Leaves from the Tree

Deception

2008-10-24T16:36:00.004-04:00

If this were the case, I would not feel such rage. But they are lying. They are not speaking truth, and more, they are saying these things, these ridiculous things without qualm or doubt, to me, their oldest ally. Is it because they do not trust me or do they perhaps think to gain some advantage over me? Do they think me stupid or cowardly or weak, that I would just accept these lies?

That confusion is all that keeps me from killing them where they stand; I do not know WHY they are telling these lies. They expect my complete acceptance and, from that, my cooperation. For now they have it. But they have lied to me and my eyes will be open.

Surrounded

2008-01-19T11:03:00.000-05:00

A creeping and a crawlin, a jibbin and a jivin. They come on rollin and a bowlin, runnin and a gunnin. Simmer, shimmer, shake, bake, they come and come and come. Wibble wobble. Trippin all over each other to get to us. Tribbles, troubles, hephalumphs and woozles. Grignacs, grognards, and even a jabberwock or two. Fissssst, fummmmmph. Ughhh. They push and tug. The wall, she stands, but she don’t like it.

Here I see eyes, there I see legs. Noses, snouts, and ears. Horns, claws, and everywhere teeth. Big teeth, little teeth, shiny teeth, black teeth, but each and all sharp teeth. Some are long in bits, arms, necks, legs, and things I ain’t never named before. The long snaky ones get close, but the tiny crawly ones get closest. The wall don’t mean nothing to those that can climb, which is why we got another wall, and a bit of flame atop that one.

Some day we’ll meet ones that don’t burn.

Toby on the rock

2008-01-12T12:14:00.000-05:00

Toby slithered out onto the rock, belly down and head up. He grasped the edge with both hands and stuck his head out into space. The chasm below curled with fog and even here, as high as he was, he could smell the damp air. The rock was cool, but warming in the sun. A breeze kicked up, pushed his long hair out of his face, and then pushed it back again. He tied it in a tail behind his head as he regarded the valley below.

The clearing fog revealed a river snaking towards a clear lake, fields of grass rippled away. Whitecaps dotted the water’s surface. Here and there a rock jutted from the field, poking sharply through the green fabric of the valley floor. The sun poured into the valley lengthwise, flowing in the same direction as the river. Trees emerging from the grass became visible for the long black tooth shadows they cast upon the ground.

Truth

2008-01-05T10:59:00.000-05:00

She does not know what she means anymore. She cannot. Those words must be . . . wrong. I cannot accept that truth. Not that one. The Oracle has lost her powers. How long, I wonder has she been without? Am I the first to recognize her error? She must know her strength is at an end. She must know her powers have waned and that the words she spews – foul venomous words! – will soon do the world more harm than good if she continues. Or is she unaware? Did the power depart, only to leave its certainty behind? Is she babbling on with every confidence, unaware that it is now lies she tells? It matters not. The flow of words must be seen for what it is, but I dare not announce to the world that her Truth has fled. The questions they would ask, my own prophecy to be revealed? Never! That blasphemy shall never again be spoken, it’s only grace is that it has revealed to me her error. I wonder if this is what she wants? Is this why she uttered so false a phrase, to inspire the recognition and urge me to do what I must? It must be so, she knew, and so knowing welcomes my next act. Barbarity, savagery, others will call it thus when they see the result, but she will know. I act out of love. I do this for love of her.

Decay

2007-09-04T11:53:00.000-04:00

The entire building smelled of mold and mildew. The air Jager inhaled was wet and heavy. The floor boards beneath him did not creak, they sagged and stretched with each step. Walls that had been white were now gray and smudged with wide black streaks that descended in puddles from the ceiling.
Jager tested his steps carefully as he crossed to the stairs. A single shaft of light drifted across the upstairs landing. A thin rug with barely distinguishable oriental patterns cascaded down the steps, ripping as Jager stepped against it. The first stair held. Jager climbed to the next. It, too, held. Cautiously Jager continued until he was standing on the landing, interrupting that one shaft of light.

Trapped

2007-09-03T01:17:00.000-04:00

No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean that, I was just kidding, really
I’ll go back to coloring between the lines now
sorry
I didn’t mean to scare you
I’ll be a good boy, live a good life
have a nice wife and two kids, maybe a dog too
get a simple job, go to work every day and come home again
I’ll eat my cereal in the morning, my sandwiches at lunch, and my steak for supper
nice, red-blooded, real world stuff
with a girl at my side and a smile on my face
I’m sure the world will be alright
I hope I didn’t scare you with my talk of faeries and castles
magic
or just not knowing what to do with my life
I was just kidding
go back to sleep
don’t worry about me
I’ll just lie here by myself for a while
awake and wondering...

[Author's Note: I wrote this a long time ago, but was thinking about it recently and thought I'd share... still don't know what I really want to do with my life...]

Rhythm

2007-08-29T23:30:00.000-04:00

The rhythms crept into place, lining the walls with patterns and essays of darkness upon light. Jamis saw them and knew fear. All around him the people moved, slowly, numbly. All around him they moved forward and did not look at the creeping rhythms invading their space. They could not see them, But Jamis could. He saw them and knew fear. They crept and slid, pouncing inch by inch, row by row, moving forward in a steady flow of pulse and rhyme. Jamis grabbed the interceptor and ran. The small black box bounced against his chest as he ran, and still the rhythm followed. Still the patterns coalesced. Jamis fumbled at the dials, turned one - pushed another. The rhythms closest to him, snapping at his heels, fragmented and reverted. Entropy spread and the disease halted. For a moment. Somewhere, someone was humming. Idiot! Jamis cursed and ran faster. They knew the rules, they knew the price, yet still they brought their music. The humming was weak, and the hummer could barely carry a tune, but the sound was enough. The rhythms caught it and surged back to life. Bigger, stronger, they came on. Now any pattern was enough to call them - his feet slapping down one after the other upon the studded metal deck. The Kimra swore that the rhythms were unintelligent, Jamis swore that they were not. How else did they know to come for him out of the hundreds of others around him? How else did they know to ignore the blind and seek him out, every time?

Finally the alarms sounded and the summoner drums began to beat. It was too late, it was not enough. They had his scent now. They could taste him, they had caught on to the beat of his heart. The interceptor was useless now and Jamis dropped it to the deck as he ran. The momentary clatter distracted a few of the chasers, but not all. The summoner drums were not working. Jamis swore again. He swung his arms higher, pumped his legs harder. Gasping for breath, he knew, was not the best way to do what he was about to do. Then again, there was no best way to do such a thing. He mouthed a single command and his face shield shimmered into being. The high frequency hum was enough to drive the pursuing rhythms into a frenzy. Fractals of light swept forward, the rhythms solidified, expanded, pulsed and raced onward. Jamis did not look back at the destruction wrought by his pursuers. He reached out with one gloved hand and smacked the large red mushroom switch on the wall. He took one more step and leapt just as the airlock snapped open. Propelled by the escaping atmosphere, Jamis shot into the void.

[Unnamed]

2007-08-26T23:06:00.001-04:00

The sky glides past and I am still. I know in my head that it is the other way around, but in my heart that is what I see. I watch the branches for a long time. In their shade I am comfortable. I trail one hand in the water. We are far, now, from the mountains where the snows first melted but this river still carries their lingering chill. The air at the surface of the water is cool, comfortable. If I were to sit up, I know I would find the day to be much warmer. I do not. Instead I simply lie here and let the sky glide past.

