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.]
Okay — so I’ve shirked long enough, time to answer the questions from this week’s story prompt. Sorry for the delay – I was just FOCUSING ON MY FREAKING ROUGH DRAFT.
El Capitan -What do you think will be the next big manufactured craze? Like pomegranates or acai berry. I believe it will be walnuts.
Walnuts are a strong possibility – but I’m telling you right now, it’s going to be jodhpurs. Twelve year-old girls just strutting around, society and morals be damned.
Nila – You know those tabby things that fill the holes of input/output thingies on your device or phone or whatever? Yeah, those are pretty nifty, don’t you think? Sometimes I wish they had those sorts of things for human orifices…
Well, they do. Pacifiers, butt plugs, nose plugs, blindfolds — and though I shudder to think, but I’m guessing there’s some sort of device that plugs up your plumbing completely, for fun and profit. I personally kind of hate putting covers and cases on my technology — my phone deserves to be NAKED and PROUD.
ERG. So many questions — so much work — so….lazy…..zzzzz…….
Rebecca – You need to write a story about soft shell crab sandwiches. (with the little legs hanging out of the bun)
That is horrifying.I’m imagining the little legs wriggling as I bite down — quickly flashing the crab sign language for “Help” and “Pain” and “God” over and over and over. You are a monster, madam.
Marisa – What mythological beast – assuming it could speak – do you think you would find it most challenging to write dialog for and why?
As already discussed — it wouldn’t be Minotaurs. I have like 8 notebooks crammed full of sparkling dialogue about horn care and maze-related metaphors.
I’m going to have to go with Medusa. I just wouldn’t be able to resist making each tendril of her snake-hair a separate character. That would be conservatively 40 different voices all vying for dialogue — a Cowboy Snake, a Sleepy Snake, a Snake with Crippling Depression, a Snake that Speaks only in Haiku — it goes on. It would be a sort of literary blackhole from which I would never emerge.
[I don’t normally include the explanation at the top — but this one is a doozy. This idea was submitted on Facebook by Allen.]
“Othello is running for reelection. Henry V is the GOP nominee. They wait in the green room to begin a televised debate when, suddenly, a young woman collapses of stroke. who is she? Two paramedics arrive as the scene opens.”
Enter two paramedics.
JARVIS
Summoned we have been, to the house
of light and sound – the television studio
where all visions fantastical
leap o’er the air to the shining
squares in each and every good man’s
noble den, couch-front and shining.
BERNARD
What is the sport? What
dire sickness or mortal wound
summons our white chariot
red lights flashing like
the red eye of Jove himself?
JARVIS
I know not, friend —-
but I see presently a stout porter comes
henceforth to lead us to our
duty and sacred charge.
A television producer enters, bearing a clipboard.
GLENDA
Ah, medics — at last you arrive
fast as Hermes’ to your duty
and sacred charge — well met!
JARVIS
What sickness or ill calls us to this place?
Speak quick — swift action is the blessing of all
who ail and require our skill and succor.
GLENDA
Come hence.
The three discover HENRY V, one time King of England and France — and OTHELLO, a moor. They crouch over the still form of a young woman. The paramedics rush to the woman’s side and begin tending to her.
GLENDA
Honored nobles, please come away and
allow these men to fulfill their charge.
The people of America wait for you to speak
and fill their hearts with the message of
your glory, vouchsafe the country’s goals
and seize the crown imperial through
this televised debate — the time of choosing
is nigh — we must begin this play of words
‘ere more sands fall through the hourglass.
OTHELLO
Jupiter and blessed Pallas Athene!
I do pray this young girl can be
returned to full health and vital
how strange that she should fall
ill here, and swoon into the bosom
of foul sleep ‘ere she could
speak her dire message.
HENRY
Uh huh.
OTHELLO
What means this, friend Hal?
I know we disagree most bitterly
on the course and tack of this country’s ship.
But surely you do not suggest that I—
HENRY
Look, buster. I think we all know about you and the ladies.
OTHELLO
Your words are dross, instead of true-gold.
How can you speak with the split tongue
of a garter snake — here on the cusp of our debate?
