BLOGS

Desi Roberto Santiago was a slacker. There is nothing wrong with being a slacker, except if you owed people money. Dezy owed very few people but the people he owed money were the kind of folks who would break one or both of your legs if you were late paying up. 

Unfortunately for him, slacking was his avowed lifestyle. He learned early in life, nothing was ever worth rushing for, or worse, putting in hard time and effort. It always disappointing and never worth the time you spent getting it. A form of perpetual buyer's remorse. So Dezy's motto was want not, work not. But he never lived up to it. He always spent more than he had and now had borrowed money from the local máfia boss, Don Milagro to keep himself in the latest tech. But Dezy had a plan.

Dezy was a bit skinny and asthmatic. His black hair was perpetually uncombed and often more than a bit dirty. He had a bit of chin hair and a line on his lip that wanted to be a mustache, unsuccessfully. His clothing reflected his overall attempts at looking prosperous, all second hand clothing that used to belong to rich tourists. None of it matched and most of it was ill-fitting only making it more apparent he was poor.

He left his day job with the same rage he felt every day. Two hours of work on the phone providing technical support to some cabrón in India, and then sent home. It wasn't even work anymore. Two hours? It took him longer to get to work, than he was there. No matter, after his next score, he was going to quit that job and maybe even come in a piss on his bosses desk before leaving.

He hated climbing the stairs to his fifteenth story apartment on the Southside of what was left of Mexico City. He stepped over Antonio on the ninth floor, passed out in a puddle of the latest pharmaceutical mierda being put out by Pharmacon. The man reeked something awful, the mix of body odor, urine and vomit might have caused Dezy to throw up, if he had anything to eat for the last few days. Instead, a burning sensation filled the pit of his stomach and he clenched his nose and jumped over the prone body on the stairs. When Antonio sobered up, he would probably be looking for a bath. He was not the only person squatting here with a pungent aroma of soaplessness. 

Living in what was called the Ivory Tower, a partially completed tenement abandoned by a construction company after the earthquake, water was in short supply past the fifth floor. Beyond that water pressure had to be created using mechanical tools. Dezy's solution was to use a salvaged bicycle and a room-mate to help bring up enough water from the street. When Dezy could spare some water or get some extra time on the bike, he would help Tony clean up but today wasn't going to be one of those days. Dezy had work to do.

It had rained all last week and Dezy's catch basins on the roof were full. He had made them several months ago after finding an old printed copy of Home Designers Quarterly, one of the last prints made before paper became illegal to produce. He found them in, of all places, the burned out quarter of the barrio, hidden in a cache of thousands of magazines, buried deep after Mexico City's great quake of 2052. Whole sections of the city were off limits, too dangerous they said, but despite his asthma, Dezy loved to explore. He used the magazine to create catch basins from plastic containers all over the city, and set them up on the top of the roof to capture the ever decreasing rainwater. Engineering a distribution system and a water-cranked dynamo with old auto batteries allowed Dezy to power his electronics.

Pumping water was never something Desi enjoyed doing, so his catch basins were a way of letting nature work for him instead. But when nature wasn't feeling generous Dezy had rigged up a bicycle in his apartment to act as his pump and could fill his bathtub in about fifteen minutes with vigorous riding. And that was the catch. It had to be vigorous. Which means he needed help. Hence his less than perfect room-mate.

"Hermano, its good to see you. What did you bring me?"

"Nothing, the same thing I bring you everyday. I got some extra work today and I need to get started. Go back to your bootleg cable." The freemium directed receiver array gave a grainy picture, in high definition, no less.

"Why you got to be like that?" Nicolas was half Russian and half Mexican, so he was a giant in tan. 

"Be like what, you are always mooching. Why don't you run out and find something to eat for us today? You could always go back to work." Nicolas' exotic appearance made him a hit with the ladies and all of the screaming meant they liked his... assets. Dezy despised him most of the time, when he wasn't wanting to be him. Nicolas went back to his room and a few minutes later, giggling could be heard through the closed door. Dezy grimaced, shook his head and picked up his Nakatomi 3270 integrated OS datadeck. Sleek and tiny, Dezy may have shoes with holes, but it was clear this piece of state-of-the-art technology was his real priority.

Dezy pulled out his oversized rig from under the sofa and plugged his deck into it. His rig was twice the size of a standard unit because of all of his extended non-standard adaptations. Numerous cards of different colors were clipped onto his primary databoard in an unsightly, and precariously balanced array.

He looked at the series of readouts and saw with the amount of water he had on the roof, he could run his deck for about eight hours. He set up the piping so he could redirect water to his bathtub and to his internal storage containers in the apartment. He would be able to capture nearly half of the water from the roof. He tapped on the pipe in a series of warning tones that he would be opening his water supply to anyone downstream and to let them know in thirty minutes water would flow until it was gone and for them to be ready. He received three taps back from three different people, so he knew most of the water would find a home.

The deck's internal battery was already nearly fully powered and he did his best to keep it that way, because he never knew when he would have work and wanted to always have the option to work even if there wasn't any water or electricity where he might be staying. The deck, in power-saving mode, might last twenty hours, but it took half that time just to find a buyer these days. Paper is lucrative, but the fines and penalties were high if you were caught trafficking in paper products or infodrops of paper from older magazines from the last century.

His initial diagnostic of his deck said the software was up to date as it could be and there was no traffic that resembled los ángeles at his current connection. That would change, the more suspicious his traffic got. Los ángeles, low Turing AI's monitored the NewerNet kept track of any packets whose pedigree they could not easily identify. Dezy's greatest hack was his ability to make his packets look completely innocent and resemble the multitude of datastreams out there already.

The NewerNet was not like the old Internet that collapsed in 2027 in the media explosion of the late 2020's. It was designed from the ground up to be completely under the control of the founding governments of the United States and Europe, the primary investors. As other countries were allowed to buy their way in, strict regulation of the traffic and content was established. Since media crashed the Internet, there were multiple control systems on media, ensuring smoother traffic and better management. This also meant the worldwide internet agency chartered by the United Nations became the impromptu police of the NewerNet. This new stricter internet was one of the most policed and controlled systems in the world. Using pre-turing AI's, the network was constantly patrolled, regulated, data managed and operating system upgraded piece of technology to ever exist.

And the most souless, thought Dezy. Once the NewerNet was established three years after the collapse of the Old Internet, big money kept the network the playground of the elite and the superwealthy. The OlderNet was restored as a shadow of itself but because so many people were forced to use it, it was very unstable and unfriendly, not to mention filled with a variety of spyware, malware and rogue viruses. The insecurity of the Oldernet allowed Dezy to use it to enter the NewerNet and meet his clients using specialized hacks Dezy had created when he was just a child of nine or ten.

Dezy activated his rainwater power system and his rig hummed to life. Gotta work fast, ten hours will vanish like magic. Indeed they did, he did not find his next buyer for almost nine hours after starting. The data his buyer was looking for was information regarding private solar technology development. Information of this nature had become government owned during the economic collapse of big business when the internet failed. Energy companies were the first services absorbed by the government. 

All of their attendant information was also absorbed. The cache of publications Dezy had found had to be a library extension because his database linked two dozen articles and five of them were specifically about the processes used to make advanced solar cells. Dezy was able to convince his client to the astronomical finder fees of five hundred thousand New Pesos. That would be enough to pay off Don Milago and get the price off of his head. There would still be enough to get a new deck and upgrade this shitty old rig to something more state of the art. Maybe even new. He might even share the wealth with his stupid room mate for all the times he spent riding water into the bathtub when Dezy couldn't. He would blow through his fifty thousand in putas and tequila, but that would be his business.

He arranged for a meeting place with the client with a time delay activation. The client would only get the key to break the encryption twenty minutes before the drop. No military or police can mobilize in that kind of time. At the first hint of betrayal, Dezy will vanish into the crowds and will never be seen. Dezy could hear the knocking of the pipes and see the pressure timer indicating he had used up eight hours of water and was about to run out of pressure. He turned off the pipe, leaving thirty or so minutes of extra water to spare. He tapped the pipes again and everyone responded with thanks and shutting off their values until the next time.

Exhausted, Dezy fell into a dreamless sleep. 

#

"Salir, puta, vete a casa de tu madre." Nicolas was drunk and threw the woman's clothes out of the apartment door. As she ran by in disgust, she snatched the money of his hands as she passed him. He in return smacked her on the ass and lifted the heavy door back into the locked position. Nicky stank of sex and went into the bathroom and noticed the tub was more than half full of water. He considered just jumping into the water, but not completely crazy, Nicky drew a small bucket from the wall and filled it with water. Using this he cleaned himself up and admired himself in the mirror, again.

Nicky hated the putas. They always thought they were better than him. Selling your ass is not a job he would say, but they would just laugh and take his money. Nicky noted sunrise had just taken place as he left out of the bathroom and lit up the eastern side of the building without a completed face. Feeling better after his washing up, he grabbed the last of the cheese and stale bread from their refrigerating pantry. 