Waking

2007-07-02T09:56:00.000-04:00

The edge of morning slides through the crack in my eyelids, sharp and painful like the knife it is. I struggle to stay wrapped in sleep, but the pain wins. I pry my eyes open and, half blind with one hand over my eyes and one touching the wall, I stumble into the bathroom. I manage to hit most of what I aim for and then I seek to replace what I just drained. My head throbs in an irregular beat. The first glass of water helps, but not much. I drink another. I splash the third cup on my face and wake up a little more. Towel, fourth cup (drinking again). I cannot quite finish it and take that as a good sign I might be making progress against my dehydration. My head throbs a little less and that's about all I can hope for this morning. It is, frankly, more than I expected. Today is not going to be a good day. "My head throbs a little less," is as much reason for joy as I'm going to get any time soon. This just may be the high point of my day.

Harlequin and the Worldshadow

2006-03-04T17:20:00.000-05:00

“Well, which is it? A world full of shadows or a shadow full of worlds? It makes quite a difference you know,” the Harlequin asked.

And I wondered why I had even bothered trying to talk to him. He didn’t understand at all.

“Of course, I understand. That’s what I do.”

Which just goes to show that he didn’t, because people who understand don’t go around answering questions that you’ve only asked them in your head.

“Accommodate. The word you’re looking for is ‘accommodate,’ not ‘understand.’ And I do believe you want more than just the word. But THAT is most certainly what I do NOT do.” And he danced a little jig and tapped his staff upon the ground and I forgot what I had meant about the shadows or the world or why I had said any of it.

“Now,” said Harlequin, “Tell me more about this beautiful Columbine of yours.”

Not sure where I was going with this. Wherever it was, it would have been strange and interesting and I may still revisit it. I like the title. Harlequin (and Columbine) come from my own false (as I have recently learned) understanding of characters from 'Commedia dell'arte'

Obsidian Kiss

2006-02-27T17:16:00.000-05:00

This is something I wrote about a year ago. Not sure why it never made it in here before this.

Kunmei watched the tiny lizard as the beautiful woman picked it up from its cage. The small thing blinked its eyes. It sat calmly in the woman’s hand as she brought it to her face. Gently, oh so gently, she kissed the top of its head then held it back and watched. Her black lipstick left a blacker mark on the lizard’s crown. Then the mark began to grow, the lizard threw back its head and screeched. The mark spread and soon green was replaced by black. Scales became obsidian. The creature shook itself and from its shoulders sprouted bat wings. It screeched again and dug needle claws into the woman’s alabaster skin. Kunmei saw two thin lines of crimson appear, dripping around the side of her hand. The woman ignored them and held the tiny dragonet close to her face once more. She whispered something then blew upon the lizard’s brow. It shook its head as her breath washed over it. Suddenly there were two of them. They leapt from her palm and there were four. Eight flew towards the sky, became sixteen, became thirty-two. Kunmei watched until the creatures became so thick he could no longer distinguish individuals from the flock. They spread out, flying in all directions. The covered the sky until day became twilight. Kunmei glanced at his watch and realized it WAS twilight. When he looked back to the sky, there was no sign of dragons, only the deep evening sky.

“Where are they going?” To his surprise the woman answered him

“They are delivering my nightmares where they are needed.” She licked her arm where the dragonet had pierced her skin. In a moment the blood was gone and the wound had closed. She glanced at Kunmei once again. With a smile that was not entirely malicious, she asked “Are you still determined to win a kiss from me? Now that you have seen what my kisses do?”

Hands

2006-02-22T03:33:00.000-05:00

The hands gripping the book were as rough and gnarled as the leather binding. Had they also been red, it would have been difficult to distinguish them at all. Instead, they were dark and weathered, wood brown against the blood red binding.

It was a large book, but the hands gripped it easily, steadily, and without strain.

Dinner Time

2006-02-17T13:20:00.000-05:00

The final door did not open automatically. This close to the Mind, nothing operated automatically. Sherella was forced to turn and use her back to the door to push it open as she pulled the cart in after her. The Mind, as always, was slightly warmer than the corridor, although not much. That hint of warmth and the low hum of smoothly running machines always made Sherella feel at home. She smiled and wheeled the cart towards the pods in the center of the room. She flicked a switch and eight delivery hatches swished open, one for each pod. Black tended to get cranky if his hatch was left open too long so she started with him and proceeded around the circle placing food in each hatch. Black's door snapped shut almost before she pulled her hand away. His hatch never actually struck her, but she always felt it best not to tempt him. Blue waved at her through his faceplate. Green opened her eyes and smiled. The monitor above her hatch flashed the words "Thank You." Sherella grinned and nodded in return. That was all the interaction she had with the pods and it was more than she got most days. The rest of them, as usual, appeared unaware of Sherella's presence, although Sherella suspected Red was faking it. She thought she saw Red's eyes flick open as she approached, but they were closed again when Sherella glanced a second time.

In Our Mist

2006-02-12T09:39:00.000-05:00

They live in the mist, in the fog. They live where we can see them, yes, but only where we can choose not to admit it. The woods, the dells, the hollows...

They watch us from these places unseen or, if seen, misattributed. They never linger long enough for a second glance. The face in the leaves, just leaves when you look again. The shape in the fog that turns out to be something else altogether. You were right the first time.

They're out there watching, hiding in the branches, skulking under bridges, perched on ledges, crouched between the roots, or standing in the open, in the mist. They live where we can see them, but never do.

Grim and Gay

2006-02-07T08:18:00.000-05:00

Author's note: This is one of those "practice" efforts I told you about. This one is about evoking mood. Below I'm describing the same scene as seen by two different people, Grim and his sister Gay. They're kind of extreme people and it's a mystery how they stand to travel with each other to see these same sights. You'll understand when you hear what they have to say about this first scene.

GRIM

The dense bramble of forest ended abruptly at the edge of an empty field. Thick heavy branches protruded overhead, extending their will across the narrow track but it was a futile gesture. No trees grew past that point, only squat lumps of sodden grass, their fat leaves clinging to the damp ground, pounded flat by the recent storms. The endless hairy bulges gave the whole field the appearance of being the knobby back of some wet sick beast.

GAY

The woods opened up onto a vibrant clearing edged by a narrow dirt track. Proud trees gave way to a broad green meadow. A cool breeze swept along the dirt track, ruffling the clumps of grass that lined the far edge. Beyond the protective embrace of the trees, the sun was just beginning to shine through the clouds. Across the meadow, fingers of light brushed the grass and set leftover raindrops sparkling.

Author's Note

2006-02-02T11:18:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me that what I've been writing here (both recently and long long ago the last time I wrote anything here) has thus far been limited largely to "beginnings" - scene openings, setting a stage, creating a mystery and (hopefully) a desire to read further. Beginnings are important, but so are Middles and Ends. If this is really intended as writing practice (and it is) I need to work on those, too. It's hard in this setting, though, to work on anything besides beginnings. Beginnings are the only things that can start on their own - after all, that's their job. Beginnings create context. Middles and Ends expect a context to have already been provided. I'm aware of this and intend to address it. Perhaps in future posts, I'll give a quick context [In this scene...]. We'll see if that works. I'll also work more on descriptions, dialogue, and other pieces of story. I'll try to avoid falling into the beginning trap too often.

Actually, I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this. I suppose your role in this would be to tell me when you see areas you think I need to focus on (or stop focusing on). Or perhaps I'm telling you all this so you know why I'm going to be prefacing some of my future entries. I'm not really sure. Maybe I just like informed reader(s). In any case, please do comment on anything you consider worth commenting. This whole blog is intended as a learning process and reader response can help with that.

Jittery

2006-01-26T17:38:00.000-05:00

Jittery, but not from cold, although it IS cold. Damn cold. My breath streams before me, my soul leaking out around the edges. Someone told me that once, some tribe somewhere believes that's what winter breath is. It's not a comforting thought this morning. Not today.