To take this poor woman’s fate and twist it to
suit your minstrel-song and mechanical-pander.
HENRY
Or should I say…..girls?
OTHELLO
Listen here, you mealy mouthed motherfucker —
JARVIS
Hark! She breathes, the flame of life
still burns within her mortal frame.
Our duty and sacred charge has been
well served here this day, this time
of legends!
The woman rises and approaches the two candidates.
WOMAN
Look upon my face and know despair
twenty fathoms deep your heart thrown
in iron shackles beneath the blue-green
waves of Poseidon’s kingdom.
OTHELLO
O, horror!
HENRY.
Fuck.
WOMAN
I served your purpose, and served your lust–
a chattel born to the lash is better served
by a quarry’s cruel labor then I was served
by you two princes of the earth.
To take a poor widow, kept in a house
with madmen and waggle-doctors —
to make me scribe your words,
plan your campaign, even pick
out the color of your tie.
Neither of you have half the manhood that I can claim.
you are bitter, empty things — gourds full of sound and air.
And now, here on the edge of your greatest glory
I come— I come to strike you down
GLENDA
Who are you, strange woman?
HENRY
Look — could you not — shit.
OTHELLO falls on his sword. No one notices.
LADY MACBETH
I am the kingmaker — I am the queen of iron
behind the prince of straw, spinning quiet webs
and laying plans for these fools’ victory.
And I will have my cup overflow with
revenge and the blood of those who have
wronged me.
HENRY
Hey — Lady M. I think you spilled some barbecue sauce on your dress. It’s right there….on your sleeve.
“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.]
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.]
The long black cloak was a dead give-away. The slicked hair, the golden pendant shaped like a star. The way he loomed over the salt-shaker.
Trisha had set me up with another vampire.
I sighed and leaned against the bar. He hadn’t seen me yet, I could just leave -back to my dusty house and re-runs of NCIS. Why did Trisha keep doing this to me? The first time had been awkward, and the second unbearable — she always feigned surprise, her eyebrows climbing into the stratosphere of her forehead.
My mother’s manners were iron. I finished my drink, and marched over to introduce myself to my date for the evening.
“Hello, I’m Dorothy — are you Gregori?”
He knocked over the salt-shaker in his haste to make a florid cape-gesture. It tumbled across the table, clattering.
“Mh-yes, I am Gregori. You look so beautiful in the moonlight of this evening. The moonlight in this evening? Of…in? You look so beautiful in the moonlight….?” he finished lamely, standing at the table. “I am Gregori.”
Then he reached forward and righted the salt-shaker.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gregori — do you mind if I sit down?”
“But of course, my dear…othy. Dorothy. ”
I arched an eyebrow, and found myself having to fight a grin. Gregori smoothed his medallion, and cocked his head to the side.
“Please forgive my familiarity, it is the custom in my country.” he nodded mysteriously.
“And what country is that?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Pittsburgh.” I looked down into my purse to keep from laughing. This poor man. He seemed so uncomfortable in the lifestyle that he’d chosen, a serious, brooding expression locked on his face. So determined to be convincing, like a kid in his father’s coat – giving a speech before the class.
I reached across the table and laid my hand on his wrist. He went as still as the grave, a look of pure terror appearing in his eyes. They were nice eyes, brown.
“Greg — can I call you Greg? I’m a woman, and you’re a man. It’s nighttime and we’re adults, and I’m already having a great time.”
Gregori’s eyes never left mine, but he laid his other hand on top of mine.
“I’m making a proper impression?” he said hopefully.
“Absolutely.”
“You’re inexorably falling under my sway?”
“Let’s not push it – we’ll see.”
A human smile peeked out of his chalk-white face.
“I am having a great time as well, my dea–my Dorothy.”
I smiled, and gave his wrist a squeeze. “Now, what kind of pizza do you like?”
“Anything without garlic.”
[This week’s Story on Demand was brought to you by Fran, the number 7, and the letter Q.]
Heading out today for the beach — for a solid week.
Your jealousy is lavender-scented.
