Chaos Birds

“You see them birds, boy?” A brown glob of spittle hit the side of the lime-green fusion reactor.

“Yes, Pa.”

“Them birds….them birds is chaos birds. Make sure you don’t feed them no maths.”

“Yes, Pa.”

Pixellated wings rustled, then were still.

[The world is improved by this. You’re welcome, Brent.]

Century of Words

Very productive couple of days on That Thing – I just crossed the 100 page mark!

I know it gets old, me crowing my feeble accomplishments — it must seem so unimpressive to WordPress at large. But this is the first time for me on a long-form writing draft. [I know, I know — I should just give up and call it a “book” or “novel” — that neurosis is a whole ‘nother blog post.] The first time I’ve ever had 100 pages of my words in one place — all existing and crap.

My writing schedule called for me to be hitting this benchmark by  3/3 — so I am nearly two weeks ahead of schedule! I don’t want to jinx the productiveness of this week, but on Friday I’m officially going to recalibrate my schedule — don’t want any danger of getting lazy, or losing the forward momentum. I’m shooting for around 140 pages/45,000 words for the first draft — very exciting to feel I’m so close.

I know, I know — lots can go wrong in the next section. But as any unpublished or semi-published author can tell you — you gotta take the days of deluded optimism when they come. There will be plenty more rays of Infra-Doubt to dodge later on.

Monkshood

The lip of the crystal vial was cracked, blue fluid seeped quietly down the side. A clean trail of blue falling from the stained cork, ending in a perfect droplet — racing towards the bottom of the vial.

Meredith placed her finger just below the drop, and watched it pool — filling the whorls of her skin like canals on a forgotten planet. She slid her finger upwards, carefully gathering the falling liquid into a blob.

The liquid was blue, almost dark but not quite. A hint of spring on a cold hillside.

She held her finger up to the lamp, carefully observing the blue smear.

Meredith tucked the vial into her belt, keeping the world on her finger undisturbed.  She leaned in close, and took a slow breath. The liquid had no true odor, only the barest chill in her nose – a quiet taste on the back of her tongue.

What would it taste like? Her mouth parted, and then closed.

There was a dagger on the desk. The edges of it shone in the lamplight, slick and blue.

The liquid had a purpose. The dagger had a purpose. She had a purpose.

The tiny world on her finger shimmered, a larger world waited outside. A quiet moment here, before. Considering.

A quick taste, and worlds spun – changed by this quiet moment. But which?

Which world would end?

The blue drop sat on Meredith’s finger, a blue death sat on Meredith’s dagger, a blue world waited — hushed, and listening for her answer.

The blue liquid was blue.

It was unconcerned.

[Story on Demand for Belle of Mountains. ]

Story on Demand: A humble plea.

I’ve had a great time doing these every weekend — you guys are nefarious idea-mancers, flinging white-hot bolts of creative inspiration at me, which I’ve done a yeoman’s job lobbing back over the net.

[TENNIS METAPHOR. BAM.]

This week, could I humbly request — well, something a little more vague? The past few weeks people have given me extremely specific prompts, and I’ve had to sort of push it around my plate with a fork for a while.

One of the best prompts I’ve received was “music as weapon” and I had a freaking blast with that one, and am quite proud of the results. [Thanks again, HTBS!]

Glass Dogs. [ Go ahead — read it again!]

So, I think what I’m asking for is for you to give me an idea — not a plot.  Make with the vague!

Forgive the presumption! FORGIVE IT, OR THE WEASELS.

[The weasels are bad.]

Drop your lovely ideas in the comments, and I’ll churn out a story for the shiniest.

 

The Utterly Inescapable Dungeon of Dra’Lusair

The third week was when Gorton really started to stink.

The other Ghosts tried to put as much space as possible between them and the wizard, but the cramped cavern gave few options. The thin illumination provided by the blue crystalline moss on the ceiling showed dejected, tired faces and not much else.

After being seized by the Tyr-Elf Rangers they had been dumped in this small pocket of a cavern, and ignored. No threats were made, no trial was held – not a word had been spoken. Food and water were dropped in by a strange black cage that came down from a narrow hole in the ceiling. The adventurers had attempted a few times to break the chain, or gum up the mechanism in some way — with no success. Whatever material the metal was made of, it was fiendishly strong.

Their weapons confiscated, magic rendered inert by the stone walls of Iax — the Ghosts settled into despair and boredom. The spirit, Tetch, had spent several long days attempting to spook the Shadow Elves into opening the cell, or revealing some other helpful information — with no success. The phantom had finally given up, and departed the caverns in search of aid and rescue.

Gorton really smelled terrible.