The sun is pale, bleeding out into the sky. It will struggle feebly for a few hours and then die. Night. That's not a comforting thought either. I hope to be home by then, warm, safe. That's not what I expect, though. I expect to be dead.

Ugh

2006-01-23T02:19:00.000-05:00

I had forgotten how annoying the old blog style was. Here's a new one. Oh, and um, the hiatus is over (see below if you don't believe me).

A Simple Inn

2006-01-23T02:01:00.000-05:00

This is the memory I carry, the memory that keeps me alive through these dark nights and terrible days.

An inn, stout and old with an innkeeper of the same description. The inn sits on a road and around it sits a town. The town is neither important nor large but the road leads to places that are both.

The inn gets by on the patronage of the townsfolk and prospers on the patronage of travellers. The town, too, prospers from the needs of the travellers and so the townsfolk are warm to them.

Outside the inn is dark and brown. Inside it is warm and brown. The ale is good and the innkeeper is friendly. He knows all the townsfolk and most of the travellers, and they know him.

It is an inn, a simple inn. An inn like many others, but it was home on the road to me for six years when my home off the road was cold and empty. A simple inn, it keeps me alive.

Official Hiatus

2005-07-29T21:15:00.000-04:00

Alright, I realize this site has been on unofficial hold for a very long time. It's now going on official hold. I'm acknowledging three things:

1 - Updating Dave's trailjournal takes lots of time.
2 - This site requires more commitment than I have previously been willing to admit.
3 - I'm not giving up on this site, because I like the concept - it's going on hiatus, not out of business.

So, no more entries for a while. When Dave is off the trail, I'll start this up again. For those of you who are interested in reading it (the few who even bother to check it anymore), I'll make sure to announce my "return" on my other site (and as far as THAT blog is concerned, it's not going on hiatus - it's just going slowly...).

See you in a little while.

How long have I been dead?

2005-05-12T00:40:00.000-04:00

“How long have I been dead, Jack?” It was the same question she always asked.

“Four years.”

“Oh. It seems so much longer.” I shrug. The last time she told me it seemed so short and next time I was as likely to hear either. Most ghosts can no longer feel time. “You’re not still in love with me, are you?” Most ghosts can no longer feel a lot of things.

I answer with as much honesty as I can muster, “You know I’ll always love you, but no, we’re not ‘in love’ anymore.”

She nodded to herself. Well, to be honest, since she wasn’t paying much attention, it was just one mist-like part of her form wavering in a different direction than the other mist-like parts, but I knew it was a nod. I’ve been interacting with this ghost for four years, I knew her for six more when she was alive. I understand her body language, even without her body. Of course, the tattoo helps. When I’m honest and feel like depressing myself, I’ll admit the tattoo probably does all the work.

“Why are you here?” The bluntness does not hurt anymore, not much. She is still sharp, still smarter than I am, but she does not understand emotion any more than she can feel time. I suppose I’m lucky she’s that kind of ghost. The ghosts that go the other way are the only ones that make headlines anymore.

She asks the question again, “Why are you here, Jack?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Oh.” Suddenly she is in focus. She’s still colorless of course, but now I can see arms, legs, even fingers. Her eyes are always there, in perfect detail, but the rest of her only shows when she’s paying attention to the mortal world. “Tell me. Have you found the book?”

“No.” She sighs and starts to fade back into mist. Then I tell her what I did find. When I am done speaking, I can distinguish individual strands of hair and even the fibers of the denim overalls she was wearing the day she died. This time when she nods it’s obvious even without the tattoo’s help.

Well,Dangitall

2005-04-15T22:59:00.000-04:00

Itneverfails.I starta post(oneachofmysites)that'smultipart andsomethingonmy computerbreaks. Bynow youshouldhavefiguredoutwhatitis thatbroke.Itbrokea few days after myfirstpost (rightaboutthe timeIwasready todo mynextpost). Itriedfixingit,butthat didntwork(obviously)andamonaweirdenoughschedulenow that Ihavenot yet been able to get anewone.Ifiguredenoughtimehaspassed though thatyoudeserveanexplanationofwhy you'regoingto have to wait stilllonger.Sorry. In the meantime ifyou'rebored,check outmy latest addiction(which I blameon Meredith). It'scalled In Passing. ReadMeredith's review foran explanation so youdon'thavetosufferanymoreofthis

The British Lion, part I

2005-04-02T19:52:00.000-05:00

There is some confusion regarding the lions of England. To most people today, the phrase “British lion” refers to a symbol: the royal crest or, in a more contemporary fashion, the caricature device most often used to represent Great Britain in political cartoons. The royal symbol is old as is the caricature, both have existed for long enough that Britain thinks of itself as a lion, much the way Russia thinks of itself as a bear and the United States of America considers itself an eagle.

But why? In each of the other two examples, the animals so chosen are native to the land they represent. As far as the world of today is aware, the lions of Britain are found only in her zoos and upon her shields. This is where the confusion begins. Did Henry I, the first English monarch known to use a lion, choose the lion because it was “the king of beasts?” If so, why choose a foreign king?

The answer, as would have been more obvious in that era, is that he did not choose a foreign king, he chose a native king.

This is where my essay will lose the attention of narrow minds and conventional thinkers, here in the claim that there is such a thing as the British Lion. “Why,” they will say, “that is as ridiculous as claiming the Scottish unicorn.” To them I say, “Unicorns are one thing, lions are quite another.” While I would indeed lose the attention of even the most credible reader were I to pursue a course that insisted upon the existence of unicorns, I do not believe British lions to be so farfetched.

It is understandable, however, that there should be some reluctance to accept their existence. A creature such as the British lion that has journeyed so far beyond myth as to reach the borders of obscurity should expect some difficulties on its return voyage.

Late

2005-03-18T20:56:00.000-05:00

The morning fog curled with anticipation, lingering longer than usual as if it, too, wanted to see what this particular day would bring. The long shadows of the orchard pointed west. The longest of them darted all the way to the gate by the mountain road, then retreated, like the fog, to wait beneath the trees. All morning the path lay empty, no familiar silhouette appeared at the trail’s edge. No dogs barked to greet a traveler emerging from the mountains, but they kept their ears up and even the cats continued to look west, waiting.

Everything You Ever Wanted in a Space Suit

2005-02-01T16:48:00.000-05:00

Jairim’s VeraTek Lifeshell Deep Space Survival Suit, was state of the art, designed to keep its wearer alive for weeks in the void. The makers, in Jairim’s opinion, had thought of everything. Food and water were recycled as best they could be in such a limited environment, aided of course, by the latest advancements in protonutrients. His air was scrubbed clean and fed back to him, with only the faintest odor to suggest it had been used before. The emergency beacon broadcast its distress calls over all six emergency channels (and could be upgraded for two more that were technically illegal, although that was not something advertised, just discretely hinted at by the salesman when the man recognized how serious Jairim was about his purchase). The suit itself had three different sources of power: battery cells, solar cells, and the wearer’s own motion. If the VeraTek engineers did not manage to break the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics, they certainly gave it a good scare.

Jairim, however, had not purchased the suit on its technical superiority alone, although it was certainly a consideration at the time of purchase (and later a comfort - when he allowed himself to think about it). There were plenty of other (cheaper) suits that would have kept themselves and their wearers functioning for as long as the Lifeshell could but it was Veratek’s commitment to his sanity that Jairim admired. Surviving in the void for two weeks was one thing, staring at it the whole time was quite another.