I always swear up and down that I won’t be posting — but then I jam out a few thousand words and can’t wait to gossip about it. So, maybe I’ll post some fresh stuff next week — MAYBE I WON’T. I’ve already queued up a couple of short pieces for next week — and the Story on Demand brainstorm summoning post will go out tomorrow.
And I am NOT taking a break from my writing schedule for That Thing. I still have to produce five pages, just like any other week.
I’m going to the beach, not Mars — so I’ll have internet access, so expect my usual level of manic instant-response to comments and emails.
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.
“Professor! Put down the rifle, please — you’re scaring us!” Grace edged around the corner of the bookshelf, hoping that Mesopotamian Theology and Sumerian Agriculture were well-researched, thick tomes that could slow down a bullet.
“To every world, a TEAPOT…a teapot..a teaPOT…” Professor Wilkins sobbed.
He was half-naked — stained evening-shirt tucked into sweaty undergarments, suspenders flapping off one shoulder as the other side strained to hold. Cans of paint were strewn everywhere across his corner study, reds and greens pooled. The academic’s hands were stained blue, and behind him on the wall was scrawled the crude outline of a teapot. It had a simple spout, and C-shaped handle — the lid handle was shaped like a leaf. Around it immaculate drawings, calculations, and words in forgotten tongues had been etched with a butter knife. Blue and green dripped from his white goatee.
Grace peeked over the rim of books. “Please. let us help you, Professor!” She gestured imploringly across the aisle to the red-coated soldiers. Their captain rolled his eyes, and added “Indeed, sir. We simply want to figure out what is bothering you so. Please put down the rifle, and allow us to assist you. I am Captain Marcus Landon of Her Majesty’s forces, and you can be certain that my word is good.”
The brass astrolabe above his head exploded as the rifle went off. Captain Landon ducked, and shot Grace a murderous look. “Get him to put the rifle down, or I will order my men to shoot.” he hissed.
Grace grabbed a thick volume on cuneiform, and held it in front of herself like a shield. She winked at the captain and resolutely stepped out from behind the bookshelf.
“Professor, it’s Grace. Your niece, and woefully underpaid research assistant. You’re creating quite an uproar, and we’d all like very much for you to calm down, and explain to us what the problem is.” She kept her voice level and calm, while taking small steps across the paint-stained floor.
“Grace? Is that you, Grace?” he stammered, the rifle shaking in his thick hands. “There is so much – the understanding of the world taught at Oxford is flawed beyond any reasonable assurance of repair. Worlds like the skin of an onion….”
Grace took another careful step, red paint squelched up the sides of her boot.
The professor slowly lowered the gun, and turned back to his artwork with a look of rapture. “But, like a needle pierces to the center of an onion — present in all the layers at once. And what’s more — binding them, holding them together, connecting them. And I’ve found it — found the link. I pour the tea, and he holds the cup, and she passes the crackers, and I eat the crackers, and we all sip. And he pours the tea, and she holds the cup, and I pass the crackers, and he eats the crackers, and we all sip. She pours the tea…”
Grace brought the book down on the back of her uncle’s neck firmly. He tottered to the side, and fell face first into a pool of green paint. She quickly rolled him over, and checked his air — the professor breathed evenly, his face slack.
“Good work, madame.” Captain Landon approached, two of his men pulling the unconscious academic up from the floor.
“He’s a brilliant man, Captain — tell your men to take great care with him.” She scanned the insane painting. “If only I had sensed this mental break coming, perhaps I could have prevented it.”
“Don’t berate yourself, madame.”
Grace walked over to an overstuffed chair unmarked by paint, and flopped down into it. A serving tray was laid aside, crumpets and a tea bell were scattered. She idly picked up the metal strainer, and shook free a few tea leaves.
“The funny thing captain, is that my uncle doesn’t care for tea. Coffee in the morning, and cognac in the evening — I can’t imagine the source of this nervous fixation, if only..”
She stopped talking, her eyes locked on the tea leaf fragments falling onto the silver tray. They were green. Green leaves. She picked up on fragment, pinching it between her fingers and bringing it a hair’s breadth from her eyes.
There were no green leaves on Terra. Never had been.
[Story on Demand for Margaret. She’s an amazing artist, and you should check out her site and give her money for arts.]
spell-sword.com 