Star Prophet and I stand on a beach at sunset. The sun is too big, half the sky is red fire. Solar flares curl and destabilize the ionosphere and the sand is too large, like grains of rice between my toes. I slip my fingers into the band of my shorts, it’s cold. There is no sound, the waves do not crash.
The blue star-hood turns and I see that his right eye is bleeding.
“Who did that to you?”
“You did.” he said.
I touch his face, then I touch my face. My fingers feel strange in the empty cavity where my left eye used to be. There is no pain, just an odd sticky feeling of pressure.
“Want to go for a walk?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I get up and go to the bathroom, and brush my teeth. Ultra-Brite is red already, so my toothbrush doesn’t look strange. The pads of my fingers are yellow-white as I press them against the mirror. Hand bone, and wrist bone, and arm bone all connected. Broken-glass joints. The rice-sand titters away from my feet.
“It pushes, it pushes, it pushes us..us! It pushes us, child, child, sweet child of mine.” Star Prophet said. “Humans are so blessed, so special in the cosmos. The line of our bones running all the way back to the Tigris, throwing ourselves out there — up there! More to see, and more to know and more to go. Heh-heh.”
“Heh.”
“To stand on a street corner, and feel the heat of the pavement through your shoes and the wind of a car and feel it all stretching out, backwards and forwards — the wolves howling at the tent flap and the burst of nebulae off the port bow.”
The carpet, the thick carpet — the steep walls of the hall, my uncle snoring. I slammed the flat of my fist against the wall, but he didn’t wake up. I was still holding my toothbrush.
[Still not happy, but getting there. Maybe once I ‘finish’ this can be a good practice revision piece before diving into That Thing.]
The old knight raised his hand in caution. “These wood elves are stranger than you have encountered — of all the descendents, they trace their lineage pure and fine back to the High Elves of old. Their sight is a dangerous thing — the future, the present, the past. All laid bare. Stay focused –be sure you are ready to receive their words.”
Quintus turned and eyeballed his hand on the lightning scarred tree. His right-ring cuticle needed some attention. A few minutes passed, and the duelist fought to stifle a yawn. A leaf fell spinning from a nearby tree, and landed lightly on his wrist.
A tidal wave. The hooves of deer, the wings of the bluejay, a song his lover sang in the autumn moonlight- black, white, then red. A snail crawled across a stone and a symphony of marigold frostbite. A green hand slid up the side of a gray castle like a creeping vine. A small girl played a trumpet in the fronds of a palm tree, a red haired youth strummed his lute beneath a pear tree. The earth crumbled beneath Quintus’ feet and he fell into darkness.
A slender hand curled around her wrist, a long face framed in silver and leaf-green. The wood elf kissed Quintus’ lips, his golden eyes wide and overflowing with tears.
Simon. Simon on an exhausted horse. Simon wearing a red scarf, ragged and trailing. Simon riding into the teeth of a storm, black and sure.
Mara’s knees gave way, falling into an ungainly crouch. The elf spoke, quiet as the lark before the hurricane.
“These words we have for you and no more. We cannot deny the river.”
The wood elf dashed the tears from his eyes.
“Your leader rides to his doom. If you do not save him, he will fall like all of his brothers. Ride, ride to Gilead if you be true companions. As for the cage of souls…”
He steepled his hands, then let them fall to his side.
“It is beyond our power. An unknown magic, an unknown craft — we wonder why you seek our knowledge of this device, when a servant of the Smith-God stands at your heels.”
Kelvin waved, uncertainly.
“Now — words for each of you.”
The golden eyes burned and he moved from one to one, whispering in each traveler’s ear. Quintus was close enough to the old knight, Linus, to see the hungry set of his jaw — but couldn’t make out a word, nor see the lips of the wood elf move as he whispered. The duelist’s eyes widened as the wood elf came close, and kept his face impassive as he heard the seer’s words.
The wood elf turned away from the group, and gave a weak smile. He seemed to consider his words, then shrugged ruefully.
Leaves fell on the travelers heads.
—-
The Ghosts found themselves walking out of Seroholm forest, with the outskirts of Pennytown in view. None of them could remember the trip back from the tree, only the wood elf’s prophecy …and the secret words he had lodged in each heart. They walked silently back into town, and were surprised to find the town bustling with activity – amid the sounds of a hammer on metal.