“The problem with the void,” as the Veratek salesman described it, “is that there’s nothing there.” The Veratek salesman outlined the solution with equal understatement, “We provide an in-flight movie.” What Veratek really did was provide a display system across the interior of the helmet, a small speaker at each ear, and a memory pod capable of storing over a year’s worth of movies, documentaries, vidshows, and games. The engineering would fail before the entertainment did. And the display completely blocked the view through the helmet (“although the opacity can be adjusted, of course”) to better enable the wearer to forget where he was.

That is why Jairim was still sane thirty-one days after the accident. It is also the reason he did not notice the derelict ship until he bounced off of it on the morning of the thirty-second.

To Survive in Ghosttown

2005-01-29T22:44:00.000-05:00

To survive in Ghosttown, it helps to be immortal. If you are not immortal, if you have flesh and bones that can be rent and broken, then it is best not to enter Ghosttown at all. If you must, if you absolutely must enter Ghosttown, do so only with a trustworthy guide. Since there are no trustworthy guides, it remains best not to enter Ghosttown at all. There are guides, of course, but these are men courting death or, perhaps, men for whom death is an event already past. The motives of the dead are ever ineffable and to seek their aid is as lunatic a proposition as to seek their lair. As for the mortal guides, what terrible bargains must these men and women (and there are indeed some women who have chosen this profession) have made to enable them to survive the denizens of Ghosttown. It is not a gentle place and those who would lead you through it already bear many of its scars. No, there are no trustworthy guides.

Just Another Day At The Beach

2005-01-25T15:05:00.000-05:00

The Kraken took Joe on a Thursday afternoon. Then it took the picnic basket including all of the chicken and the dinner rolls. It did not get the cookies because Joe had already eaten those. Then again, since it did get Joe after all, it could probably be said to have gotten the cookies, too. Sally was buying fries across the road at the time and so she was spared, as was the bean salad which had already been removed from the picnic basket and which sat a few feet away. It's possible the Kraken did not notice the bean salad, but being a creature mostly vegetable itself, it's more likely it simply did not want it.

Sally, of course, knew immediately what had happened when she returned. She took her fries and her bean salad and considered herself lucky that she had an extra set of Joe's car keys in her purse. She cried for a few days, but ultimately came to agree with her coworkers that this was just the sort of risk one took when going to the beach.

She stopped crying just in time. One more night, and Joe might have heard her. Then he would have come back, and that would have been worse.

Waiting

2005-01-17T09:26:00.000-05:00

The old man sagged when he was not moving, like a jacket on a bent hangar. When he was moving he looked more like a marionette whose strings are not quite the right length. He shuffled a little to and fro, although never straying beyond either end of the park bench. After six paces, back and forth, from one end of the bench to the other, he would slowly sink to a seat and look at his watch. Then he would get back up, move over a few feet, and sit back down again. There he would stay, with his hands clasped and his elbows on his knees for several minutes before starting the whole process over again. Occasionally he would take off his hat, run his hand through absent hair, and then put the hat back on. The whole time, pacing or sitting, he kept looking towards 3rd street, when he was not looking at his watch.

City

2005-01-13T09:35:00.000-05:00

There is but one City and its name is Ur. There is but one city and its name is Polis. There is but one City and its name is Glee. And its name is Abydos. And its name is Pan. And its name is Berullis, Tirre, Belle Marra, Rome, London, Tokyo, Paris, and New York. Even Dis. There is but one City and its name is unknown. All others are but a reflection, a pale imitation of an imitation. The City is Truth and all others are reflections seen through water seen through fog. What happens to the City happens to all cities reflected, rippled, and obscured though it may be. There is but one City that is all cities, and tonight it is burning.

2005-01-04T14:03:00.000-05:00

The summer sun drifted lazily through the clouds. Unseen katydids chittered loudly, making the only sound until a breeze began to rise. Soft at first, the susurration of grass against grass barely outdid the katydids. It grew until the tall stalks began to rustle like waves. Green mixed with green in cascading ripples. For a moment, there was relief from the afternoon heat and then the wind was past. It left behind a lingering scent of mountain springs and then that, too, vanished and heat settled gently onto the plains once more.

The Wizard's Desk

2005-01-02T16:20:00.000-05:00

The wizard’s lab was a dark place, windowless, shut off from all distractions that might disrupt the work done there. Candles formed into strange shapes, and made out of stranger materials, provided the only light. There were no cobwebs, but looking around the room gave one the distinct, and slightly disturbing impression, that there should be. However, with the exception of the dust crawling into the corners as shadows crawled out, the lab itself was remarkably clean, if cluttered. It often took visitors, the few there ever were, some time to notice how clean the lab actually was.
The first impression of the lab was of darkness. The second impression of the lab was of clutter. Various tools of the wizards trade appeared to be strewn about the room haphazardly, spell components, ancient tomes, parchment, quills made from the feathers of birds most considered legend, ink made from materials that no legends had ever been told about. The middle of the room was empty, but around the edges bookshelves lined up facing inwards with an imposing gaze. Each shelf was a combination of books old enough that should have crumbled to dust long ago, flasks of many and varied colors, and various other artifacts that the mind can imagine, plus many that it probably cannot (nor should it). This impression of clutter however, soon gave itself up as false to the more clever observers.
Those with the eye to notice found that the room was actually in a chaotic order. What appeared disordered was in fact a fantastically complex order of the strictest sort. No beaker was out of place, no book haphazardly left without intent. The space was an arrangement of seemingly random associations that, inspected closely made little sense but which, much like the pattern of life upon which it was based, when taken as a whole became a completely new and beautiful thing.
There were few however to appreciate this. Few because there were few who desired to see the wizard’s lab and there were fewer still who he would allow to do so. Few also because most men have neither the patience nor the comprehension to understand such a concept, but throughout history there have been a small number of noteworthy men with the facilities to appreciate the importance of such patterns. The wizard, of course, was one of them, but we shall not meet him just yet. I have explained his lab to you that you may know it when we come upon it later in this story, as we shall, when time is more hurried and events transpiring that will not leave me breath to show you the room as you need to see it. The wizard himself we shall meet at a more appropriate time. There are others I would have you meet first.

The Court of Miracles

2004-12-31T01:54:00.000-05:00

The shock was almost too much, the sense of power, of change nearly overwhelmed him, but she kept him steady as they passed through the doorway. It was an unexplainable feeling he had, a sudden knowledge of the boundary that had been crossed. He felt it as a physical sensation, felt the world shift, felt reality slide and stretch for a moment, as if the fabric of existence was warped where he tried to pass through it. Twice before he had felt this. Once with his first sexual contact, and once when visiting a decommissioned nuclear reactor. There was tremendous power in both experiences, though the taste of each was completely different. The first tasted of possibility, the second tasted of sunderings. This, though, this tasted like everything at once, like freedom and confinement, like discovery and mystery.
He recovered his sense quickly and took in the sights around him. The gentle pressure on his arm kept him from losing himself completely in the sudden newness and he was grateful for her presence.
The room was crowded, but it did not feel stuffy. He felt as if he suddenly knew what was meant by the phrase “a sea of faces.” So many colors and styles, so many sizes and types. Many watched him expectantly, but just as many went about their business, whatever it was, without indicating any interest in his sudden arrival.
An ageless woman, beautiful and regal, detached herself from the crowd before him, flanked on two sides by young girls. Shakily, she stepped away from their arms to look him in the face.
“Welcome,” she said with a clear voice, “to the Court of Miracles.” She burst into tears and one of the young women stepped forward to take her arm again. Turning they vanished into the crowd before he could respond to her greeting, or her sudden shock of grief.
Welcome, said the echo coursing through the throng, to the Court of Miracles.

