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!
Talitha ran through the cargo bay singing. A simple tune, she skipped to the beat and spun around a rail and danced around the engine’s console. She passed right by a narrow alcove, in between two bays. She didn’t notice anything hanging in the shadows — only crinkled her nose absently at the foul, acidic scent.
A lump of bone and dissolving flesh hung there, that had once been … many things. A squire, a traveler, a hero, a monster, a murderer, an uncle, a terror, a friend. A knot at the center of him was all that remained — holding out against the decay, the rot. The knot heard the song, and finally began to unwind.
But, he did not die. The shadow poison fell away, washed clean by a little girl’s song.
With the poison gone, his flesh remembered and returned. Green sparks sizzled and popped.
Izus rose from the tatters of fabric and twine.He patted his chest experimentally, and looked around for a moment. He snapped his fingers, and a brown cloak jumped to attention. It wriggled down the hallway, the steps and across the cargo bay, and into the little alcove where the villain had lay dying. It folded itself neatly over his arm, and Izus tossed it over his shoulders, fastening the clasp without a thought.
He could still hear the girl’s song.
“Goodbye.” he said, and stepped through the world and was gone.
I follow a lot of writers — here on WordPress, and across several platforms and internet spaces — and I have a handful of friends and relations that are writers as well. All of them have one unifying statement, when asked “How do you know you’re a writer?”.
They say, “I have to write.”
Then they crush brick with their bare hands, and it turns into a glimmering red jewel. They place it on their brow, and a diadem of pure light and awesomeness appears.
[Okay, that only happened once.]
You know what I mean — the type of artist that knows in their bones, that they will continue to make their art regardless of any discouragement, regardless of outside factors. Steven King is a good example — that man has retired, what – eight times now? Then a few months pass, and another 1200 page tome appears on bookshelves across the globe. The man literally can’t stop.
Since starting the blog — and for better or worse, publicly defining myself as a writer – it’s something that I’ve grappled with a little bit.
Because I can stop. Because I don’t have to write.
I’m a slacker by nature — I just turned 32 recently, and this blog, Lodestar, and THAT THING are the longest sustained creative projects of my life. I’ve always been more comfortable with art that had a clear expiration date. You finish the painting, you close the show, you crack the joke.
I think that’s why I’m so focused on my weekly deadlines for page counts on That Thing — I have a deep sinking sensation that if I miss a deadline — It’ll be that much easier to miss the last one, then I won’t be even a faux-writer anymore. The endless minutiae of life — plus abundant other creative projects would pull me away, and I’d never come back — never finish.
So if you have a compulsion in your bones to write — I envy you. But if you’re like me — if you have to continually crack the whip, and keep yourself on task — if you’re more than a little scared that you’re not going to make it to the end — I know your pain.
The Vagabonder looked up from his work. It was rare something could distract him, pull him from the pure world of his research — but the sound Izus was making was unsettling.
The villain was crying. A quiet murmur that wound its way around the regular sounds and rhythms of the engine room.
Silo and Jump looked up from the corner of the bay, where they were studiously scrubbing a patch of fungus that had sprung up from a long forgotten crate of mushrooms.
“What’s that guy’s deal?” Silo asked, Jump only shrugged.
“It’s the sound of a man giving up.” Martin said, from the stairs. “When there’s no chance of coming back, and it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks anymore – you’re alone in the dark. That’s the sound you make. I know, I’ve made it myself more than a few times.”
Joao Ruas
“It’s the breaking sound before you die.” the ranger struck a match, and set fire to the bowl of his pipe.
Kythera – The Circle of Silver
Haskeer fought off the waves of exhaustion and revulsion emanating from the medallion, and led the others northward. They heard sounds of Seafoam patrols, but for now they seemed to be mostly to the south. As unerring as a compass he walked through the streets — his need, and the need of the dark Precursor spirit the same. To find the light, to find direction — to find their lodestar.
Haskeer led them to a strange open area on the northern edge of the city — a few structures dotted the green lawn, but the greatest oddity lay in the center. A massive ring, as tall as a man, and as thick as an aurochs – gleaming, unmarked silver, suspended three feet off the ground. As stable as a rock in a stream.
And then, there she was.