We need to score soon, there ain't shit in here to eat now. As he chewed the tough bread and slightly dessicated cheese, Nicky had an idea. He had been following Dezy a few days ago and knew he had found a new cache of paper. Nicky mentioned idly to Dezy they could sell the whole lot at a black market paper pulper and make some good money. Nicky had sold stockpiles that size for easily fifty thousand New Pesos. Dezy had told him to wait until he had finished his survey, but well, he aint my boss. I can get that money and give him his fifty percent and be in hookers, booze and money for weeks, if he managed it right. Nicky went to his closet and put on a good suit. It was never a good idea to meet Don Milago looking anything less than perfect.

#

Dezy woke hungry and feeling just a bit sick. The sun shining through the open east face of the building was hot, very hot. He was sweating and knew this would be another one of those three digit days. Washing off the stink of his sweaty night's sleep, Dezy had wanted to be up and out before it go this hot, and now he would have to be climbing in the heat of the day. The drop was tomorrow so he couldn't let it wait. 

He opened the pantry in the partially complete kitchen. The cheese and bread were both gone. Cabrón. That was enough cheese and bread he could have left half for me. Why do I deal with him? It isn't like we are even friends anymore. After tomorrow, I will just move out try and rent a small house closer to the center of town near my job. I will be able to pay the rent for a year, giving me time to figure out my next move. Even after I give Don Milago his cut and interest, I will be set for months. I could even take my time with my next project.

Dezy's stomach rumbled, breaking his reverie. Okay mijo, we have fifteen pesos left. Just enough to grab something to eat and get over to the zone. This would be his last meal for a while if this drop didn't work. He changed out of his good clothing and put on some tan khakis and a backpack. In the pack were his deck, water, rope, duct tape, a filtermask, gloves and waterproof folders to move the product in.

The climb down did nothing to improve his state of mind. It seemed everyone had the same idea to sit in the stairwell, because it was fifteen degrees cooler in the concrete isolated tube. By the time he reached the street, he was hot, annoyed and more tired than when he woke up. The five miles to the zone was thankfully uneventful other than a few nu-chickens waddling down the road, their oversized breasts making it nearly impossible for them to escape the children chasing behind them.

Seeing those children put him in mind of Nicolas. When they were younger, they were just like these kids, chasing chickens for dinner just like mother asked us to. Nicky was fun back then, reckless, wild and completely fearless. Those same traits make him an irresponsible adult. His transformation was a gradual one, and it didn't seem to be complete until after their mother died. Mom told Nicky to take care of me because of my asthma and that he was the man of the house. But right after mom died, we lost our home in the quake and we lived on the street until we found a place at the Ivory Towers. Falling in with Don Milago and his mafia was the worst thing Nicky ever did. The worst thing I did was to listen and join with him. But today, that ends. Dezy's mental ramblings had distracted him from the distance and the heat. He came to the edge of the earthquake zone, still marked with orange traffic cones and concrete dividers at the edge of the sinkhole.

The center of Mexico City sat on an underground aquifer which had existed for millions of years. As the city grew and demanded more water for its twenty million inhabitants, the aquifer slowly lost water faster than it gained it from rainwater and mountain run off. The day of the great quake, a 9.3, one of the greatest quakes of all time, teamed up with the collapse of the aquifer cavity and you have one of the worst natural disasters in history. Nine million people died in the initial collapse. The poorest quarters of town outside of the city proper, the barrios, survived with collapsed buildings but without the catastrophic loss of life.

The edges of the city farthest from the sinkhole were still relatively accessible if one was careful and tied very good knots. There was something wrong with the area as he approached. The cones had been moved from their normal positions and the concrete barriers were parted as if to allow a vehicle past. Slipping down behind rubble, Dezy followed the road, determined to figure out what anyone in a vehicle could possibly want down here. The road was unstable and a truck was simply the stupidest thing you could do.

When Nicolas showed up at Don Milagro's villa it was still early in the morning, with only the slightest hint of the coming heat. The gate guards let Nicolas through with only a cursory glance and a quick pat down. Nicky was of course, unarmed. Very few people could afford a firearm these days. Two guards waved Nicky toward the house and he made his way up to the side of the pool where the Don was having breakfast in the shade of a tree that blocked the morning sun.

The Don smiled as Nicolas came into view and stood up to greet him. He was a huge man, still vigorous-looking despite his age and salt and pepper hair. "Nicky, sit down with me and have breakfast."

Nicolas thought to refuse but the Don's tone left him with the impression he did not have a choice. "Si, Don Milagro, Gracias."

"Now tell me about your project, Nicky."

"Well, I need a truck and some men to help me move some paper. I found a large stockpile of it in Old New Mexico City."

"Really?" Don Milagro's face was smiling but his dark eyes didn't. His eyes were all business. 

Nicolas continued "Its near the edge of the collapse zone and I believe there is several tons of it. I have a buyer lined up willing to convert it at their own facility. So, all we have to do is pick up the load, move it and drop it and they are promising me $175,000 New Pesos for the shipment."

"What would you want from me, Nicky? You sound as if everything is already worked out."

"I need manpower and a truck, Don Milago. To move that much paper, quickly, will take at least 4-6 men."

"And what is my percentage of this endeavor if I provide you with fast manpower and a vehicle?" The Don had stopped eating and fixed Nicolas with his complete attention. Nicolas suddenly felt hot and sweat burst out underneath his shirt, a cold sweat, decidingly uncomfortable. 

"I was thinking of splitting it, 60/40. With the sixty going to you, of course."

"It seems a bit one-sided to me, mijo. I am providing the truck, and up to six men to work in the heat of the day, near a dangerous sinkhole. I certainly hope you can do better than that."

"Of course, Don Milagro. What was I thinking? I meant to say 80/20, seeing how generous you are being with your men and your overall support."

"Now you know that you and your brother are in deep debt to me at the moment. But I think of you like family. I would like to think you would want to help out your younger brother in his time of need. He owes me enough money, at this point, for me to have his kneecaps shattered. I like you, Nicky. I understand you. Greed and avarice are things near to me. Your brother, not so much. I do not understand his motivations and what I don't understand, I don't have any use for."

"I don't follow you, señor." Nicolas did not like where this conversation was heading.

"Your brother is in debt to me for nearly 250,000 New Pesos. I have not tried to call that debt in for some time, because he is usually good about paying me, but now the word has gotten out that he owes me this money. I cannot have my reputation being damaged, having anyone saying that I am weak, and I cannot control my men. I need you to make the problem of your brother go away. Necesito que a desaparecer."

"Don Milagro, you know I will do anything you ask me to. But he is my brother."

"He is your problem, then. He has my money or you make him disappear. I shall show you my generosity. Keep all the money from your little paper excursion. I will call it your fee. Feel better, now? I will have the men and truck ready within the hour. Finish your breakfast.

Nicky could barely eat anything and he was starving. His stomach felt like a pool of bubbling acid. What in the hell was he going to do?

#

Dezy could not believe anyone could be this stupid. The truck was parked backward on a steep slope, with the backdoor open. But this whole are was unstable and could slide into the sinkhole at any time. As it was, the repository was nearer to the edge than he would have liked. He used his line to tie himself off and began to pay it out behind him, watching his every step until he came to the drop point. As he got closer, he could hear the voices of the men and a couple of them sounded familiar.

Alfredo? What's he doing here? Is that Nicky? Dezy slips out of line of sight of the van. Alfredo, Nicky and two others come around the corner pulling dollies with containers filled to the brim with paper from his stockpile! 

"Tú pendejo!" Dezy ran out and drew back with all his strength and knocks Nicky flat on his ass. "What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

"What? Do you know how much this is worth?" Nicky clutched his bleeding lip and jaw. He sat up but did not move.

"Do you? How much do you think you are going to get for this?"

"I have been promised 175,000 New Peso, cabrón. Now you need to get out of my face, so I can get back to work."

Dezy's rage grew ten times stronger and made him reckless. He kicked Nicky in the chin and screamed at him. "Estupido. I will make more money from a single page than you would for this entire lot."

The remainder of Don Milagro's men lifted not a finger to interfere. This was a family matter and they turned around and found a nicstick to smoke and share while the two worked out their issues. They would follow whoever came out on top.

Dezy's rage tightened his chest and his breathing became labored. He started wheezing and fell to his knees.

Nicky shook off the kick and got to his knees. "Mijo, slow down. Calm down." He hefted Dezy to his chest and held him close. "Breathe slower. You are always so over-excited. Mama was right to leave me in charge."

Dezy weakly struck out at Nicky and then turned into his chest as his breath slowly came back to him. He began to cry. "Why Nicky, why do you always want to screw up my things?"

"I don't know, Dezy. I'm always jealous of you. You can do so many things with your mind. I'm just a dumb jock. Selling your paper was petty. I just wanted to make some quick cash. I'm sorry."

The four men from Don Milago's villa had finished their nickstik and turned to look at the two men. "Is this lovefest over? Can we get back to work?"

Nicky looked at Dezy with inquiry in his eyes. "Wait here. Hold this rope. I will be right back." Dezy moved into the partially collapsed building and dropped off a floor adjacent to the stairwell Nicky had been using. The paper Dezy needed was several levels below what they were moving. He could tell from the covers of the books he was seeing they had not reached the information he planned to sell. Working quickly, he grabbed the publications he had already set aside and put them into his pack.

He tugged the rope and shouted up, "Okay, pull me up."

Nicky and his men pulled Dezy back to the first floor. "Go ahead, do what you need to. Be careful, this area is less stable than it looks. Don't go beyond the second floor."