Trouble

2004-12-29T18:26:00.000-05:00

Trouble. In the form, as it usually is, of a girl. Trouble. Five-four, brunette, petite. That’s not trouble for everyone, but it’s trouble for me. Put one of those in front of me, and I lose that edge. I don’t react quite right. It’s not that I shut down, it’s just, well I get in trouble. Now usually I’m a pretty smart guy, usually I can tell when someone’s lying to me, when they’re trying to play me, and when they really need help. Sometimes it’s all of the above, but at least I can tell. And then I can do something about it. With this kind of trouble, though, the five-four kind with brown hair and dark lips, none of my much vaunted skill is worth a damn. It’s quite a weakness actually. It’s one I’m aware of but that only makes it worse. I know how dangerous they can be, I’ve had too much experience not to, but every damn time I stick my hand in the fire anyway. It’s not that I just do everything they tell me to. I may not be immune to those eyes, but they don’t sap my will either. I do what I normally do, only I have to do it without the tools that make me so good at my job. And that’s tough.

You don’t catch that telltale squint in the eyes if you’re trying to memorize their color. You don’t see that subtle twist to the lips if you’re wondering what it would be like to kiss them. And it’s damn hard to work with a client if she all she needs to do is smile, stretch, and sigh deeply to take your mind off everything else at all. Damn hard.

And this one wasn’t even the client, she was the subject.
But that just made it easier to turn the job down.

Into the Storm

2004-12-23T10:37:00.000-05:00

Thunder shattered the sky and the travelers bent their heads further into their sullen hoods. Lightning shivered through the clouds again and again until it was impossible to tell which dooming toll of thunder came from which vicious bolt of lightning. The hulking clouds squatted low against the ground and began to heave out hail.

The curses of the leading traveler were stolen by the wind but the other travelers could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was almost as angry as the storm. His wife and children and the few others who knew him best suspected that there was more fury held within the oiled cloak than without. They did not fear his anger but nor did they dare to turn their eyes towards the castle at their backs. Instead they turned their eyes forward seeking other shelters.

The Lava Fields of Mount Mehoggin

2004-12-22T13:00:00.000-05:00

The most beautiful sight in all of Illedor is one you will never see: moonset from the top of Mount Mehoggin. It’s the Lava Fields that do it. From the slopes of Mehoggin they stretch as far as the eye can see. The red magma, the iridescent obsidian, and the alien shapes wrought in the rocks - they are beautiful during the day, but at night they are exquisite. At night all the glowing red cracks become visible, a molten net spread across the land, bisected by the imperious river of stone that runs from the slopes of Mehoggin itself. When the great blue moon settles to the horizon and begins to dance in the heat and the only colors you can see are blue and red and black, it is a sight to make you weep.

It is a sight you will never see. You have to cross the Lava Fields to get to Mount Mehoggin and that cannot be done. You would have to bring in all of your food and all of your water, for there is certainly none to be found in the fields. You would have to carry it all yourself for no beast can be persuaded to cross them with you. Even if you could carry everything you needed, and even if you found a way to protect yourself from ever present and ever intense heat of the fields, and even if you found a way to cross the inevitable cracks and rifts of molten stone that will block your path, and even if you managed to place your feet only on solid and stable ground that does not crumble and drop you into lava, and even if you found a means to safely breathe the poisonous gases that issue from the ground, even then it could not be done. For the Lava Fields are home to the fierog, and no one survives them. Not even me.

Stay Out of the Light

2004-12-20T07:42:00.000-05:00

Twilight fled the city. The little light that cowered beneath street lamps only made the shadows seem fiercer. In some places in the city, these pools of light might have felt safe and warm. In some places the lamps served to light the way home. In the Gardens, they only pointed out how alone you truly were. There were only three kinds of people who would willingly stand or pass under a street lamp in the Gardens: wolves, foxes, and the little lost sheep they preyed upon. Even the wolves made certain they had bigger wolves waiting in the shadows before they would stand beneath the lamps. Gangers making a show of strength on their turf always kept the greater part of that strength hidden. Whores and pushers gave a portion of their profits to the bodyguards standing outside the light. The lost tourists and the slumming rich kids, on the other hand, sought the lights as places of safety. It was not a mistake they repeated. Those who even had an opportunity to repeat it were luckier than most.

Like stars in the sea

2004-12-16T13:35:00.000-05:00

The neon pulse glittered, throbbed, and skittered its way through the crowd like stars reflected in a turbulent ocean. Imogen, from her place on the balcony, watched two of the bouncers weave dark vapor trails through the foaming sea, dark voids that were quickly filled again by the electric sparks around them. It was a credit to the quality of the club that most of the flashing jewels were true LumiGems, not the plastic fakery sold to highschoolers, nor even the higher quality knock-offs sold on street corners here in the city. It was a discredit, in Imogen’s opinion, that so many people would choose to wear LumiGems at all. Everyone was trying to catch everyone else’s attention and succeeding only in blinding each other.

The bouncers Imogen could see had caught up to their quarry. With remarkably little turbulence, they hauled him out of the ocean and set him on the cold street outside. If he said anything to them, Imogen could not hear it.

Leaves after a Storm

2004-12-14T07:09:00.000-05:00

A net of leaves spread itself across the driveway. Wet from last night’s rain, they did not crunch when stepped upon. One stuck to my shoe as I crossed from the steps to the car and I pulled it off before opening the driver’s side door. The door handle was wet, but not very. I had to pull four more leaves off the windshield before I got into the car.

And then I just sat there. I did not even turn to tuck my legs under the steering wheel. I just sat facing sideways in the car with my feet on the driveway and my elbows on my knees. I sat facing towards my house, my lawn, my neighborhood. The sun was not up yet, but false dawn had struck some time before and I could see clearly. I could see my lawn, just ready to be mowed. I could see my neighbor’s lawn and the red plastic kiddie car turned on its side near his azaleas. I could see the Hormans’ Christmas lights blinking three yards down and two months early. Perhaps they were supposed to be Halloween lights, you never could tell with Mrs. Horman. I could see, at the very end of the block, Nell wander out into her driveway to fetch the morning paper.

And I just sat there, watching Nell, watching the Hormans’ blinking lights, watching the bizarre stillness of my neighbor’s lawn. I cannot recall any of the things I thought at the time, only that it was about home and not about work.

I stayed that way until jolted from my thoughts by the horrid screeching clank of my neighbor’s ancient garage door opener. I grimaced, for myself and for my sleeping wife, and then swung my legs into the car and shut the door. Either I had missed a leaf or it had fallen while I was sitting staring at nothing. I left it on the windshield and pulled out of my driveway. If I had stayed any longer I would have had to listen to my neighbor close his garage door, too. The leaf remained stuck to my windshield all the way to the office.

Clockwork

2004-12-12T13:53:00.000-05:00

The first clockwork soldier the Maker fashioned for his army was not a soldier at all. It was Jeminy. Then the Maker fashioned the Builders, twelve of them and Jeminy watched. After the first Builder was complete, Jeminy began to help the Maker. He held the drawings, carried tools, and even placed some of the smaller gears. The Maker did the rest. When the second Builder was complete, the Maker had Jeminy wake both Builders. After that, Jeminy did not help the Maker, the Builders did. Jeminy did not mind. The Builders could lift things that even the Maker could not lift. Together the Maker and the two Builders fashioned the other ten Builders, two the same size as the first and eight much larger Builders. Jeminy watched them work. When the Builders were complete, Jeminy woke them. That was something only Jeminy could do. Then the Maker had Jeminy put them all back to sleep. That, also, was something only Jeminy could do.