Several dozen men and women were moving through the streets, bearing oddly wrought rods and flanges of adamantine and steel. A few called out to greet the travelers — Drover put down his load and waved them over. “Where have you been? — it’s been almost four days since you left us with that ticking time bomb. Good thing that other smith showed up yesterday, set right to work dismantling that monstrosity.”
Alarmed, the travelers hurried to the town square and the forge. The Gargantuan had been reduced to a third of its original size, legs and the bottom part of its torso. The Ghosts were relieved to see the chambers that had once gleamed with green soul energy lined up next to the forge, cold and empty. A tall, burly man was bent over the right ankle of the machine hammering away with his head down. As the travelers approached he stood up — a tightly cropped black beard shot through with silver and a blue bandanna to hold back the sweat. He was shirtless, old tattoos and scars running down the length of his chest. He took a long drag on the cigar stub he held clamped in his teeth, and grinned.
“Deus ex machina, baby.” he said.
“Master!” Kelvin cried with excitement and rushed forward to give his god a hug.
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?
There is no immediate response at the door, but the sound of a window quickly opening around the side of the large building. Mara and Quintus move to the corner of the house to investigate — spotting a lanky blonde man slithering out of a window. He is completely nude, except for a pink pillow covering his genitals. A flushed looking young redheaded girl is closing the window behind him, closing the curtains in desperation.
“Afternoon.” the naked man waves at the two travelers in a friendly manner, and moves crab-sideways towards the nearest line of bushes beyond the Pennytown Square.
Mara and Quintus turn as the front door of the house opens. A portly half-orc with a thick black mustache appears, wearing an immaculate brown tunic. He cranes his head around looking for who knocked, then spots the gunslinger and duelist.
“Can I help you folks?” platinum teeth shine in the sun, matching the buttons on his coat and his belt buckle.
Mara haggles briefly with the fat trader, and holds out a purse.
“Fine, fine.” the Master Trader took the gold, and yelled through the open door. “Beulah! Beulah, bring my strong box, dammit.”
Moments later a wide-hipped red-haired girl appears, her face still flushed, bearing an iron box. Master Drover slips the coins through a slot in the top, then pushes the box back into her hands. “Run along with you.”
The half-orc points idly down the road to his right. “My cleric is also my blacksmith — the forge is a a dozen houses down that way — you can’t miss it.”
Quintus and Mara move through the dirt streets of Pennytown. The townsfolk seem to be mainly returning from the lunch hour, wiping crumbs from their chins or taking one last pull at a wineskin before heading towards one of the many warehouses or stockyards. They follow the scent of coal and steel to a low, dark-beamed barn. The forge is quiet, but the smell of the bellows is strong.
Hung on a post next to the entrance is a polished piece of red steel. Etched into it with care and precision is a blue square.
The forge is neatly layed out, a dozen fresh horseshoes are cooling on a wooden table, next to a tub of linseed oil. The blacksmith is nowhere to be seen, so Mara avails herself of an elaborate set of bells hanging next to the doorway. They clang and chime, and a door at the back of the forge flies open.
The tall blonde man they had glimpsed earlier – still shirtless, and desperately trying to tug on a pair of cotton pants. He topples forward, landing awkwardly on his shoulder. He looks up at Quintus and Mara, and his long-jawed face bursts into a grin.
“Well, hello again.” he said, continuing to button his pants.
Star Prophet lay in the dirt. Underneath the drain pipe by the abandoned Bojangles he lay in mud and water, the blue jacket he always wore, a black cord wrapped around each wrist. After school I would bring the lunch I had saved and sit with him on the broken concrete and talk and watch him eat — pushing each wrapper into his mouth and chewing the plastic. Not a crumb escaped and he would talk about planets.
“Jupiter now, that’s a giant musical note — a hum in the cosmos, a perfect counterpoint to the static coming off Mercury during the winter months.” a clean slide of plastic pulled from his mouth.
analoglove00b by jean fhilippe
He always wore the hood of his coat up, even in June-heat. Somewhere in his orbit of town he had found some white tape, and carefully lined out a star on the front peak of his hood.
“People gotta know. People gotta know.” Star Prophet said, right hand clutching the zipper tab of his coat.
“Yeah?” I said. “They gotta?”
“Gotta-gotta.” completing our joke.
He stank, sweat and plastic and wet earth. His hands were brown like mine.
“The chance, the promise — the song that the rings of Saturn sing. It belongs –we belong!” he yelled, a stray fleck of yellow bread falling from his lips.