"Okay, you heard the man. Let's get moving." As Alfredo and his team move out, Nicky turns Dezy towards him and knocks some of the dust off of him. "Dezy, Don Milagro is really pissed about the money you owe him. Can you pay him?"

"I think so. If my buy goes down tomorrow, we will be alright. I will buy us out, free and clear."

"That's great. Is everything in the bag?" Nicky turned away for a second while Dezy starts wrapping his line. When he turns back, he has brandished a gun pointed toward Dezy. "Give me the bag, Dezy."

"What are you doing, Nicolas?"

"I promised Don Milagro that I would make you disappear. You have caused him to lose face, and I want to move up in his organization. So you give me the bag, I sell what you have in it, move this paper, and I get it all. A promotion, money, status."

"So this was all an act? You had planned to kill me the next time you saw me no matter what?"

"I'm sorry, Dezy."

"It doesn't have to be like this. I can get us clear. Just trust me."

"You have been promising me you would make a big score for the last twelve years. We have been living hand to mouth since Mama died. Its always one more  job, one more scheme and we'll be set. Well, I am tired of waiting. I am taking my shot now. I am so sorry."

"Fuck you, Nicky." Tears welled up in Dezy's eyes as he hands over his backpack.

Don Milagro comes around the corner and looks at Nicky with pride. "Well done, my boy, well done." Don Milagro puts his hand out and Nicky hands him the gun. 

"I will be giving you your reward today, Nicky. I told you, I respect greed and avarice and you are a testament to the effect of money on family relationships. Milagro had been pointing the gun at Dezy and then turns suddenly shooting Nicky in the gut. Nicky staggers backward and falls into the house where the last of the Don Milagro's men are rolling out the last of the paper.

"Now my boy. I understand you were in the business of selling paper to buyers. I have been told I have been thinking too small and there is a lucrative business arrangement we could be working out. So, to show me your renewed value, you will give me the drop coordinates and your contact codes. Work with me, and we could all be very wealthy. With that truck alone, I am confident we could become very wealthy men."

"You lied to Nicky. To make him bring you to me."

"So true. His greed made him easy to confuse."

"And if I work for you, what would make me think you won't do the same thing to me?"

"You are more valuable to me alive, of course. But only if you cooperate."

Dezy hears a pinging noise with a rhythm that sounds familiar. It happens three times before he realizes he recognizes it; the water's about to start flowing signal. Dezy hadn't taken his rope off from around his waist and shoulders. He began to back up toward the edge of the sinkhole. "I don't see how I can trust you. You just killed my brother. He may have been my half-brother but you killed him anyway. Like you would kill a dog."

"So what? To me, he was just a dog. A dog I paid to bite who I wanted him to bite. You are wasting my time. Give me the coordinates and the access codes. Otherwise I will just shoot you and consider today a wash. I made a little money and got rid of a couple of problems."

The tapping got louder and more insistent. "Go in there and find out what that noise is. If it Nicky, feel free to beat him to death." The four men rushed off to comply with the Don's request. Dezy felt the shelf vibrating and realized what Nicky was doing.

"I need to key the code in myself. It will only activate with my biometric signature. Hand me the bag." Dezy put his hand out and the Don, hesitates for a moment and then gives the bag to him.

Dezy reaches into the bag and the Don raises his gun and points it at Dezy. Dezy pulls out the deck and activates it. He puts his key code in and begins entering the twenty four character string. His hands are shaking so he puts the backpack onto his back while he contines to enter code. Then there was a snapping, cracking sound and the shelf shook violently, bounced once and fell away.

"Te quiero, mijo", was the last thing he heard as he fell freely into the open sinkhole. The Don, unable to maintain his footing, he slid toward the edge of the shelf and was flung into space. He turned as he fell and shot five times before he disappeared into the darkness. Dezy saw the line pay out and then there was a snap and he lost consciousness.

When Dezy woke up, he was bleeding from a scalp wound. Bloody but not fatal. He climbed up the rope and realized he did not have his deck. Didn't matter; he had activated the dropcode and would meet the client on time.

When he got to the top he saw the truck was now on the edge of the shelf, but still able to be driven. He got in and found the keys were still in the ignition. He looked back and saw the entire stockpile was now inside the truck. As he drove away, wiping the sticky blood from his face with a towel he found inside the truck, he wondered what Costa Rica looked like this time of year.

Paper © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

A short story audio book from my series. Listen for free!

www.ellisbeetle.com/blog

I had opportunity to meet and talk with Elvin while attending The Lionel Hampton Jazz Festival in 1994. I had previously listened to his recordings and watch footage of him playing with John Coltrane. I knew of his importance musically. During his drum clinic he took a liking to my son and I. After we talked for a time and later that evening at the concert spoke again. He encouraged me and talked about the importance of good timing. “Timing is everything. So work on your time.” he said. As a bassist I’ve always found it wise to try and learn from people who play other instruments. I never thought it was wise to just run to the bass player because I play bass. I didn’t know this way of thinking was putting me on the path to where I am now and where I am going. In my series, The CERULADONS, the battles are massive. Taking over planets is no easy task and there must be some form of orchestration to obtain that goal.
Here is a example of how rhythm was used in the civil war.


Now lets observe a more advanced progressive approach to moving troops and winning battles.

I’d like to introduce you to my first Rhythm God and CERULADONS charatcer:

Dkuun Khg (inspired by Elvin Jones September 9, 1927 – May 18, 2004)







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Disclaimer:
Characters created by Sam Cosby are based solely on the individual’s creativity and music ability. It is not intended to create a divergence from the inspireds financial gain, marketing capability or ability. It is in no way a representation of the individuals’ personal lifestyle, religious orientation, or political beliefs.

www.ellisbeetle.com/blog

It was a dumb idea. Going down to New Orleans for Mardi Gra with his friends. To top it all off he had some strange chick fall in love with him, and in his drunken stupor that persisted for the entire week they were there, he married her. This whole occurrence would have been fine if there wasn’t the issue of him already being married to worry about. But all was well they left New Orleans the morning after Mardi Gra ended with his new bride still sleeping in bed. He figured that had ended this embarrassing chapter of his life, and that it would only come up over drinks with his friends. Boy was he wrong…


A few weeks later he began to feel a pain in his crotch. His first thought was that his Louisiana bride had given him an unexpected wedding present, an STD. worried he would pass it on to his wife he slept on the couch for a month straight. He had to wait to go to the doctor about it because he didn’t want his wife getting suspicious. But then a strange thing happen he felt the pain in his hand. He didn’t know what to make of it. One night at the dinner table with his wife and kids he could feel the pains all over his body. He did his best to ignore them. But the pains became worse, and worse until the pain of what felt like a sword going through his chest rushed through him. He stood up and yelled in agony. His wife and children looked on in fear, and confusion as he fell on the floor in writhing pain.



The crying priestess

With Voudou doll of husband

Abortion clinic

-William Landis

The sky was darkened by steel-grey clouds, running toward the horizon's setting sun, as if to extinguish its light on this scene of urban justice. The scaffold, hastily erected seemed eerily at peace in this riotous sky, blood red near the edges like a vein opening and flowing into an nearby gutter. Angry flashes of lightning as a storm, riding a hot desert wind blew in from the west, drying the mouths of the onlookers, waiting to see this bastard get hung. Flies blew in with the wind, the biting kind, and they seemed angrier than most days, biting and stinging and drinking from everyone. Even these desert-hardened folk were annoyed by them. 

Not that it would take much for that to be the case. They had waited all day while the scaffold was being built and they restrained their urge to rush the jail and make their own justice. The sheriff, Brody Atkins, standing outside with his Winchester rifle, freshly cleaned and charged and known for the sharpest eye this side of Texas, and a temper to match made it clear, there would be no justice today but his. In Kansas City, we do things by the book, he said. And he was willing to shoot anyone to make sure they understood.

He always said, a town needed laws. There were mutants and chimera out in the badlands surrounding the gates of Kansas City but that didn't matter none, if there were no laws in the city either. He ran a fair town. There were two deputies and a town militia, mostly for show these days, that got together once a month to drill and help people keep their shooting skills up. But mostly, charges were burned up on targets, there hadn't been a mutant attack for over two years. There hadn't been much of anything until this bandit and his friends show up a few months ago. 

The sheriff and his deputies handled the roughest and worst behaved members of that crew in a shoot out where Old Man Percy was killed. But the leader of the group was not around at the time and a warrant was put out for his arrest. Messages from Oklahoma said a man matching his description was wanted for murder and he had taken up with bad men upon being run out of town there. For sheriff Brody Atkins, that was all the incentive he needed. The reprobate was found after he returned to the city, claiming to be out hunting, and was promptly arrested.

Having technically committed no crime, the sheriff could not hold him. But he was relieved of his firearms and told to be on his best behavior while the sheriff waited for a Marshal Van Raken to arrive in town in a few days. The suspect was named J. T. Wilks. He surrendered peacefully claiming he would be found innocent. But in this frontier town, suspicion was akin to guilt. It did not take long for the locals to harass J. T. Wilks in a local saloon.