While the Builders slept, the Maker rested. Then he brought Jeminy into the Drawing Room. Jeminy had been in this room many times before, but only to watch. This time, the Maker built a ladder and showed Jeminy how to climb upon the table. The Maker showed Jeminy the wall where the drawings were kept, row upon row of cubbies, each with its own set of drawings inside. The Maker showed Jeminy how the drawings were organized, how to get to each one, and how to put them back in the right places. This was very easy for Jeminy. The rows were just the right height that Jeminy could climb them like he climbed the ladder to the table The Maker taught Jeminy how to read the drawings, and how to remember them. This was harder, but soon Jeminy could reproduce the drawings in the cubbies without looking, with only small mistakes. Then the Maker tried to teach Jeminy how to fix those mistakes, how to see where a drawing was wrong and what would need to be changed to correct it. This Jeminy could not do but the Maker was patient.

Bait

2004-12-07T11:25:00.000-05:00

It took the Gorelli six years to conquer Earth. In that time, Humanity had plenty of opportunities to send her sons and daughters into space. She did so slowly at first and then more rapidly as the tides of war turned against her. The greatest exodus occurred in the fifth year after it became apparent that Earth was going to fall and before the Gorelli tightened their nets. Those who did not escape before the end of that fifth year did not escape at all. By the end of the sixth year, the number of humans remaining alive on Earth was no longer great enough to sustain the species. Man as Earthling became extinct.

The Gorelli could have destroyed Earth then. They were in full control and it was well within their power to obliterate the planet. They did not. They retreated from Earth and waited. They waited and they watched and when humans began to return, they slaughtered.

Even brilliant men have their blindspots and Earth became Humanity’s. Her siren call swept through the void, and men could not resist it. “Home,” she sang, “Come home and free me.” Humans answered and dashed themselves against the Gorelli rocks trying to heed the call. Earth served as the perfect bait to draw the humans out of hiding and this was precisely what the Gorelli had intended.

The few humans wise enough to see what was happening were terrified by this development. They watched the already decimated population of humans dwindle even further, almost powerless to stop it. Few were so wise. Even fewer recognized the terrible solution. Only one was actually willing to take the necessary step, to perform the one act that could save humanity: destroy Earth.

My Apologies

2004-12-06T13:56:00.000-05:00

Through a series of errors involving a general failure to place myself where my documents are, I'm afraid I let Leaves From the Tree slide to a halt. I assure you, it is merely a temporary position. Things will start up again shortly. We'll be resuming the typical snippets format as soon as I a) get access to the snippets I have on backlog or b) write a new one. The NaNoWriMo stuff is done, although the book I was working on is not. When it is, I will certainly share (it's rather hard to stop me, actually). I will also be taking steps to insure that this little problem does not happen again.

Ghostknight: Resurrection - Excerpt 7 (late middle - just before excerpt 4)

2004-11-23T11:30:00.000-05:00

The village lay just as the tinker had described it, empty of all human life. It appeared the villagers had just left their buildings without looking back. Several of the houses had open doors. In other places the beds were rumpled and unmade as if the owners had risen from them and just walked out of their houses.
“That may very well be just what happened,” said Brom when Obern made this observation. “Possession would do that, but the entire village? I don’t know what sort of creature could do such a thing on such a scale. No struggle, just gone.”
The village itself was surrounded by hard packed earth, but inspection around its borders turned up a large number of human tracks heading into the forest.
“Keep your swords loose, gentlemen,” said Brom. We are following these.”

Ghosknight: Resurrection - Excerpt 6 (transition point between beginning and middle)

2004-11-22T10:21:00.000-05:00

P. watched the road from above. The two ghostknights rounded the bend just when he expected them. George and Ishra, he had served with them briefly on his first tour of the Barrowastes. They were both solid men, good fighters, and effective ghostknights, if a bit unimaginative. He nodded at the ghostly form of Liam who slid onto the road behind the ghostknights. They sensed something amiss almost immediately.
As they turned to face the threat, Liam changed. P. could not tell what the ghostknights actually saw, but it terrified them. They ran towards the ford as hard as they could. Liam kept pace behind them. P. waited until they had disappeared, then walked north to the bank of the river. He signaled to R.
The fire ghast stood on the far side of the river where the stream narrowed. Earlier, before leaving for the second ambush, K. had used his wraithly chill to freeze this section of the river. A wall of water was building up behind the narrow opening, just beginning to spill over the sides and back into its proper channel.
At P.’s signal, R. spread flames across the surface of the ice wall. In moments it cracked. Chunks of ice and an enormous mass of water surged downstream. If the timing was right, the two ghostknights would reach the ford just before the water. If they got there too soon, Liam would hold them there with an illusion on the other bank. George and Ishra were good ghostknights, but P. suspected Liam’s illusions would put even Mabel to shame. They would be enough to put George and Ishra where P. wanted them to be.

Ghostknight: Resurrection - Excerpt 5 (beginning)

2004-11-19T08:47:00.000-05:00

“Right then, here’s how it works. I’m a ghostknight. You’re ghostknights, too, now that Mabel’s deflowered you. I’m a higher ranking ghostknight, but don’t ask me what my actual rank is because it changes. Technically, I’m a warden, but that doesn’t really mean much. The whole ranking thing is screwed up. The short version is that the Grandmaster sits at the top. There are a few guys just below him, like Brom and Obern. Then there are patrol leaders. I’m one of those. Everyone else is effectively the same rank. Brom is kind of a higher rank than Obern, unless they’re facing fiends, in which case Obern is more experienced and he takes command. That’s kind of how the whole thing works. I’m guessing you two were army rats before you became fish, right? So this must sound like the absolute worst way to run an army. It would be, except the ghostknights are not an army, we’re ghostknights. There’s no other way to explain it, but it does seem to work. Right now you just need to know a few things. First, you guys are going to have that fresh fish smell about you for a while so you’re kind of the bottom of the barrel until that wears off. The next thing to know is that if your current officer tells you to listen to someone else, then that person is your new officer. Right now, Brom is your officer. Tomorrow or the day after, he’ll probably give you another assignment. That’s likely to be one of two things, a patrol or an action team.”

Ghostknight: Resurrection - Excerpt 4 (late middle, almost beginning of the end)

2004-11-16T08:55:00.000-05:00

Brom watched the bodies of the zombies pile up on the far side of the stone wall, their corpses adding to the obstacle’s effectiveness. The archers were still largely unnecessary, but in a few moments he would need them to cover the reinforcements. The men on the front lines were beginning to tire. A few had fallen where the press was greatest but the medics had dragged them to the safety of the farmhouse ruins. Other knights had stepped in and the zombies had not yet broken the plane of the old stone wall. It would happen. Five hundred zombies were too many to fight on such a front. After enough had been met, and the bulk of their numbers arrived, Brom would need to draw his men back into the greater security of the old foundations.
A scout stationed at their rear called Brom’s attention. “There’s a man heading this way, a ghostknight.”
The soldier approached their fortifications from the rear. It was one of the men Brom had sent with Ethan to seek the figure on the hill. He saluted, “Sir, the fire knight is controlling the zombies. I tried to warn the rear guard, but they got cut off before I could get there. You have zombies flanking you now. You’ll be surrounded soon.”