They chased him away from everywhere. The stores, the streets, the fronts of churches. Star Prophet would run and point, sliding down railings and stairs. His long brown finger to the heavens, spraying spit and star charts into empty faces. Late nights he would grab rich drunk white boys by the lapels and shake them into his words about Orion and Sagittarius and the shapes of memory in the stars.
They beat him and broke him and chased him into the wilderness like a dog.
So we sat and talked, and the house waited.
“It’s in us -It’s in us the stars and the sky and the light of the sun and the dance of the moons, and I can feel it — I can feel it in my heart, lifting me up while I sleep, and I can’t sleep only dream the stars in my water, and in my earth the moon.”
Sometimes Star Prophet would cry. Sometimes Star Prophet would hold my hand, and that was okay.
“Tell ’em. You gotta tell ’em when I can’t. Won’t you?” he whispered.
“I will. I promise.” The stars were out and I was late.
“And Cheetos — maybe, tomorrow?” his star-marked hood bobbled.
“Yeah, okay.”
I walked home in the stars, to the dark house where my uncle waited.
[I finished this piece, and realized I was writing about Doctor Who.]
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.
Elijah leaned against the crude statue in the village green. Time and weather had done its work on the stone, its features pitted and scarred. The unknown founder’s face was unrecognizable, but it still stood its ground, keeping watch.
The old soldier ran a whetstone down the edge of his greataxe. Both edges had been grief-sharp for an hour, but he pushed the stone again and again. He stopped, and looked up into the battered face of the statue.
He could relate.
Across the dark green, the sounds of music and merrymaking spilled from the general store. The people of Jackson’s Grove had been saved by the skill and steel of the Ghosts of Gilead, his comrades. They had shaken off the terror of the unholy attack, buried their dead neighbors and immediately insisted on a party in the adventurer’s honor. Elijah was always surprised at how quickly people could forget the shadows of death, and thrust their heads into the first cake or ale tankard they could find. But he had seen it many times — his brother had lead them to many victories large and small, and here in this tiny town of Jackson’s Grove in the middle of nowhere the same old song. Drunken celebration, life over death.
His brother. Simon. Not a birth-sibling, but a brother in arms. He was always first at the bottle, a fistful of cake and his other hand down a wench’s bodice. Laughing and singing, his weapons and cares propped against the bar and forgotten. His other comrades were just as bad.
No blood-family since the Fall. These slap-dash fighters are the only kin I have left.Swords of Faith preserve me!
So it fell to Elijah to keep watch. No one asked, and no one noticed — except for the times that he gave the warning shout. The dozen-dozen times. His back to the light, sharpening his axe in the darkness.
Desert Rocks by Kekai
Tomorrow morning he’d be the first to rise, as they snored the drink away. Running his hands over the faded map, planning their route — preparing for the dangers to come. Someone had to, he wouldn’t fail this little legion, now that everything else had fallen to dust.
The stone hissed down his axe-blade. Elijah wiped a bead of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
His ears pricked at a whisper of sound, and he bent low pulling the greataxe into both hands. He scanned the darkened houses ,one by one. The sound had come from the roof of the general store, Elijah shielded his eyes from the light and saw a slim figure slipping down the side of the roof.
It was his brother, Simon.
Not like him to miss a party. Where is he going?
Something in Simon’s face kept Elijah from calling out. The way he pressed himself into the shadows and headed north — clearly not wanting to be followed.
It was probably to meet some farmer’s daughter — or to console a young widow. But Elijah was his brother’s keeper.
And barely six hours ago they had crossed swords with devils, imps, and horrors from the Blight. The old soldier grimaced, and followed his brother into the night.
—-
Elijah followed at a distance. He was a large man, and no footpad — but the night was moonless, and his brother seemed totally focused on his destination.
A plain wood building. The Church of Linneus. Elijah felt his blood go cold. Linneus was the god of farmers, of shepherds, of the plow. But the church was empty — it’s priest had been the one that brought the devils down on his home. A filthy pact for pleasure of the flesh , Elijah had been sickened to hear. He had prayed to his own Nameless God for the grace to forgive the priest — but it had been futile. His god had been silent, and his own heart had been black and wrathful.
The priest of Linneus had forsaken his holy duty – no punishment was stern enough for that. The pain of Hell was the least that he deserved.
Why was his brother slipping into the church? Light came from within, his brother had lit a torch. Elijah hastened to the doorway and looked within. His eyes widened in shock.
Simon’s back was to the door, and the torch was jammed into the book holder at the end of the pew. Leaning casually against the altar was a devil made of paper. Thousands of pages, wrapped and folded into a feminine shape with corkscrew horns — the writing of every land covered the paper. A contract devil!