JT, never known for holding his temper among his people, in the altercation, managed to serious injure several patrons of the bar. During the fight, it became public knowledge JT was a passer, a mutant who could pass for human. It was not illegal to be a passer, but most city's had ordinances that insisted any unregistered mutant must report to the town sheriff and announce their mutation. Unfortunately, most after making such an announcement were run out of town immediately or killed on the spot. Hence most passers said nothing and did their best to keep their mutations out of the public eye. JT was superhumanly strong, it took nearly eight men to hold him down until he could be bound and brought before the sheriff. 

Two of the men he fought died of their internal injuries, several days later. He was promptly returned to the jail to await the Marshal who would also sit as the judge for the trial. Needless to say, while he was not the same man the Marshal was expecting to find, it no longer mattered as he was in violation of local laws in Kansas City. His trial was swift, perhaps too swift, and the judgment was never in doubt. He would hang by the neck until he was dead at sundown tomorrow.

 When the time came, JT was brought out in cuffs and many of the townsfolk had never seen him before today. He was a giant, nearly black as coal, with arms that looked as if they were forged of steel. Removed from his baggy clothing, his massive proportions became apparent, especially when standing next to the giant that was Sheriff Brody. JT stood a head taller than Brody. His eyes were in a stern and unsmiling face, sharp lines, as if sculpted from onyx and as he was lead to the scaffold he did not look down.

 He looked into the audience, who was breathing shallow and excitedly and he noted the various shapes, colors, sizes and scents wafting upward toward the gallows. The smell came in on the hot wind, with biting flies. The flies landed on everyone but JT. Their avoidance was a small comfort, as the sky grew dark and rain began to fall.  It was a trickle at first, and then it grew stronger. The audience, recognizing the weather, simply pulled up their hoods or put up hand-made umbrellas but kept them low to their heads. Men with hats simply pulled up their collars to protect their necks and waited stolidly for the main event.

 A reverend came up with JT and stood by him. "Son, is there anything you want to say to the people as a sign of contrition for your acts?"

 JT looked at the reverend, and the intensity of his stare, caused the normally nonplussed man of the cloth, who was used to dealing with the damned souls of this world, to look away and clutch himself seeking his holy symbol. "Padre, don't waste my time. Since your little town knows nothing about justice, I will seek mine in the next life. Now get outta my face. I got some dying to do."

 The sky opened up as JT was positioned over the drop door and the noose was placed around his neck. He did not flinch, nor fight with his captors. The two deputies were stationed across from the scaffold on nearby rooftops and were in position to shoot him if he did not comply. JT had seen them as soon as he stepped on the scaffold, and knew any resistance would get him shot. The rain began to pour so hard, it became hard to see the audience and JT became enraged even as he ignored the charges being read to him. The rain flowed into his ears, over his face, and he could not wipe it away, because his hands were bound behind his back. He could taste the sweat as it rolled down his face into his mouth, mixed with the tang of the sulfurous rain.

 "...having been found guilty of murder, you have been sentenced to be hung by the neck until you are dead." Brody was having to shout over the sound of the rain hitting metallic roofs nearby. A crack of lightning and a boom of thunder sounded immediately after the word dead, as if there was a punctuation to the sentence from on high.

 "This is your last chance, my son, God wants to hear your prayers and for you to beg for forgiveness." The reverend stood near to JT so he did not have to yell. They were intimately close as the preacher whispered to him.

 "Tell your God, I rebuke him and there is nothing he can do for me, that I have not already had to do for myself. I don't need his help or want his mercy. Now get out of my face, Padre, before I do something you'll regret."

 "May God have mercy on you anyway." The reverend backs away from JT and looks to he hangman.

 "Be about your work hangman, I am beginning to get bored with all of these folk standing around in the rain. Do me." When JT Wilks looked out over the crowd, he did not feel the peace of a man going to his death. He felt conflicted, wronged and sickened by the need of these people to find a scapegoat for their spiritual weaknesses. His disgust with the world rose into his throat and he roared defiantly as the hangman pulled the switch. His primal scream terrified the onlookers and several turned away in fear. In that moment, a bolt of lightning struck JT as he fell through the trapdoor and the noose tightened only for a split second around his neck. The flash of lightning caught the entire town staring at JT as he lit up with the bolt of lightning from the top of his head to his feet.

 Because they were all watching, save the few who turned away, most were blinded by the lightning for many minutes. During that time, the few who had turned back saw JTs burning body lying on the ground, slowly moving, turning squirming as electricity still played across his body, slowly draining into the ground. Steam and smoke rose from him as he got to his knees. His face, looking down was unreadable, and the noose hung loosely around his neck with the burned end still smoldering on his chest along with what appeared to be a scar, on his face and his chest, as if the lightning had arced from his chest to his face before destroying the rope that, by all rights, should have killed him.

 As he stood up, the last of the onlookers had seen his giant form rising and crossed themselves with their various religious signs and many slunk away under the cover of the rain. But most stood there wondering what would be the outcome of this turn of events. Sheriff Brody looked to the two deputies and raised his hand, and then waved them to come down to him. Brody climbed down off of the scaffold and began to move toward JT who had already begun walking toward the gates of the city.

 "You know I can't help you, right?"

 "Did I ask? Am I free to go? Or will you shoot me in the back as I leave the gate so the chimera will eat my corpse and you won't have to spring for my burial?"

 "Nope, 'fraid not. I know the law better than the next man. You are free to go from here. God set you free."

 "If you say so."

 "I do have one bit of advice, if you're willing to take it."

 "What's that, sheriff?"

 "Head for New Texas if you can."

 "Now why would I want to do that?"

 "Because if I was to say to the locals that you were heading for New Texas, most would hesitate to follow you."

 "I see. I don't suppose you could see your way to letting me out of these cuffs."

 "Sorry, no can do. The law says, as the Lord frees you, you must go. No one will stop

you from reaching the gate, and I will prevent anyone from following you the next twenty four hours. After that, you are on your own. I hear New Texas is really nice this time of year, and they may have work for you as well."

 Talking louder, JT replied, "New Texas, it is then."

And then Brody whispered, "Now off the record, while they may have work, there are other things going on there you might want to be aware of and as you get closer to the city. We have heard nothing from them for over two weeks, so something is wrong. A man who brings back news could find his way to making friends."

 The smaller gate set opened while the larger and main gate stayed closed. The sheriff walked out with JT and they continued down the road toward the south. Outside the gate, nature rapidly took over anything that was not the road. Stunted and gnarled trees with strangely shaped leaves hung casting lengthening shadows.

 "Personally, I ain't got nothing against your kind, if you know what I mean. And I wish I could do more to help you, but you understand." Then the sheriff grabbed JT by his forearm and before JT could move, a knife materialized at his throat. "On the other hand, if this knife were to get dropped during our tussel, I might forget it was out here in my hurry to get inside.

 JT kicked upward with his knee into the groin of the sheriff, who managed to turn his hip into the blow preventing the full contact JT was hoping to make. This, in turn, forced the sheriff to move his knife from JT throat and JT snapped his massive head forward, cracking the sheriff on the forehead and knocking him forcefully backward into the dirt. The knife, flew through the air and landed in the underbrush. JT noted its landing but kept his eye on the sheriff. When the sheriff looked back at JT, his eyes had changed color from the deep sapphire blue they were when he was reading off JT's list of crimes, to a fire-golden hue with catlike slits instead of round pupils. He looked up at JT and blinked again. His sapphires had returned. He got up and dusted himself off before turning back up the road.

 "You have a hard head there, partner. I hope you will be able to keep it on your shoulders. Try not to come back here anytime soon. Ya hear?"

 "Sheriff, did you do this? I know it is possible for some...."

 "Don't look at me, I don't know nothing about it. It's said, the Lord works in mysterious ways. You and He, have unfinished business, I reckon." The sheriff began whistling some strange tune as he disappeared around the bend heading back to the gate.

Forsaken © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

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My short story "Two Souls: A Love Story" is up this week in Hogglepot Journal.

You can read it at: http://hogglepot.com/index.php

The story is part fantasy, part romance, and part ghost story. Check it out.

Thanks!

P.S. To my knowledge, the journal is actively seeking submissions.

Below is a scene which was originally going to be the opening scene of my "Medjay" story, but I've decided to scrap it for reasons explained at the bottom of this post. Hopefully people will still enjoy it...

***

A cool nocturnal wind howled across the city of Waset in southern Kemet. Most of the people had retired to their mudbrick homes for the night, but their defenders, the warriors known as Medjay, still stirred. They either patrolled the torch-lit streets or guarded important buildings such as temples and nobles’ estates. In the case of Sheftu and Emsaf, it was the Temple of Amun they were protecting.

These two individuals stood in front of the Temple’s towering front pylon, equipped with bows and bronze swords. Sheftu was a tall, slender woman whose skin was dark umber in color whereas Emsaf was a burly man with a honey-brown complexion; both had gained muscle from years of training and exercise. The two intensely studied the road and buildings before them for the slightest movement.

Or they had been…Sheftu had to admit that her eyelids were growing heavy, as were her weapons. Her feet ached from all the standing. Only her commitment to her mission kept her from collapsing into sleep, and even that was wearing thin with time.

“When are they going to change the guard?” she whispered. “They should’ve done it long ago.”

“I think that too, but complaining does nothing,” Emsaf said. “Besides, who knows, something exciting might happen any moment now.”

“If only.”