Ghostknight: Resurrection - Excerpt 3 (just prior to climactic end scene)

2004-11-14T15:38:00.000-05:00

Brom could hear the clash of swords, the scream and howl of battle issuing from the floor below, but the tower room was silent. As hard as he listened, he could hear nothing louder than the sounds from the stairwell. He continued on as silently as he could, knowing that silence was futile against P. His passage was made more difficult by the memories it awoke.
The last time Brom had been in this tower, the battle to reach the top had been fierce but Brom’s men had been cleaning up the battle already fought by P. Here in this doorway Brom had found L.’s corpse being hacked apart by the skeletons driven mad by their master’s destruction. Here in the antechamber is where L. had lain P.’s body, is where L. had fallen defending his general’s corpse. Brom had wept then for the fall of the two heroes, his two friends.
Now, his sorrow warred with his rage and Brom did not know what to feel. They should have torn this tower down. Then he would not have to be facing his old companions here, would not have to see new ones die here. Brom shook his head, if not here it would have been somewhere else. If P. had not returned from the dead. . . but P. had returned and now Brom had to face him, here in this tower where Brom had failed him once before.
The Witch-King’s chambers were through the next door. There were no other rooms. P. was there, had to be there. It was where they had found the smoldering body of the Witch-King. P.’s blood was still on his claws. It was where P. would be waiting for him. Brom opened the door and stepped through.

Ghostknight: Resurrection - Excerpt 2 (beginning)

2004-11-11T13:18:00.000-05:00

P. crept through the halls, the first guard was not far away and P. had not yet regained his former stealth. He suspected bitterly that he never would. His actions were more powerful than ever but his soul was no longer bound tightly to his body. It had been removed and replaced and no longer fit quite right. He had lost the fine control necessary for silent motion. He could be quiet, but that was not enough when one was dealing with Ghostknights. The increased strength and his new abilities almost made up for the loss, almost.
The first guard heard him when he was still three steps away. P. was certain he would not have gotten even that close if the Ghostknights had placed more experienced guards at his tomb. The man turned at the noise, his hand on the hilt of his sword, but he never drew his weapon.
He just stared at P., his mouth open in shock and horror. P. was filled with loathing for the man, disgust at the terror evident on his face. This ghostknight had everything P. had left behind. P. reached out and took it from him. He could see the faint shimmer of the man’s soul as it flickered in fear. Without thinking about the action, he stretched his hand out to the stuttering soldier, grabbed the shimmering soul, and pulled it from his body. The man’s face lost its terror and the body collapsed. P. regarded the soul in his hand calmly. It twisted and screamed in a voice no mortal could hear. It continued to writhe until P. drew the Krymmon and cut it in half. The faint halves of the soul wailed and then dissipated under a wind P. could not feel.

Ghostknight: Resurrection - part 1 (very beginning)

2004-11-09T07:19:00.000-05:00

The tomb held but a single flaw, although it was not one its designers could have prevented. The flaw was not in the construction or the materials used. The tomb was fashioned of the finest marble by the finest craftsman. The man whose body rested on the stone bier in the center of the main chamber was a hero, a true hero, and the empire he served treated him as well in death as they had in life. His tomb served as a monument as well as a crypt. The design was sound, the materials only the finest. Every consideration was taken to ensure that his enemies would not be able to enter. This was no small feat. The man had been a Ghostknight, one of the finest, and his enemies were numerous and nefarious.
Four of his lieutenants had died with him and all four were buried in the same tomb, although his crypt was by far the largest. The lights that burned perpetually in each room were in fact powerful enchantments, designed to prevent evil from gaining entrance. Where the light shone, no creature of evil could stand. The walls were warded, as were the ceilings and the floors. The doors held their own wards. There were no windows. The bars on the doors and their complicated locking devices were designed to foil human enemies.
Two guards were present as well, young Ghostknights honored to serve in the tomb of their order’s greatest champion and the four heroes who had stood at his side. The two Ghostknight guards were charged with protecting the tomb and guiding the few guests who chose to pay their respects. They were good at their jobs, if inexperienced. The few threats that manifested themselves the guards dispatched with ease. Only once did they fail to notice an intruder, a vampire who stood at the edge of the clearing and watched the tomb silently, as vampires do most things, for a long time. He had no malicious intention and left without being noticed or attempting to enter the sacred grounds. For that oversight, the guards could be forgiven. The flaw was not with them.
The flaw was not in the wards upon the walls, nor in the enchanted lights set above each bier. There were no imperfections in the complicated sigils, no scratches marred the silver inlay of the protective circles. Each rune was scripted with care by men of power and they made no mistakes. The locks were complex, sturdy, and strong. The guards were observant, able, and devoted. The flaw was not in the tomb, nor in those who watched over it. The flaw was in the hero.

Questions

2004-11-07T16:08:00.000-05:00

“You could ask me what name I gave to the first color, the one that ran and hid when I formed the others. You could ask me what words I will speak when I unmake the world. You could ask me how to name stone or rock, or how to hear the river speak. You could ask me who first sang to me the song I teach the newborn birds and who will someday sing a better one. You could ask to read a page in the Book of Names or to be allowed to chew a leaf from the Tree of Life. You could have asked any question, any boon, and I would have granted you an answer. But not that one, love. I cannot answer that one.”
“You cannot draw me into false regret, Maki. You knew what question I would ask when you offered the boon. I will not second guess myself.”
“Perhaps. You could, of course, withdraw the question and ask another.”
“Nevertheless the question stands. It is the one to which I desire an answer.”
“I will not give you that answer.”
“Then you must tell me who can. By the compact, if you cannot fulfill the boon you have offered you must direct me to one who can. So tell me.”
“Ah, that I could answer. But I choose not to.”
“You choose? You choose not to? That is not the way this works. You owe me at least that much.”
“Oh no, love. I owe you much less than that. But still, I will offer you more than I owe. Despite your insolence. I will give you a name, although he can answer none of the questions you can ask. If you ask him a question he can answer, it will put you one step closer to your goal. Do you consent to receive this name?”
“Yes, Maki. I accept your wisdom. Forgive this one for doubting you.”

Maki said nothing, only nodded her head. Then she gave the man a name and the man trembled to hear it.

Alone

2004-11-04T11:36:00.000-05:00

Harold left his office and wandered down the hall. George’s door was open, but George only nodded when Harold greeted him and immediately returned to his computer. So Harold walked on. Nancy and Denise were standing at the cooler. He heard Denise’s high giggle before he rounded the corner but when he spoke to them she was somber. They answered his questions simply then both took long drinks of water. Harold walked away. Behind him Denise began to giggle again. Taylor did not even answer Harold’s hello. The Cubicle triplets all looked at him, then looked away when he waved. Mabel stopped him before he reached the elevators, said hello, and asked him how he was doing. Harold began to feel better. But Mabel did not answer when he returned the question, only wished him a good day, glanced at the Cubicle triplets with some significance Harold could not identify, and left him standing in the middle of the hallway. Harold got in an elevator. It was empty. He picked a button and slowly began to sink towards the ground floor.

Night Ride

2004-11-04T11:34:00.000-05:00

Night slid past the windows outside. Tree trunks beat a staccato pattern against the occasional flash of a streetlight or the burst and roar of another car passing in the opposite direction. The driver had long ago turned off the radio and, before even that, established his complete indifference to his passenger’s presence. The man in the back was left with nothing to do but watch the scenery in silence and count the street signs he could not read. Soon even this distraction was gone, and shortly after so were the street lights. They encountered no further cars. The passenger’s world shrank to the interior of the car and the globe of light projected by the car’s headlights. To the sides of the car, he was aware of the rushing mass of trees squeezing tighter and tighter like the press of rock in a mountain tunnel or the narrowing crack of a river canyon. The whir of pavement became the hiss of gravel but the passenger guessed, correctly, that this did not signify an end to the journey. That would not be arriving for quite some time.