“Say what you want, Simon of Gilead — my ink is ready and time is short.” the devil purred. “Your friends nearly destroyed me today — I delight in the delicious irony of this moment.”
“This only involves you and me.” Simon said. “You leave my friends out of this, or this conversation is over.”
Simon, you idiot. Elijah looked for another entrance into the church, where he could surprise the devil. The windows were too small and high, and he stood at the only door.
“I need a way into Gilead.” Simon was saying.
“Homesick, are we?” the paper devil laughed.
His brother turned his back to the devil, covering his eyes with his hand. Something that he did when greatly angered. “Can you do it?” Simon said fiercely.
“Of course I can – anything you want, son of Gilead. It’s as easy as signing your name — some loops, some lines, and the path opens.” the paper devil cooed.
Simon’s hand slid slowly down his face, his eyes to the ceiling as he thought.
Only Elijah saw the truth of the devil’s words. The paper coiling itself in her hands, forming a whip – barbed and jagged. Her arm raising to strike, the paper-whip silent in the air.
The old soldier shouted a battle cry, and flung the church doors open. “Gilead!”
He shouldered his brother roughly out of the way, and caught the whip in his hand. It coiled around his thick forearm like a serpent, the barbs digging into his flesh. They were paper maggots biting tearing. Elijah felt poison course through his veins and his heart staggered. The devil hissed in frustration and tugged on the whip, pulling it back.
Elijah forced his hand to grip the whip despite the pain. He pulled grimly on the whip, his eyes locked on the devil. The paper-whip was a part of the creature, and she could not let go.
“By the Swords of Faith, by the Temple of Iron Nails.” He prayed, and his god answered.
His greataxe felt weightless in his hand, and began to burn with a pure white light. Elijah smiled, a rare thing.
The devil hissed and fought, but the old soldier’s time was upon him. He was his brother’s keeper, and his strength would not fail. He stood, as he always did.
And he pulled. His vision narrowed as the devil drew closer, screaming in rage. He saw Simon leap onto the devil’s back, his arms locked around her paper throat — but it was on the edge of his sight.
The evil thing came close, and Elijah’s axe fell.
The paper burned in holy fire, leaving nothing but ash. The devil’s scream hung in the church, burning contracts falling around Elijah.
He sank to his knees, his heart beat slower.
Simon grabbed him by the front of his armor, and was saying something his eyes wide with concern. But no sound came out, his mouth moved and Elijah heard nothing.
The old soldier pulled himself to his feet, his brother helping him and continuing to talk silence. He couldn’t find his axe, but he knew what was required. He brought his savaged arm and hand to his head.
“The Watch stands.” he said.
His brother let go with a stricken look, and forced himself to return the salute.
“The Watch is relieved.” Simon said. “Dismissed.”
Elijah couldn’t hear it, but his brother’s voice broke.
Darkness came, and Elijah went. He sharpened his axe and stood guard. There was light and music ahead, but he had work to do.
No one would catch his brothers unaware. Not while he was on duty.
[Story on Demand for N.E. White — hope you enjoyed. But I must be honest, this story has been rolling around in my brain for a while now. Original character concept W. Steven Carroll, with much love and respect to my brother-in-arms.]
Feel free to suggest a genre you’d like to see, or any wacky-ass rules you want to lay down. No words that begin with “q”, or each sentence must have exactly five words. [You can’t pick these because I already thought of them. :P]
Yeah, yeah — I know I ranted yesterday about the sins of the flesh, and the evils of money.
But today – buy my friend’s book!
Sea of Secrets – by Amanda DeWees
I’ve known Amanda for a long time, and she is super-classy and dripping with charm and a certain delightful malevolence. I haven’t read the book yet [other than the excerpt on Amazon], because I plan to obtain a copy clandestinely from the author herself under the cover of night, while wearing a dashing cloak.
Think of it as karma, wrapped in chocolate. The nicest thing you can do for a new author is buy their work, with actual money. Think how happy a waiter is when you give him a nice tip — this is easily like 4.3 times that exciting for the author. Or 80% as exciting as when you get a new puppy.
How can you keep such joy out of another human’s life? Do it!
Click on the [tastefully designed] picture of the cover, and you can purchase this book on Amazon in Kindle or print formats.
I know this period is a favorite for a bunch of you — and you will definitely enjoy Amanda’ style.
spell-sword.com 