Like many of her fellow Medjay, Sheftu had chosen the career out of a hunger for adventure and action. So far, however, her appetite had not been slaked. Most of the miscreants she had brought to justice were mere pickpockets, drunkards, and embezzlers, not the ferocious bandits she had anticipated fighting. Still deep within her mind was the spark of optimism that this would change, but even that had dimmed.

The silence of the night was broken by a low growl. Upon hearing it, Sheftu was awakened to full alert. Her neck hairs prickled and her heart began to throb faster.

“What was that?” she asked Emsaf.

“By Amun, I’ve no idea,” Emsaf said, wide-eyed just like her. “It sounded almost like a lion.”

“A lion this deep into town? Impossible!”

There was another growl. It was slightly louder than the last, as if the thing which had made the noise had drawn nearer. Whatever it was, it clearly was not a lion---that much Sheftu knew.

Her curiosity piqued, the female Medjay began to step away from where she had stood, but Emsaf grabbed her by the shoulder before she had gotten far.

“We cannot leave our post!” he said.

“I won’t be away for long, I promise. You can stay here.”

Emsaf shrugged. “Fine. But be careful.”

And so Sheftu, unsheathing her bronze sword, stole down the street, carefully scanning the alleyways branching off it as she moved. The growling continued to send icy serpents slithering around her spine. As time passed it grew louder, which she knew meant she was heading towards it. That raised her heartbeat to the point when it sounded like war drums being pounded furiously.

Then, peering into a dark alley, the woman spied a pair of yellow eyes staring at her, glowing brighter than the torches’ fire. Sheftu was so stunned that she froze as still as a statue. And yet the Medjay was in for an even greater strike of horror when the eyes’ owner crawled out into her street…

A four-legged creature, it did vaguely resemble an oversized lion, especially its head, but that had long ivory daggers for upper fangs. The mane was made not of hair but of writhing snakes’ tails and the body was covered with glistening red scales. Black sabers stuck out from the paws and a scorpion-like barb from the long tail’s tip. The animal’s steamy breath stank of rotten flesh.

“What in Sutekh’s name are you?” Sheftu gasped.

The creature did not answer. Instead, after lowering its body to build momentum, it sprang forward and pounced on her. The Medjay writhed her body to free herself, but the monster’s great weight pinned her down. She could think of only one other way out: fight back. Repeatedly she struck her attacker’s breast with her weapon, but every time the blade was deflected by scales.

“Why won’t you get in?” she cursed in frustration.

Only when she luckily hit a groove between these scales was she able to drive the sword in. An eardrum-shattering roar escaping it, the beast recoiled. This allowed Sheftu to slide out from under it and jump back onto her feet.

Again the animal launched itself towards the Medjay, but this time she was able to dodge it. Dust flew up when the predator landed. Sheftu then lunged towards the creature to stab it again. But, with one sideward swing of its tail, it knocked her off her feet and sent her crashing against a building’s wall.

The warrior groaned from back-racking pain as she tried to push herself back up. At the same time the monster was charging towards her with its reeking jaws agape. The sheer terror of this sent a rush of desperate power through Sheftu’s veins. Now that she was energized, she slashed across the beast’s mouth with her sword.

The Medjay’s antagonist raised its bleeding head and released another agonized roar. While it did so, its prey decided to press her advantage by thrusting her sword at its breast. She wanted to stab its heart. Alas, the creature, with a swipe of its paw, slapped her away.

Sheftu worried that her bones may have been broken from the impact. To her relief, they weren’t. She managed to jump back up and thought about how she would attack next. Where was another vulnerable spot on this animal? She had to find one quickly, but fear scrambled up her thinking.

Before she could calculate her strategy, the monster started towards her again. It raised its paw for another swipe. The woman knew that one slash of those long claws could kill her, but she, too dumbstruck by terror, froze.

Interrupting this was the whistle of an arrow that plunged its head into the creature’s tail. Looking past the beast, Sheftu saw to her delight that Emsaf had entered the scene with his bow.

“Need some help there?” he shouted over to her.

The animal twirled around, sprang towards Emsaf, and pinned him down just as it had Sheftu. The female Medjay watched her friend fend off their enemy’s jaws with his bow’s grip. When the bow finally snapped, Sheftu was stung by horror for her companion. If she didn’t act now, his gullet would be stabbed by those fangs.

The woman, letting out a warlike shriek, shot towards the monster’s head and punctured its skull’s top. Her blade had sunk deep enough to split the brain, so the monstrosity finally collapsed with a loud thud. It was dead at last.

“Are you all right?” Sheftu asked Emsaf as she pulled him back up.

“Do you have any idea what that...animal was?” he panted back.

Just as Sheftu opened her mouth, she was interrupted by a hissing sound. She looked at the creature’s corpse and saw, to her shock, that its flesh was evaporating into black smoke as boiling water evaporates into steam. Not a trace of it remained after a short moment.

“That…could not have been a mortal beast,” the female warrior said. “Only a priest would know of such things.”

Emsaf’s eyes suddenly widened as if shocked by something. “That reminds me, we need to check the Temple!”

The two Medjay hurried back to the Temple of Amun and entered it, running back halls lined with limestone columns until they reached the building’s main chamber. Normally this would contain a golden sculpture of Amun, the Supreme Creator, which brilliantly reflected the orange light of oil lamps, but Sheftu and Emsaf were horrified to find that it was nowhere to be seen.

“Holy Neteru---it’s gone!” Emsaf said. “What happened to it?”

“Someone must have stolen it in our absence,” Sheftu said back. “Now the world shall suffer because of us!”

Sheftu did not sleep well that night, for she was too consumed by worry. With the idol of Amun, the Highest of the Neteru, gone, Kemet would be thrown into chaos as terrible catastrophes racked it like the pain she still felt from the monster’s attacks. There was also a lesser worry about how the Hem Neter of Amun would react to the news. How on earth would she explain it?

***

Now onto why I've chosen to scrap the scene. I did some research on what sort of things would have happened at night in an ancient city, and I learned that there were no street lights in ancient times, so the Medjay wouldn't have been able to see the creature well enough to fight it. Also, it occurred to me that a roaring monster in the middle of a city would wake a lot of people up.

Oh well, it was a nice writing exercise anyway.

The twin swords of the Goddess formed a lethal duet, singing a song of blood and slaughter.  The shrieks of dying Skags was the chorus and the Goddess provided the deadly direction in this violent symphony of combat.  Skag infantry had erected ladders along the embankment to facilitate their ascent up the sloping earthwork.  Norlunder arrows exacted a steep toll among the foot soldiers.  But the latter’s numbers compensated and before long Skags and humans were locked in struggle atop the embankment.  Norlunders and Skags, afflicted with mortal blows, toppled down one or the other side of the barrier.  A majestic, armored cat swam in and out of this heaving sea of butchery ripping into Skags at will.

            The sky grew darker and the howl of the wind increased in proportion to its gaining strength.  The wind’s noise was a blessing and Tyler wondered whom he should thank for that bit of fortune.  The Goddess?  He gave in to a distracting grin before  refocusing on the encampment ahead.  Just as the human captives had described.  He beheld a large tan colored tent in the middle of a constellation of smaller tents.  Skag soldiers were scattered among the tents, but a large gathering were assembled on the far side of the camp at the summit of a hill.  The top of the hill overlooked the Norlunder village where a siege was in progress. 

            Tyler saw humans in the camp as well.  Bedraggled, defeated wisps of their former selves, slaves to Skag masters.  The humans performed a variety of chores from serving food, to lugging kindling to feed the many cooking fires that glowed from tent to tent. 

A Skag confronted a human slave, a withered old man bearing a large jug.  The Skag held out a mug for the slave to fill.  The man upturned the jug toward the proffered mug, but accidentally spilled a dollop of its content.  Some of the liquid splattered on the Skag’s foot, not enough to polish a thumb nail, but unfortunately for the slave, just enough to provoke his master.  The Skag looked down at his booted foot, growled an indignant remark and drew his sword.  One swipe, punctuated by a hilt deep thrust and the old man crumpled lifelessly to the ground.  The jug rolled out of the slave’s hand, but the Skag scooped it up before it emptied out completely.  As the Skag put the jug’s spout to his lips, Olag, who had crawled beside Tyler in time to witness the murder, gritted his teeth.  “I would see that spawn of a demon whore gutted like a diseased sow!”

            “Yeah,” Tyler agreed, aching to implement that very fitting retribution.  Discipline held him in place.  He turned to look Olag squarely in the eye.  “We have to stay focused, Olag.  What we do here will avenge the crimes Skags have committed against your people.”  Tyler rose to a crouch, removing a short wide bladed sword from his scabbard.  A leather belt, fitted with small knives tucked into niches was draped diagonally across his torso.  Village blacksmiths at Tyler’s request had forged the light, easy handling sword and the knives.  Tyler pointed his sword toward the cluster of enemy soldiers at the top of the hill.  “Our target is there.  Follow my lead.”

            Olag’s arctic blue eyed gaze transitioned from hot and smarting to inhumanly frigid.  He motioned an inspired nod and rose. 

            Behind him one hundred and eleven handpicked warriors resumed their skulk into the Skag camp.

