Tag: literature

Star Prophet III

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

Maybe I’m dreaming.

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.]

Eyes in the Wood

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

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.

 

 

A short scene — continued?

G. Derek Adams6 Comments

ImageI 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?

An old friend appears

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

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

G. Derek Adams5 Comments

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.]

In Cold Blood

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

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.

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

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.

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Artist - Eric Kumsomboone

So…yeah…….deal with it?