Decay

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

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

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]

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

“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

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

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

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.