Writer's Journal

“If you go outside of town, up on the big hill, and stand on the black stone…” she began, “Face North…if you can talk to the thing that made the world.  You’ll have his ears, and he’ll hear you.”
I don’t know if I believed that, but I walked up the hill, towards the old burned-out house.
There’s a circle of black stone there, reflective like glass, with two indentations in it, about shoulder-width apart.
I stepped onto the stone, fitting my feet into the indentations.
“I don’t know if I really believe this,” I mumbled.
“It’s getting harder and harder for me to believe anything.  I think it’s probably the result of watching the news.  Half of it is lies, and the other half is just reports of terrible, terrible things.”
I took a deep breath.
“But, you know, I’m really disappointed with how thing’s’ve turned out.  Everyone’s got their own idea for how things are supposed to be, but it just doesn’t work.  It’s funny.  Aren’t you supposed to answer prayers, and shit?  Then fix it.  Fix the world.”
I stood for a moment, and nothing happened.
Walking down the hill, I decided that she might’ve been right–just because the creator of the world could hear you doesn’t mean he’d be able or desirous to answer your questions.

All yours.  Now leave me alone, they’re playing Doctor Who.

And I suppose I should do homework.

Chapter Twelve

(apparently, this is a week of previews.  The muse is really giving me way too much work.  Don’t worry, though.  Everything’s still on track.  Those among you who know a thing or two about the subject of cinema, mind giving me a bit of feedback?)

The graffiti was written in scratchy chalkstrokes. Beyond the edge of the rooftop was an empty street, haunted by the chimeric slow-drifting shadows of clouds.

The photographer loaded film into the camera, winding up the aging mechanism and raising it to look at the graffiti and the street below.

Came down from my

ivory tower

And found no world

read the chalk letters, scratched into the edge of the building by some anonymous fan of Jack Kerouac. The photographer imagined some overly romantic college student in flannel climbing to the roof with a handful of promethean chalk and a clandestine idea rattling around his brain.

“It’s fine weather, isn’t it?”

The photographer turned and glanced at the speaker, noting only the rumpled suit and the smoldering cigarette.

“What?”

“I said, ‘it’s fine weather, isn’t it?’”

The photographer turned back to his composition, grunting

“Whatever.”

He snapped the photograph, uncomfortably aware of the other man’s presence on the roof. Looking up from his camera, he sighed, looking at the view before him.

A cigarette butt

dropped down

To the street below

Grimacing, he turned to look behind him, but the man was gone. His protest that the cigarette might fall and hit a passer-by evaporated into the air and he blinked.

From behind the corner of the stairwell, he could see a foot.

Creeping over to look at what lay there, his eyes widened.

A woman lay sprawled, half-hidden behind the stairwell. While she was fully dressed, her clothes were in disarray. There was an angry red band around her throat.

The photographer raised his camera, and snapped a photograph.

Reaching into his pocket

for his phone

To call the police

He discovered that he no longer had the device; it was still in his car. Cursing, he looked at the body again, wondering who that man was, and where the body had come from.

Returning to the door of the stairwell, he swallowed, and opened it.

(You can consider this a preview for the as-yet unnamed story I’m working on, that will follow White Knight.  I got the idea from one of the books I’m reading for class, Battle Songs by Paul Zolbrod.)

Sing.

Sing of the Forgotten City, and Sing of the 72.

Tell us of the lost fool and the forsaken seeker; tell us the tale of their revelation, of the secrets they uncovered and the questions they left unanswered.

Let us know what the hashishin know, as those lost palestino boys drink and smoke and fight in the night, of the scorpion-music and scorpion-smoke that wakens them to violence and bloodletting.

Sing of the Forgotten City, and Sing of the 72.

Tell us of the Burning Prison, of the blood blue and gray spilled on those ancient stones, of the soldiers guilty of desertion buried alive there.  What was hidden in those walls?

Let us know what the Carvers knew, what they learned when they stole the Magician’s promethean fire and unlocked his arcane secrets, what they raised, and what they could not put down.

Sing of the Forgotten City, and Sing of the 72.

Tell us of the woman cursed by her own blood, of the wounds with which she was born and all the years of scars and tears that are her inheritence.

Let us know what that last, vicious scion knows, as he wakens the engines of desire, deception and destruction; as he sets in motion his machinations, as he opens the gates of Ishtar, and brings Asclepius to tears.

Sing of the Forgotten City, and Sing of the 72.

Tell us of the creeping, hidden thing, tell us of the warped aborted hybrid of science and sorcery that lurks in the dark, its whole existence a hell of pain and never-should-have-beens.

Let us know of those hidden forces which govern the world, of the threads that weave the tapestry of our lives, of the wires that carry the forces that control chance and choice alike; let us know of those men and women who have pried off the casing of this silent machinery and reshape and rework the mechanisms of fate for their own ends, for their own purposes, in their own image.

Sing of the Forgotten City, and Sing of the 72.

Sing.

(What’s that?  You think I forgot to come up with an idea for flash fiction today?  Yeah, whatever, I have class observation to do.  Also, when my new work is titled, I will recategorize this post.)

Chapter Eleven

No intermediary page this time.  Just a direct pipeline to the story.

I predict that the first part of White Knight will end, soon; perhaps two or three more chapters.

The destined hero climbed the steps, sword in hand.  He was a tall man with long, blond hair, recently a young farm boy, over the past few months, he had fought many battles.  Now, the end of the road was nearly in sight, the course was almost run.

He pushed open the heavy oak door at the top of the tower, and confronted the dark lord.