Suddenly, the stone wall opened into a smooth hole. There was no mechanism, the wall simply opened. The Ghosts leapt to make an attempt at escape, catching a glimpse of dark-eyed rangers with glittering spears — before a dark figure was flung into the cell, colliding with the adventurers. They all fell down in a heap, watching as the stone wall closed — becoming as featureless as before.

The new prisoner dusted himself off, threw a hand through his gray hair and grinned.

“So.. I’m here to rescue you.” Simon said.

Strange words.

I was looking for something else in my notes, when I stumbled across the piece I put up this morning – The Umbra.

Apparently, I wrote this.

Do you ever have that happen? You read something in your notebook, or Google Docs — and it’s clear that your brain and hands produced it — but you have no memory of actually writing it. It’s like reading something that your doppelganger from another dimension wrote.

It’s a neat feeling, honestly — approaching your work as a reader only, without any context of the process.

I’m sure this is the goal, when sages suggest you let your first draft sit for a month or two before giving it the first read  — it helps with objectivity — and wouldn’t it be amazing to read your novel as a stranger? That Thing occupies a sizable portion of my psyche — how cool would it be to read it that way?

So get on it, doppelganger!

Any of you guys have stuff like that on your blog? I’d love to read it — hear your anecdotes!

This line is bold for no reason.

The Umbra

Or Various Thoughts and Extrapolation Fantastical upon the Theoretical “Shadow Plane”.

By Kellean Turbspik

There are many of my colleagues and antagonists in the academic press who claim that I have lost control of my mental faculties – some even going so far as to insinuate that I have gone insane.

They are correct.

For to grasp the true nature of reality, the frail mold of the mortal mind is too shallow and constricting – only a consciousness thoroughly shattered could have any possible chance to conceive its wonder.

My colleagues – or “dabblers” as they should more honestly be called – worship a quaint and comforting view of reality, and the various planes thereof. I have seen learned scholars wag their gray beards confidently over various maps and charts of the Outer Planes, laying out the various demesnes as confidently as a bricklayer mortars a wall. The Corporeal Plane [commonly, Material Plane] in the center, with the other planes neatly arrayed around it, first the Elemental Planes evenly spaced at the cardinal directions – then the planes of Chaos and Order slotted between, along with the planes of Altruism and Malevolence, all strung together like a child’s bracelet.  Some even go so far as to draw connecting lines, showing easy locations where the planes may be bridged.

All of this is nonsense. Mythology masquerading as science.  Reality does not conform to your pretty scribblings, gentlemen, no matter how carefully you select the proper ochre shade for the Plane of Fire, or how expensive a scrivener you hire to depict fanciful drawings of the demons in Abaddon. Had I time or inclination I could pierce your simple theses like wet tissue paper thrown before an oncoming lance.

Suffice it to say that everything you have ever read, or been taught about the Planes of Reality is wrong.

This is not the subject of my research, however. My research is into the plane of reality that my colleagues claim does not exist. A glaring omission on their precious maps, as they lack the cognitive capacity to even grasp its existence. Perhaps it is because they view the other planes as physical spaces, like rooms in a house – easily traversable and susceptible to cartography, planned by some divine architect perhaps.

They are incorrect.

The planes overlap and shift, a Cosmic Wind whirls them endlessly. And this is doubly certain for the Umbral Plane – or as my detractors have dubbed it, the “shadow plane”.

The Umbral Plane overlaps the material plane – we walk through it every day. Multiple planes using the same physical space – this is what most cannot grasp.

Throughout this treatise, I will prove beyond any argument that the Umbral Plane is the most important of all the planes of reality.  The Lesser Planes, including the Corporeal Plane follow certain natural laws and internal consistencies – the Plane of Shadow follows none of these.  It seems to permeate all of the other planes, comprising the same physical space – but kept disparate.  I theorize that all of reality is but a crude echo of the Umbral Plane – how else could one explain its prevalence throughout the other realms? It is we who are the shadows of that greater reality, the Master Plane – a greater Candle burning that produces our weaker, ephemeral reality.

As my colleagues refuse to admit the Umbral Plane exists, so has research been exceedingly slow to prove my hypothesis. But even from the smallest grain of sand, a true Scholar can glean some knowledge of the desert. Those of you who seek the true knowledge of Reality, read on – but be prepared to leave the comforting confines of sanity behind.

The bennies.

You know what’s nice?

Realizing that I haven’t mentioned minotaurs even once in That Thing — and abruptly putting in a minotaur.

YEAH.

Best job in the world.

I want there to be more minotaurs. BAM. Minotaur.

No discussions, no forms to fill out, no concerns about tone or ‘realism’.

“You know what this tea party needs? A FRICKIN’ minotaur.”

"Yes, I'll take a few crumpets. Two sugars.. and NO MILK."

Suck it, other genres.  Fantasy and swordpunk win the day.