Small Cities are the Easiest Fish

2004-11-01T07:11:00.000-05:00

Small cities are the easiest fish. It’s because they think they’re big cities. Towns aren’t afraid to ask for help, aren’t afraid to show a little distrust. A small town sees a thing like a nice new piece of bait and they’ll start to ask questions. Sooner or later they’ll see the hook, then they’ll see the line and follow it back to the fisherman. After that it never goes well for the fisherman. Small cities, though, they’re so afraid of being thought provincial or rustic that they’ll swim grinning into every trap you set out. Big cities just laugh and crush the traps, take the bait and leave the hook alone. Then you’re out some expensive bait. That’s not so bad, but there are things in big cities that think the fisherman would be more tasty than the bait. So stick with the small cities, the ones that want desperately not to be towns. They’re the easiest fish to catch.

Pooka

2004-10-28T07:37:00.000-04:00

The building swayed in the wind, iron timbers creaking in pain. Glass rattled.
“Pooka”
“What the hell are you talking about, Malice?”
“Pooka, type of ghost, likes to rattle shit to scare people.” Something clanked below them. Malice grinned. His white teeth were all that Shiver could see of the large man.
“That ain’t a ghost. It’s just an old fucking building.”
“Suit yourself. I still think I’m gonna ask permission before we mess with its pad.” Malice’s bright white teeth vanished. A moment later, so did Malice. There was a single tug on Shiver’s line. She put her hands up just in time to grab the large black bag descending from the roof vent. With a flick of her wrist, she secured it to a nearby post while its owner made his own way into the building.
“Where is Malice?”
Shiver shrugged and pointed through the rafters, “Down. There’s a ghost he wants to talk to.”
To Shiver’s surprise the man neither protested nor asked any questions, “Well once he’s made friends, send him over to me. I’m going to get started on the roost.”
“Yes, Mr. Moore.”
“You stay here until Timothy comes in. He should have two more bags and the shudder box.”
“Yes, sir.” Moore nodded once, then made his way along the rafters. Shiver watched him, but he was soon lost to darkness. There was another tug on the line and Shiver moved back beneath the roof vent to catch the next bag. “Just an old building,” she muttered.
“So,” said Timothy when he finally followed the last box in, “this is Earth, huh?” He stood with his legs spread wide on the iron rafter and looked around as if he could see mountains and seas. “Nice. Old, but then you’d expect that, I guess. And the weather? You see pictures, but you never really understand weather until you’re in it. At least I didn’t. That was pretty wild.”
Shiver shook her head, “That was pretty tame, newbie.”
Timothy was undaunted, “Well, that’s wilder than any weather we ever got on Spinner. At any rate, I’m impressed and I can’t wait to see what else this old planet has in store for us. You think we’ll get to see lightning?” Shiver just shook her head and said nothing. With Timothy’s help, she slid the roof vent back into position, then the two of them took turns hauling the bags over the rafters towards the roost. Below them the building let out a long slow groan and then grew silent once more.

Percolate

2004-10-27T07:35:00.000-04:00

“Sugar, Roger?” Nathan held a spoon over the cup, waiting for the acknowledgement.
“No, thanks.” Roger waved his hand negligently, without looking at Nathan.
Nathan blinked, then put the spoon away. “Since when do you take your coffee black?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I meant 'no, thanks' to the coffee.”
Nathan frowned then quietly poured the cup down the sink. “It’s alright, I hadn’t poured mine yet. I’ll just take this one, with sugar.” He carried the other cup into the living room and sat down on the couch opposite Roger. “You don’t mind, do you?” Roger waved his hand again, dismissing the idea without a word.
Nathan sipped his coffee and regarded his friend. Roger, for his part, seemed to be regarding nothing at all. He sat slumped in the high back chair, staring at a spot somewhere just above the small coffee table. It was the same position he’d fallen into the moment he arrived. Nathan was tempted to snap his fingers in front of Roger’s face just to see what he would do. Instead, he sat back against the couch, continued to sip his coffee, and waited for Roger to decide he was ready to talk.

Negotiations

2004-10-24T09:41:00.002-04:00

Only thirty minutes?
Thirty-two minutes
Anyway, it’s not enough time. That’s going to cost a bit more.
You cannot do that, we already settled on a price.
Yeah, well this changes the job and I’m changing the price.
I told you it would be tight. I just couldn’t give you numbers before you were in.
But now I am in and you can’t risk letting me out again. You really don’t have any choice here. So, I’m going to need this much more.
I’m not sure playing hardball with us on this is a smart idea. The money’s fair.
Us? You workin with someone else? Not smart, boy. See, now I know more about your little operation. Each piece of the pie you give me brings me that much further in, makes it that much more important that I be the one you hire. And don’t try threats. I’m the best and we both know there ain’t nobody can touch me . . .what, nothing to say? If you want me to take this snatch, and you do, you’re going to have to pay me the number on that little slip of paper. . . .go ahead, call your boss, I’ll wait.
Half.
What? Without even making the call?
We’ll give you half that number on top of what we’ve already agreed upon.
Don’t try to cheat me, boy and don’t…
Don’t try to rake me over the coals… sir. Take what we’re offering. You and I both know that you can do this job in thirty minutes with time to spare. It’s not easy, and we will pay you for that. But don’t ask for any more. If we felt you overcharged us, we might have to look somewhere else the next time we have work to do.
You won’t look anywhere else. I’m the best.
We don’t need the best, we just need good enough. So don’t push it because while we want you, we’ll settle for someone else next time if we ever feel like you’re not, how to say it, making a good faith effort.
Half, then.
Good, now supplies…

The Black Oak

2004-10-21T18:43:00.000-04:00

Black as night, the oak jutted from the field in savage profile. Its branches were long, lean, and bare and they stood out in jagged relief against the twilight sky behind them. The massive trunk proclaimed the tree older than any man who looked upon him, older than the sullen farm whose fields it dominated. Generations of men had farmed this land and cleared these fields, and the oak had survived all of them.

It was not for love that the men refused to cut down the tree. The generations of farmers suffered no nostalgia about its presence, endured no fond memories of playing in its shade or climbing among its branches. In the history of the farm’s existence, only one child had taken it upon himself to climb the oak, and the fall had killed him.

Dustfall

2004-10-19T23:00:00.000-04:00

The curious Kelran dust settled thickly through the air. Like the rain of Earth, it slipped from the clouds above, bounced off the ground, and then rolled into gutters and sewers. There was no wind so the dust fell straight. Wherever Fio walked, eddies churned behind him, dust slid off his shoulders. The dunes he left in his wake lasted only moments before sloughing apart and joining the flow of particles around them.

Fio had expected snow or sand. He had expected dunes and drifts. Fio had been in both blizzards and sandstorms, but he had never seen anything like this. The tiny particles that formed the dustfall were perfectly spherical and nigh frictionless. They refused to remain in piles, but spread out, rolled on until they settled into nooks and crannies. The dust behaved exactly like a liquid, but without the cohesion. Water without ripples. This was neither snow nor sand nor rain. It was dust.

Sandwalker

2004-10-17T12:38:00.000-04:00

The sand swirls around his feet. The wind piles small mounds before him, covering his boots up to his ankle on the windward side and sloping away in the lee. If any skin had been exposed it would have been stripped away long ago. As it is, with gloves and boots, cloak and hood, goggles and mask, he pays no heed to the wind or the sand it carries. The only evidence that he notices the fury of the desert at all is the slight lean of his body into the face of the storm. His cloak snaps behind him, the fabric of his leggings ripples in the wind, but he himself is almost still.
Every twenty minutes, in a motion so fluid and practiced one has to wonder if he is even aware of the act, he replaces the filter in his mask, using his left hand to bring the clean filter from the device on his chest to its place in his mask and his right hand to remove the dirty filter from the mask and place it in the device. Then he is still once more. Neither shifting his weight nor turning his head. Staring into the heart of the storm. Waiting.