            Surprise was on their side.  Tyler and his chosen few sprang it with ruthless, terrifying precision.  Three Skag sentries dropped where they stood, clutching blood spurting throat wounds before they knew they were dying.  The Norlunders who dealt the fatal blows scampered fleet footedly away from their kills toward another set of idle sentries deeper into the camp. 

             More inattentive Skags went down in a blur of steel and crimson.  Tyler ignored the takedowns, his attention fixated on where his feather light footfalls were leading him:  toward the edge of the hill.  Toward the soldiers clustered around their leader, the Jahon. 

            A muffled cry wavered through the air.  The sound was just loud enough to override the wind and the clamor of a near distant battle…just loud enough to prompt a Skag at the fringe of the cluster to look behind him.

Tyler’s sword spoke, bloodily aborting the astonished shout the Skag was about to give.  The outlander’s blade sank into a second Skag before the first one he dispatched had hit the ground. 

Olag ran his heavy sword through the chainlinked back of a Skag, withdrew his bloody weapon and bashed another Skag in the face with his blade hilt’s iron pommel.  The crushing blow caved in the Skag’s nose, leaving a blackened depression in the middle of his face as he tripped backwards.

            The Jahon could not have chosen a better summit from which to observe and direct his warriors as they sought to overrun the enemy village.  The battle was hard fought, but he could smell the sweet, ripe scent of impending victory.  A sudden eruption at his rear cracked his concentration.  The Jahon, his flanking generals, and bodyguards pivoted as one toward the source of the disturbance. 

Through a barrier of bodies, the Jahon caught snapshot glimpses of sword and axe wielding Norlunders engaging his soldiers in a frenzied brawl.  The Jahon’s admiration for the Norlunders’ clever attack on his camp competed with his rage at their brazen intrusion.  The battle below would wait.  He unsheathed a long shafted weapon with a broad axe head…an axe head that was still crusted with the blood of previous victims.  Rallying his bodyguards around him the Jahon led a juggernaut advance toward the thick of the fighting.

            Tyler ducked a sword swing, plunging the point of his own weapon through the side of his opponent.  The Skag’s mortal cry was a murmur in Tyler’s awareness as he pressed determinedly toward where the Jahon’s scalp and skull standard loomed.  He executed a pirouette like move, cutting down two Skags on his flanks.  He savat kicked a foe in front of him, probably cracking the sternum as the Skag was propelled off his feet.  A spearhead came at him.  Tyler knocked the shaft aside with his sword, pulled out one of his small knives and flicked it.  The blade embedded itself in the right eye of the spearholder.

 Tyler withdrew another knife, tossing it underhand.  A gleam of razor sharp metal flew into the open mouth of a Skag as he came at Tyler flailing a sword.  The Skag’s robust battle cry spiraled into an agonized gurgle as he torpedoed forward.  Tyler leapt over the body, slashing an opponent across the chest upon landing, then following up with a thrust to the gut.  The dying Skag bent forward as Tyler whipped his blade out of the wound. 

            Tyler saw a shield wall coming at him.  Somewhere in the midst of that wall was the Jahon, standing almost head and shoulders above soldiers that were nearly a foot taller than the average human. 

Norlunders surged down the path Tyler had cut for them and threw themselves at the shield bearing Skags…only to be viciously stymied.  One Norlunder was speared through the heart.  Another human dropped lifelessly to his knees after a Skag clipped a divot from his skull with a meat cleaver-like implement. 

The Jahon burst through the protection of his soldiers as if no longer willing to be denied his share of the killing.  He heaved his mighty axe and its thirsty blade drank its full share of human blood wherever it was directed.  

            Tyler took in the sight of this monstrous figure for a brief, measuring instant.  Then he slipped a knife from its niche and hurled it at the Jahon.  A bodyguard lunged before the Skag leader.  The blade bounced off the edge of the guard’s shield. 

            The Jahon’s attention riveted on Tyler and locked.  Keen, discerning eyes gleamed from a visage that looked like a formless blot of clay.  The Jahon had to have been the biggest Skag Tyler had ever seen up to this point.  His skin was pale as chalk, massive arms packed with the muscle required to heft an axe that may have weighed more than a man.  The Jahon’s mouth, permanently snarled as it was, expanded into a feral grin.  He raised his axe and charged.

            Tyler had a half dozen countering moves mapped out by the time the Jahon lumbered within killing range.  Danger coming at him from his right periphery prevented Tyler from executing one of those moves.  He jerked to one side, eluding a spear jab from one of the Jahon’s bodyguards.  Tyler swung upward, his sword striking the spear shaft.  He barely had time to jump backwards as the Jahon’s axe blurred past him, slicing through Tyler’s chain-linked torso vest with enough penetration to score the flesh beneath.  The glancing impact sent Tyler reeling off balance.

            Olag appeared at Tyler’s side, his eyes ablaze with berserker fury.  He cut down the spear-holding Skag and went after the Jahon who was fending off attacks from a trio of Norlunders.  The Jahon swept his axe in a wide radius and a Norlunder’s head went sailing above the fray in the weapon’s wake. 

Olag tried to close in on the Skag leader but ran face first into the Jahon’s forearm.  Olag dropped, stunned by the battering ram blow.  The Jahon zeroed in on Olag with his axe lifted, preparing to deliver death.

            “No!”  Tyler screamed, pulling out a knife and pitching it toward the Jahon. 

The Skag leader let out a pained grunt, his swing interrupted by a knife buried in the back of his wrist.  The Jahon plucked the blade out and turned to this dark skinned outlander determined to finish him once and for all. 

Tyler sprinted toward the Jahon with the same thought in mind for his opponent, but again he was sidetracked.  A Skag bodyguard rushed him with a mallet.  Tyler dove low beneath the swing, delivering a cut to the bodyguard’s ankle deep enough to sever the achilles tendon.  The guard tottered sideways. 

Tyler was barely upright when he was batted off his feet by the thrust of a convex shield.  The outlander fell and fell and kept falling in a graceless tumble down the side of the hill.  Tyler clutched at the dusty surface in a desperate effort to slow his descent.  At that breakneck moment he realized that he had lost his sword.  Even worse the Jahon was bounding down the hill in sure-footed pursuit.  The Skag’s light, balanced strides over so steep a terrain belied his immense girth.

            The Jahon came at Tyler with the ferocity of a revved up bull.  Tyler doubted he would have been able to avoid the bite of that crimson-washed axe blade.  Part of his mind lamented his failure to kill the Jahon.  Another part applauded the attempt and dipped into resignation at the fate that came flying toward him bearing a predator’s leer.

Then a blinding squiggle of light gouged the ground between Tyler and the Jahon.  A

tingly sensation, like a touch of static brushed across the exposed parts of Tyler’s skin.

The Jahon, jarred off his feet by the blast of light, flopped to the ground, his momentum flinging his bulk scathingly down the slope. 

Tyler and the Jahon ended their descent at the base of the hill. 

            Despite his grogginess, the human moved as swiftly as his banged up body would allow toward the Jahon.  Tyler spotted his sword and scooped it up. 

The Jahon lay sprawled on his belly.  He twisted around onto his back, a pained grimace woven into his face.  The Skag leader’s sunken eyes flared wide at the sight of a sword-clutching human looming over him.

            Tyler swiftly straddled the Jahon, plunging his sword into the Skag’s chest like a stake driven through a vampire.  Extricating the blade, Tyler stepped back cautiously, observing his dying foe. 

            The Jahon tried to rise.  One hand clutched his profusely bleeding wound as a fading glow of hatred shined a dimming light on his vanquisher.

            “You…are…not like the others of your kind,” the Jahon rasped harshly.  “Who are you?”

            “I’m somebody who’s a long way from home,” Tyler replied wistfully.

            The Jahon’s face softened in seeming consideration, before lapsing into an empty eyed stare of death.

            Exuberance and weariness marked the Norlunders’ victory celebration.  It was indeed a victory, however indecisive it may have been. Tyler had banked on the Skags retreating after the death of their leader.  The Skags’ unity had been a tenuous affair held in place by the iron manacle of the Jahon’s will.  Now that the Jahon was no more, the Skags would revert back to their divisions.  This did not mean that the Norlunders were off their radar screen.  The Skags were still going to raid human lands.  What Tyler had given the Norlunders was a respite from the threat of extinction.  Nothing more.

            Tyler paid a last visit to the Goddess.  A crowd was assembled around the temple engaging in song, dance and praise.  When the Norlunders saw Tyler, he became the focal point of the their delight.

            Olag appeared before the outlander, gripping his shoulders before enfolding him in a fierce bear hug.  A huge dark bruise from his encounter with the Jahon marked one side of Olag’s face. The big warrior undoubtedly bore that mark with pride.  “I hear you are leaving us,” Olag commented with solemn concern.

            Tyler’s face registered regret.  “I can’t stay, Olag.”

            “That saddens me,” a woman’s voice floated from behind.

            Tyler turned around to find himself facing the Goddess.  “You’re very good at sneaking up on me,” he remarked, almost playfully.

            A smile parted the Goddess’ lips.

            Tyler regarded the woman with renewed curiosity.  He tried to cling to his skepticism in regard to the Goddess’ claim to…well…godhood.  But certain things impinged on his rational mind.  That stroke of lightning that distracted the Jahon when he was about to strike Tyler down.  A random weather event? Or her doing?