A thin man in a coarse black robe sat in front of him, at a table.  He put down the document he was reading, and stared at the Destined Hero over the rims of his pince-nez glasses.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Silence!” the Hero cried out, before growling, “your reign of terror has come to an end!”

“Reign of terror…?” the overlord asked, then, realizing the situation, grimaced, “not this bullshit, again.”

“Again?” the hero asked.

“You’re the second one this year.  I really do need to get better guards.  How did you get in?  The sewer?”

“Well…yes…”

“Need more rat-monsters, then,” the Overlord sighed.

He leaned back, and opened the cabinet.  Pulling out a glass flask of amber liquid and two wooden cups, he poured a drink for himself and his would-be assassin.

The Hero looked dubiously, and the overlord placed the cups side-by-side, equidistant from the hero.

“Which do you want?” he asked, “left or right?”

“L…Right,” the hero said.

The overlord picked up the left one, and drank.

“Let me guess.  Old man out in the desert, ate some mushrooms and told you to come kill me?”

“Yes,” the hero said, picking up his cup.

“Gave you a sword and sent you on your merry way?”

The Hero nodded.

“Think I’m some sort of baby-eating monster who willingly starves his subjects?” the Overlord asked, “army of monsters, et cetera?”

The Hero nodded, again.  A look of shock on his face.

“I don’t live in opulence, kid,” the Overlord said, “We happen to live in a country with soil to rocky to grow the proper staples.  Our only industry is monster production, and that’s a little hard to trade.  I don’t have time to explain the intricacies of our geopolitical situation, the international trade of grain, or anything like that.  Suffice to say that my subjects starve because the countries around us are lead by assholes who think that people who make monsters are evil.”

The Hero stared at him.

“But…the assassins?”

The Overlord sighed.

“The old man you met is my former chamberlaine.  He was caught stealing, and I exiled him.  You’re the nineteenth ‘destined hero’ he’s sent to kill me.  Of course I want him dead.  You lot keep killing my rat-monsters.”

“And the armies?” the Hero asked.

“We’ve had to turn to piracy and banditry to buy food and resources.  My forces have orders to not harm any prisoners, and they’re generally just stripped of valuables and released if no one will pay a ransom.”

The two sat in silence.  The hero drank his cup.

“So you’re not…”

“An evil overlord?” the Overlord asked, “Not really.  I mean, I guess you could make an argument for it, but I wouldn’t really call myself ‘evil,’ and ‘overlord’ is just my hereditary title.”

“So it’s all…”

“A misunderstanding,” the Overlord said, and turned back to his work, “you can leave by the front gate.  The guards will let you out, and can even direct you to a fairly comfortable inn.”

The members of the Brotherhood of Henchmen, Minions, Hirelings, and Legionaires Local #139 drew straws to see who would go and address the management–namely, Malefico the Destroyer–and discuss the terms for ending the strike.

Malefico had killed the three previous envoys, but when his henchmen started attacking his scabs, he had signalled that he would be interested in discussing their terms.

Dwight Tremaine knocked on the door to Malefico’s inner sanctum.  He shuffled nervously as the white-in-red circle of the electronic eye looked down and read jos facial expression.  Dwight attempted to smile, and the door opened.

The room was almost a hundred meters square, and a bank of televisions illuminated the opposite wall.  Malefico’s hunched, skinny form was silhouetted against them.

“Enter,” Malefico said.

Dwight walked toward the supervillain, and stopped when he reached the seam that marked the edge of the trap door.  He’d had to oil it enough times that he already knew where it was.

Malefico turned to face him.  He was an old man, with a cybernetic eye staring out of the left socket.  He’d originally been an illusionist named “Magnifico” but an extraterestrial artifact had scooped out the eye and crawled into his skull.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Dwight said, “I’ve brought an itemized list of–”

“Put it on my desk,” Malefico said.

Dwight looked down at the trap door, and decided to walk around it.

“Care to summarize it for me?”

“Well, we’re asking that you update your policies to conform with the Brotherhood guidelines.  Full dental, you pay twice-again the normal Life and Health insurance when you’re directly responsible for the death, dismemberment, or injury of a henchman, an hour lunchbreak, protective gear for use against Dr. Malleus–kevlar, MOPP, the works, a new coke machine for the breakroom–”

“Mother of God, is that all?” Malefico asked, “maybe I can sell one of my testicles to pay for all of that?  Are you all out of your fucking minds?  I don’t have the kind of money for that!”

“That’s not all, sir,” Dwight informed him, grinning sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow, “we also want you to sign a non-binding pledge that you will cease and desist all attempts to ‘destroy all life on the planet earth.’  A lot of us have families, and it’s kind of hard to look them in the eyes and tell them we work for some kind of omnicidal maniac.”

“What?” Malefico said, “You all knew what my mission was, given to me by the electric UFO overlords of the Ninth dimension!”

“Well, yes, sir, many of us did know.  But you did kidnap Bucky from his schoolyard and raise him to be an assassin.  That’s actually part of provision 19c–”

Dwight didn’t finish.  Malefico fired a beam of energy out of his cybernetic eye and burned him to a pile of ash.

Chapter Ten

I’m trying a different method of attaching the file, today.  Let’s see if it makes a difference.

It’s been a while since I posted up something for you all to look at, but this is something special.

Recently, I moved a full timezone away from home, and I’ve been feeling a little homesick (I know, I know, laugh all  you want, internet “people.”)  So, I went to the following URL and listened to my brother’s music.  I think you all will enjoy it:

Benjamin Summers

small change

Updates will be sporadic during the moving process.  I don’t actually have internet in my apartment, at the moment.