-Elf exile. Stone is cruel, and the stone elves of Iax proved it on her flesh in the stagnant dark of their underground city. As the only one who can speak her people’s brutal tongue, she has taken on the duty of shepherding the old blind man, she is never far if I require anything. She speaks little of her imprisonment, or the source of her people’s disgust for her — I would not dream to pry further.Nyver is the name she uses, the Tyr-Elf word translated simply as “exile”, but more fluently as “Die Under The Sun”.
Ah — my new companions have completed their preparations, and we make haste for the edge of the Stone Elves’ caverns. To the surface, then across the savannah to where Simon has hidden his ship, that will bear us all across the sea.
Across the sea, to find the scent of my quarry.
You should have killed me, Rime. I know you could have found a way. I swear you will regret the elegance of my destruction.
[From the journals of Linus, last Falcon of the Hunt. Found after his death.]
Just another Saturday night.
A short scene — continued?
I realize that I write a lot of “micro-fiction” — little scenes that evoke a mood, or at the very least give my nervous fingers a place to roam. Generally, I like them — there’s something pleasant about a nice little haiku of a story, balanced and complete on the edge of a sword. Often just to catch a shimmery little butterfly-idea, or a nice turn of phrase.
Plus, they don’t take too long to write.
Also — I think a lot of fiction on ‘teh intarwebs’ quickly spirals down into TLDR -country. The main purpose of this blog is to showcase my writing in easily palatable little dribs and drabs.
But, am I getting into a bad habit? Would any of you like to see some longer pieces — or the continuation of a shorter piece I’ve posted before? I’ve been poking at Star Prophet and thinking about turning it into a full short story. Thoughts?
I miss working on the book.
Stupid cooldown period — it’s like buying a gun!
In Cold Blood
Don’t ever read In Cold Blood if you ever plan on writing anything again. EVER.
It’s a master-class in prose, labyrinthine blocks of text that hang effortlessly in the air. Compound that with the level of research that went into it, the pure journalistic wildfire of it all.
I was feeling proud of my little tale of sword-fights and dinosaurs. But now – completely humbled. Important perspective, but damn.
EVER.
Quiet as a tomb.
The blog’s been quiet this week — mainly just me pushing my friends’ projects on you. If you’ll notice the sidebar, I’ve actually been getting some writing done — I’m in the last leg of the “book” and can see the finish line in sight.
So…yeah…….deal with it?
Can’t claim credit for that. Really. I want to, but obiwannabe is the guilty party. Go check out his blog and remember to inundate his comment section when he asks you to. I dare you.
What is it that grips a completely normal person and turns them into a hideous recluse spouting at imaginary people who run around slicing off Kings’ heads and spearing babes?
Well, it’s their third nipple, of course.
You see, some of us are born with an extra one. As obiwannabe explains, it is normally not talked about in polite conversation so many of us who have one are not even aware we got an extra nipple running around on our torso, even though we’ve had them all our lives.
I found mine last week. It peeked out at me from under my armpit.
I said to it, “What are you doing there, Third Nipple?…
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