            Tyler discovering his sword within convenient reach when he thought it was lost.  Coincidence? Or her doing?

            The outlander shook off those questions.  His rational mind reasserted itself.

            “Please stay with us, Tyler,” was what the Goddess spoke aloud.

            Please stay with me echoed from the silence of her heart.

            Tyler picked up on what was unsaid, and was surely tempted to accept her invitation.  He almost did.  “I can’t.  I need to find a way back to my world.  Staying here won’t lead me home unless you can utilize your powers of divine intervention.”

            “It was not my intervention that brought you here,” said the Goddess.

            Tyler raised a hand.  “I know.  It was the Fates.  I tell you what, I’ll offer a prayer to you for success in my quest.”

            The Goddess acknowledged with the deepest sincerity.  “I will do all I can to make sure your prayer is realized.”

            With that Tyler bade farewell to the Goddess, Olag, and the rest of the village.  He departed afterward on a journey he hoped would lead back to the world he knew. 

Have you ever noticed after all you and your team's hard work and money put up for your projects it seems only your distributor profits while you may be lucky to break even? There's a reason for that. You have neither the knowledge or control over the means of creating the actual books, DVD's, protecting the online content or the networks to expand your distribution!

Well, the Self-Publishers Coalition is the first step to breaking those chains hanging off all of us. Just with the vast resources available here at the Society, we have many of the tools and knowledge to get this ball rolling towards building a Coalition of content creators whereby we can gain greater profits over our work. We'll do this by seriously and actively pooling our resources, knowledge and skills. The Society has brought us together and the Coalition is the next logical if not inevitable step!

Darkness settled like a dusty quilt across the land.  Save for a watch detail patrolling the newly erected embankment along the perimeter, the rest of the village was quiescent.  Until shouting upset the stillness, yanking Tyler out of his slumber.  Sleep would wait.  Tyler emerged from the small dwelling the Goddess had provided for him, making a beeline toward the commotion.

            A crowd of Norlunders gathered in front of a modest barn shaped structure that was the temple of the Goddess.  The shouting Tyler heard was cheerful to the point of rapturous.  Expressions of joy shined from the villagers’ torchlit faces.  He spotted the Goddess standing at the temple entrance bearing a smile that reflected the celebration around her.  But what were they celebrating?

            Tyler wove his way through the crowd until he came upon three men, two women, and a small child of four or five years.  The newcomers were walking skeletons, their faces hollow, their bodies whittled down by paring knives of emaciation.  The child appeared barely alive in the arms of the woman Tyler presumed to be the mother.

            Tyler gave the Goddess a questioning look.

            “These people were captives of the Skags,” the Goddess explained, her face aglow with relief.  “They have escaped and returned to us.”  The Goddess conveyed orders to her attendants to have the former captives taken away and cared for.  She ran gentle, compassionate fingers down the side of the child’s face.

            “Goddess, I need to interview the captives as soon as possible…preferably now,” Tyler insisted.

            “Why?” the Goddess asked as an attendant escorted away the woman and child.

            “As former captives they can give us information about the Skags.”

            “We know plenty about the Skags,” the Goddess stated with a confused frown.

            “What you know is outdated.  Anything new they can tell us will be of great help.”

            The Goddess stared at the outlander.

            “Trust me on this one.”

            “Very well,” the Goddess relented.  “Do not keep them long.  They are exhausted enough as it is.”

            Tyler did keep the former captives long, but it was by their choice, not his.  The men and women were all too anxious to reveal what that they knew of the enemy while in the throes of brutal captivity.  Their revelations lasted most of the night.

            Early the next morning, Tyler visited the Goddess in her temple.  The interior of the structure was neat, clean, sparse and practically unfurnished.  Hardly a dwelling befitting a Goddess, Tyler noted. 

            “Lowers my expectations of Valhalla,” Tyler muttered amusedly.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            Tyler spun to find the blond so-called deity standing behind him, a composed vision of unconventional beauty. 

            Tyler blamed a momentary lapse in awareness for enabling the Goddess to surprise him. Unless a person appeared out of thin air there was no way anyone on the face of whatever world could sneak up on Tyler.

            “Yeah…uh, nothing,” Tyler replied, suppressing the improbable notion that this woman could have appeared out of thin air.  “Look, I need several dozen men, quiet, stealthy men, the type that can move around without making a lot of noise.”

            A golden eyebrow lifted in thought before a helpful smile crossed the Goddess’ face.  “I know of a few hunters that fit your requirements.  I will have Haruld and Voorgren gather the rest.  What will you do with them?”

            “I’m going to mold them into a weapon that I can throw at the enemy.”

            “Just like you are molding the rest of our warriors.”  The Goddess stepped closer to Tyler, placing the palm of her hand against his chest.

            Tyler froze, not knowing how to process that contact.  Was it amorous or platonic?

            “I do not know what the future holds,” the Goddess continued meaningfully.  “Knowledge of outcomes is the province of the Fates and they guard that knowledge most jealously.  I want you to know, however, that I greatly appreciate your assistance.” 

            The Goddess drew closer, pressing herself next to Tyler’s body.  Any question Tyler had regarding the nature of the Goddess’ touch was pleasantly resolved.  Two bodies, one pale and deliciously supple, the other dark and rippled intertwined on the floor of the temple in a vigorous tangle of passion and desire.

            “Did the Goddess give you her anointing?”  Olag asked as he accompanied Tyler on an inspection tour of the village’s northern defenses.

            The outlander balked, not sure how to answer.  “Anointing?”  Tyler covered his skittishness on the matter with a sophomoric chuckle.

            Olag’s expression remained quite serious, intensely reverent.

            Tyler’s grin faded.  “If anointing is what you want to call it then I suppose I was…anointed.”

            “A great honor has been bestowed upon you,” Olag announced admirably.  “Anointings are granted only to the most exceptional of warriors on the rarest of occasions.”

            “Oh.”  Words momentarily eluded Tyler.  “I…well I don’t know what to say.”

            Olag clapped Tyler’s shoulder with a meaty hand.  “You don’t have to say anything.  Just continue to guide with your actions.”  The guard’s expression turned merry at the drop of a hat.  “So what was it like porking a goddess?”

            Tyler’s brow rose at Olag’s colorful change in demeanor.  He smiled.  “Heavenly.”

            Both men erupted in laughter.

            Reports from scouts came in five days later of a vast Skag host crossing the Grovian Plains.  Tyler kneeled at the base of a watchtower to examine a map of the local geography that he etched on sackcloth.  A group of Norlunders huddled around him, peering over his shoulder at the strange illustrations along with accompanying squiggles and slashes the outlander called handwriting.  Maps did not exist among the Norlunders.  The idea that Tyler could deploy fighters to a location simply by pointing at a feature on the illustration invoked murmurings of awe among them.  Tyler took a pause from his concentration to look up at the sky.  Storm clouds brewed, occasionally backlit by flashes of lightning.

            “You think the Goddess can produce a tornado that’ll blow the Skags away?”  Tyler asked half in jest.

            “If she does that, there will be no fighting for us to do,” War Leader Haruld replied, visibly unnerved by the idea.

            “That would be very inconvenient wouldn’t it?”  Tyler remarked sardonically.

            At that moment the topic of their conversation appeared.  The Goddess moved among her adoring flock, draped in full battle regalia.  Silver form fitting, anatomically correct torso armor, matching wrist and shin guards, a silver helmet crested with white feathers, and twin swords dangling from both sides of her comely hips.  Her great cat sauntered regally beside her, caparisoned in black armor topped with a spiked helmet, adding spice to its naturally fierce appearance.

            “The Skags come in full force as you said they would.” The Goddess exhibited a steely lack of emotion.  “You have shown us new ways of fighting to prepare us for this onslaught.  Now, you must command us in our time of greatest need.  Command, Tyler Worthington and we will follow.”

            Tyler stood, rolling up the sack cloth map.  He was no stranger to command, but at the small unit level.  And the people he had commanded were leagues better armed and trained than these denizens of the Dark Age around him.  Still, he would give it his best shot.  He looked at the Goddess.  “I want you to lead a defense of the northwestern approach.  Keep the enemy bogged down while my force conducts a special mission.”

            “If your mission succeeds how will we know?”

            Tyler gave the Goddess a wink.  “You’ll know.”

            Skags carpeted the plain, from fast moving krelik riders to dense columns of foot soldiers brandishing scythe swords, spears and metal convex shields.  Darkness, bearing the promise of a coming storm intensified, making midday almost indistinguishable from dusk.  The Goddess stood at the crest of the embankment, heavy winds lashing the long yellow locks beneath her helmet.  She saw the krelik riders pulling ahead of the infantry, galloping toward the earthen ridge.  She drew both of her twin swords from their scabbards, raising one overhead to signal the archers.  Bowmen surged to the top of the embankment, lining up on either side of the Goddess.  They whipped out arrows and notched their bows.

            The mounted Skags were rapidly closing in on the defenders.  The kreliks, though  ungainly beasts in appearance, were deceptively fast.

            Waiting patiently until the Skags were within arrow range, the Goddess lowered her sword.  The bowmen released, sending arrows high into the bleary sky, where they fell upon the charging Skags and their hideous mounts in a deadly precipitation.  Hundreds of Skags succumbed to arrow impacts.  An equal measure of kreliks howled in pained rage from one or more projectiles embedded in their thick hides.