She darted from one of the small buildings, still wearing the gray smock that she had been abducted in. Talitha ran directly into Haskeer’s open arms, crowing with delight. The others gathered around, and for a moment all was well.
Talitha looked at the others, and wrinkled her nose slightly.
“Where’s Gloompa?”
“Who’s Gloompa?” a gravel-voice called from the shadows of the building. The orange-skinned tiefling Sideways leaned out, and gave a half-wave.
Kythera – The President’s Garden
The President’s right hand twisted and pulled out the rogue’s heart. Corben watched with fascination as it continued to beat frantically, square crystals of ice forming around it, in Jaiden’s candle-white hands.
It was kind of beautiful.
Corben blinked, and his heart was still in his chest.
Jaiden’s black eyes. Black on white on black on white.
The black halls of Iax stretched on out of view, sunflower torches seeming to absorb more light then they cast. Simon pressed himself hard against a column, and waited for the quiet footfalls of the patrol to pass him by.
He breathed shallowly, and tried to ignore the condensation sliding down the inside of his goggles. Their
Realm of the Forest King by `lone-momo
tourmaline lenses magnified the ambient light, allowing him to move easily in the near-abyss of Iax – but the leather strap was itchy, the sweat pouring down his forehead abominable. Simon desperately wanted to rip them off, wipe the lenses and mop his forehead with a free sleeve – but the movement would instantly alert the Tyr-Elves of the passing patrol. Their eyes glowed a clammy blue in the distance. He leaned his head back against the pillar, and felt the sharp edges of the stone.
Then he thought of her.
Really, Simon? Now? You are four miles below the earth, tangling with Shadow elves –show some decorum.
Simon grinned. A magic grin with a broken piece in it.
He turned his head slowly away from the patrol, so they wouldn’t see the shine of his teeth, or the light in his eyes.
The dying villain drifted back to awareness a few hours after dawn.
A little girl with purple hair and empty eyes stood over him, holding a wooden mallet and a metal spike, cannibalized from a nearby conduit.
Philipp Dornbierer
A slow stream of green ichor dribbled from his eye sockets, but Izus managed to cock an eyebrow skeptically.
“You’re holding it all wrong.” he said, corruption burbling in his chest. “Don’t choke up so much on the handle, you won’t get a clean swing.”
Sinoe corrected her handhold on the hammer, and placed the tip of the spike surgically on his throat.
“I’m glad there’s someone with half a brain on this ship.” Izus said calmly. “Even though yours is just gears and wire.”
The construct carefully lined up the hammer with the top of the spike, and made a few practice swings -perfecting the arc. The mallet hit the spike with the lightest of chink sounds.
Sinoe raised the hammer to strike, then stopped.
“Problem?” Izus asked.
“Your death is the most logical conclusion to several sets of problems. It would benefit the overall well-being of the ship immediately, as well as prevent any possibility, however remote, of future danger from your actions or influence.” Sinoe replied.
“Absolutely.” the villain said. “Very sound reasoning.”
“But – I can’t.” the barest edge of confusion entered her mechanical tones. “I can’t. Something..old…won’t let me.”
Izus looked up towards the cargo bay ceiling for a moment, then angled his eyes towards Sinoe. The construct stood as still as a statue, still holding the hammer high.
“A mere tune?” Elora’s eyebrows rose, twisting her scar oddly.
“Music is the only true magic left. It can span time and space, bring joy and sorrow – the stories of entire generations wound up in a few simple notes. The right melody at the right moment can lead an army to triumph, bring a heart to ruin or fill it overflowing with love. Music is the wind that blows across all of history, everywhere and nowhere – commonplace and vital. Every soul can create it, every soul is affected by it, every soul recognizes it. Clearly the Precursors had more respect for it than you, barbarian.”
[Quoted from City of Rain: Book Nine of Lodestar.]
I’ve been feeling a little guilty — I promised some fresh, blog-only content in the new year — and I absolutely have not delivered. I’ve been writing a bunch for Lodestar and That Thing, but nothing fresh for here.
So, the first person who yells at me in the comments gets to pick a topic/genre/main character’s name. Give me a crazy ass writing prompt!
It’s a neat feeling, honestly — approaching your work as a reader only, without any context of the process.
spell-sword.com 