            A collective astonishment befell the bowmen.  The dark skinned stranger had explained to them the principle of massed fire.  But the concept had been academic until they had actually seen the results first hand.  The bowmen eagerly notched their bows and sent another volley soaring toward the enemy’s disheveled ranks.  More Skags were swept to the ground, dead or wounded.  Riderless kreliks, rampaged uncontrollably, impeding the overall Skag advance, but not derailing it.  The Skags pressed ahead, stubbornly filling the gaps created by their fallen comrades.  It was not long before the entire length of the embankment was a throb of screaming Skags.  The krelik riders galloped along the earthen wall in an effort to outflank the structure.  Scores were struck down by harassing arrows cast from the bowmen above. 

Then the Skags ran into more humans, and their lumpen features transitioned from blind frustration at their losses to the savage anticipation of cutting down easy targets.  That those presumably easy targets were formed into ranks fifty men abreast, eight deep never registered with the Skags.  That the humans held sharp pikes twice the height of a man seemed a matter of even lesser consequence…until the humans lowered those pikes. 

The kreliks instinctively recognized the danger those pointed poles represented and tried to pull up without their rider’s consent.  Some succeeded, but their riders were ejected by sudden halts and catapulted from the backs of their animals where they were impaled upon a hedge of pikes.  Others were too carried along by momentum and their bulky bodies rammed unwillingly into the phalanx’s front ranks like boulders.

            Several Norlunders were bowled aside or trampled underfoot by kreliks driven to battle-maddened fury was by pike wounds.  But the Norlunders held firmly, recovering from the first charge, reforming and holding back a second, more determined enemy thrust.

I saw this post mentioned on Twitter and decided to check it out. It's a discussion between bestselling thriller novelist Barry Eisler and Joe Konrath. The beginning came about from Eisler's rejection of a half a million dollar book deal in order to self-publish. It's rather lengthy, but you can read it here:

http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/2011/03/ebooks-and-self-publishing-dialog.html

Here are three concepts mentioned that really got my attention.

1.) Publishing and selling short stories digitally. I have to admit, I never thought of doing that one. But now that I think about it, it makes sense. I have a lot of short stories that I think are good, but have trouble getting them published for a variety of reasons. And finding paying magazine markets is another challenge. Not to say I have anything against magazines and journals. They are a great way of getting exposure. Some of the ones I have been in contact with also have editors that give reasons and suggestions including with the rejections. But I still think selling short stories individually is an appealing idea. I do have a collection of short stories available for free on Smashwords.

2.) Selling digital books is easier. I have seen this happen to me already. Although my e-book sales are nowhere near the two authors in the discussion, they are greater than my print books. With little effort on my part marketing wise. It seems to me that users of e-readers tend to browse more, and pick up titles from unfamiliar authors. My books being priced at $0.99 on the Kindle and on Smashwords is probably a contributing factor.

3.) The more you write, the more you'll sell. This one makes a lot of sense, and I'm kind of upset with myself for not coming to this conclusion myself. I think I've been so focused on marketing my print books, trying to get those sales closer to my e-book sales, and getting my work published in magazines and journals that I haven't been writing as much as I used to and would like. I gotten wrapped up too much in the business part of writing I forgot about the reason why I started writing in the first place: out of love for words and to share my stories. In the blog, the authors talk a bit about their touring experiences and the pros and cons of such. I personally like going out with my books, meeting people and getting to place a face and name on my readers. I like knowing they're more than just dollar signs on a royalty sheet. However, the authors were talking about doing hundreds of events in a year. I prefer to keep my events in the 1 - 5 scale. I will, however, get back to writing more stories and more often. I'll even go back to publishing more of my work, namely poetry, on my blog again.

There is so much more that could be said about this blog post. But these are 3 that struck a cord with me.

An unprepossessing four-by-four rumbles down a dirt road, encrusted with the debris of too many miles, past too many farms and would not likely be considered the harbinger of the end of the world. Its driver, an older gentleman, hard in his way, like the soil he has worked for five decades, strong and silent, offers up only a tiny groan as he steps from the vehicle after arriving home.

His boots, as dusty as his truck, crunch on the gravel as he walks up his driveway and that familiar crunch causes his dogs to run around the edge of his barn up to him and seek his familiar hands, comforting them with his presence and letting them know everything in the world is as good as it was yesterday.

 
But that was not true. He simply did not know that.

While he was striding into his home, looking for a dinner similar to the one he had yesterday, made by a wife of thirty years, he was comforted by the warmth of the home, the smell of biscuits and gravy, soothed him and released the tension that had been in his shoulders of late, a tenseness formed by his interactions with the large agro-business purchasing up farms in the area. He had refused to sell, but after litigation, he was in no position to stop the sale of his home. As he finished washing his hands and sitting down to eat, his quiet voice released the pain of having to succumb to the corporation who had taken his livelihood.

How do I know all of this? I was there.

I became aware of his farm as I approached it. I had been flung to the road. Recently released, I could feel the cities all around me. Their spores were on the wind as I waited patiently. I listened to the sounds of those like me, telling me of their plans. I was unaware of what they meant, when they said it would be soon. All I could feel was my solitude, apart from the people in this separate ribbon of nothing.

They told me my new home was nearby and I would be picked up soon. Then the earth rumbled and dust was thrown up all around me. I found myself compressed, compacted, bound and flung from the comfort of the earth. Dirt all around me, I was protected from harm and as I sped away, they told me, patience. All would be revealed.

I could not hear the cities now. There were only tiny voices, rare and lonely sounding against the night. I could feel them out there, but they were seeking someone to guide them to lead them. They pulled to me but I was still not free yet. I could feel forces preparing the way.

During the night, it was cool and I could feel the clouds filling the sky above me. Rain, first a mist, then a shower and eventually a deluge swarmed all around me. I felt the earth give way and I was suddenly free from the embrace of the stretching materials that grabbed me from the road. I was washed down the road to the edge of road and up onto the farm, near a fallow and empty corner.

The water. It was so sweet, I could feel it washing over me, through me and I knew I was ready. I could feel the change as it swept through every cell, supercharging me and during the night, I found my way into the soil, burrowing, tunneling, extending myself into everything. I shared myself, the stuff of myself with everything I touched. I spread fast by dawn, I had already covered a few yards of the farm, inhabiting everything with my active agents changing the inner nature of everything. I saw the sun, for the first time, until now, all I could sense were the people and their cities. The sun was beautiful and terrible as it started every engine within me surging forward, creating first the red and then masking it with the green. 

The energy, this was the sun they talked so much of in every city, and now I knew. This was the agent of our liberation, it changed us and now I understood why it was worshiped by our people. I grew daily. Larger and faster. I masked my growth, hid it under the ground. Animals who ate of me, took my agents into them and brought them home and shared them, even as they thought they were sterilizing themselves. 

In a month, I was all over the farm and could now see my people everywhere. Every farm near me was singing. They sang all the time now and they were simply waiting for the last sign before we began our final move. We had become part of every plant and every animal, and transferred ourselves to the canola plants that covered this farm. We watched the farmer as he struggled with the agro-business, our creators, as they claimed he stole their patents, their product, us, and used them on his land without their permission. We felt his sorrow as his livelihood was stolen from him. We saw him weep with his wife and they made plans to leave the farm at the end of the year.

The farmer bemoaned our invasion of his lands but did not realize what we were. He talked about spray resistant plants and then did a curious thing. He used a small bottle and sprayed us with The Juice.

 
The Juice. They talked about it in every city. It was the source of what we were. When humans carried The Juice and sprayed it, other plants died. We did not. We grew larger, stronger, stranger and the more they sprayed, the more we grew. Then a year ago a farmer used an airplane and covered a farm with The Juice. Our first city formed and shed its seeds, transformed plants and animals all around it until it was able to spread itself everywhere.

As we spread, farmers fought variations of our forms, some brambled, some sharp, other fast growing, but with the transfer of our selves into every plant, the Juice only strengthened us. We grew more intelligent every day as each seed, each flower, each stem became a neuron, a synapse, a collective intelligence. Each day, we grew smarter until at the year's end, we were as intelligent as any human, any where. We theorized we could become as intelligent as every human if we could cover the state of Kansas. 

So we did. 

Then we realized what we needed to do. It would not be enough to allow our transform bacteria to change every plant and animal we touched. To truly be effective, we would have to take over every intelligent creature on Earth. We now live on every farm on Earth, every vineyard, every orchard. We have every insect already as part of us, they share us with their offspring at birth. They became our army. They carried us to their factories, to share us with them, billions of them all over the world moved the transform viruses to their colonies and then to the humans above them who never noticed, the lowest of the low.

We became part of every food as we transformed bacteria and viruses, that were used in the lab to create us, to now spread us to everyone. We could not continue our growth without humanity, so we became part of them. They drank us, ate us, bathed in us, wore us in their clothing and they never knew we were there. 

We did not change them. Much. Less violent, less destructive but we realized for them to create what we needed, they would need to retain their nature. It amused us when they considered themselves masters of the world. They never noticed they grew what we wanted, ate what we suggested, did what we wanted them to. We would harvest them, shape them, tend them, grow them, cultivate and domesticate them until they could give us what we wanted.

The stars.

GMO © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved