BLOGS

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            “What you know is outdated.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

Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC is calling for submissions of novels, novellas and short stories.

We’re currently looking for titles in the following genres: horror, science fiction, fantasy, and romance. We’re most excited about seeing stories in the subgenres of cyberpunk, steampunk, near-future sf, and space opera.

We do publish paranormal romance, science fiction romance, fantasy romance, and dark fantasy romance. We’d like to see submissions in these areas as well. Our interracial romance titles have been very successful, so feel free submit those as well.

To submit your work to us, submit a cover letter, completed work and synopsis to Nicole Givens Kurtz

mochamemoirspress@gmail.com.

Thank you.
Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC.
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“Thank you, Tyler Worthington.”

            Tyler glanced up to see the statuesque blond Goddess standing over him.  He rose.  “No need to thank me, since I had no choice but to defend myself.”

            “Yes, but you also defended others and you saved lives.  You are truly a great warrior.”

            Tyler stared at the woman who called herself Goddess, and had to wonder if there was an inkling of truth to the claim.  She looked as fresh as if she had just stepped out of a photo spread for a major fashion publication.  She exhibited no signs of exertion, no cuts, no bruises. Not a single strand of her golden hair appeared out of place.  Uncanny.

            The man named Olag stepped to the Goddess’ side.  He didn’t look nearly as happy to see Tyler as the Goddess clearly was.  Tyler couldn’t blame the guy.  Being put down in a sleeper hold was not a very dignified position for a proud warrior to be in.

            “Where is my sword?”  Olag demanded.

            “I will gladly help you retrieve it,” Tyler replied in a tone he hoped would allay the big man’s pique.  To the Goddess:  “After I find his sword, I’m gone, out of here…that is if I’m free to go.”

            The Goddess’ expression flashed concern.  “Well, certainly you are free…but we would like it if you remained with us.”

            Tyler shook his head.  “No can do.  I need to find a way to get back to my world.”

            “But to venture beyond the land of the Norlunders is to court grave danger.  You will not be safe beyond our borders,” the Goddess insisted.

            “I’m not exactly safe within them,” Tyler countered.  “How long before these Skags overrun you?”  He waved a hand, indicating a ground littered with Skag and human corpses.  “How long before you no longer have enough manpower to hold back that horde?”

            “We are open to suggestions, Tyler Worthington,” the Goddess offered.  “How do we prevent the Skags from overrunning us?”

            The Goddess regarded the outlander with a look of hopeful expectation.  Olag’s stern demeanor took a momentary leave of absence as he mirrored the Goddess’ expression.

            Between the two of them, Tyler was trapped and he knew it.  I really walked into this one didn’t I?  He berated himself.  He could not in good conscious desert these people to an enemy clearly bent on cleansing them from the land.

            Letting out a resigned sigh Tyler shrugged.  “I might have a few suggestions, if you’re willing to listen.”

            The great hall was a huge stone edifice situated in the middle of a village of wood and thatch structures.  It was shaped like a rectangle and its gray coloring matched the bleakness around it.  Tyler noticed that the sun rarely cast its rays in this land of perpetual overcast.  Grayness pervaded every nook and cranny of existence.  Shades of gray even insinuated its way into the green hues of plants and tree leaves. 

            The sound of merriment booming from inside the hall was enough to make the Norlunders forget the gloom of their environment.  A long wide table was situated lengthwise down the middle of the floor, corresponding to the length of the building.  Raucous Norlunders sat or stood around the table chugging down brew and wine from enormous mugs and chalices. 

A Norlunder leapt on top of one end of the table for a song and a dance.  Inebriation upset his balance in a spectacular way, cutting short his impromptu performance.  A roar of laughter greeted the hapless reveler’s unceremonious plunge to the floor. 

            Tyler stood at the other end of the table taking in the boisterous scene with an outsider’s fascination.  The Norlunders were celebrating their victory over the Skags.  Tyler was dubious.  The Skag attack seemed more of a probe than a concerted effort by the enemy to take the village.  Whether the Norlunders suspected that to be the case or not, the warriors were loathe to allow strategic or tactical complexities to mar their perception of the day. 

            The warriors around Tyler boasted of their individual deeds in battle.  Tyler refrained from tooting his own horn.  But others did that for him and before long, word of the dark skinned stranger’s mighty prowess in combat was the prevailing topic of conversation.  Tyler took a sip of rich brew from his overflowing mug.  He was not much of a drinker.  Plus, given his current predicament, Tyler felt a need to maintain as clear a head as he possibly could in this strange setting. 

He turned to Olag, who had become a companion over the past few hours.  “Where’s the Goddess?”

            Drink and good cheer had softened Olag’s harsh countenance.  It seemed he no longer bore Tyler ill will over their earlier meeting.  “She’s in the temple, doing whatever divine beings do,” he replied, his breath robust with brew.

            “Is she really a Goddess?”  Tyler pressed, making no effort to hide his skepticism.

            Olag lifted a bushy brow as if such a question had never been put before him.  “Is she a Goddess?  That’s like asking if the sky is really a sky or if the sun is really a sun.”  The warrior laughed before turning up his mug to drain it.

            Deciding he wasn’t going to get anywhere with that line of inquiry, Tyler switched topics.  “I’m seeing similarities between your people and an ancient people where I come from called Vikings.  How long have Norlunders been on this world?”

            “Many generations,” said Olag.  “Legends say the Goddess placed us here because she was lonely.”

            “What does the Goddess say?” Tyler asked.

            A lengthy, hearty belch preceded the warrior’s answer.  “The Goddess says nothing, except that we are blessed.”

            “Blessed?”  Tyler’s face scrunched in irritation.  “That’s it?  You don’t know how you got here and your…Goddess won’t tell you?”

            “That’s her prerogative, Tyler Worthington.”  Olag gestured for a server to refill his mug.  “Maybe one day she will tell us…until then…” Olag shrugged.

            “What about the Skags?”  Tyler queried, trying to tamp down his annoyance.  “What do your legends say about them?”

            Olag ejected a stream of spittle at the mention of Skags.  “They’re new.  They appeared in the time of my grandfather’s father.  That was a time when Norlunders were as numerous as the stars in the sky.  Now we are few.  Skags have killed and enslaved a multitude of our number.  But we have refused to perish.  For a while we fought the Skags to a standstill, until a leader rose up among them and unified their tribes.  Now they press us harder than ever, further depleting our population.”

            “A leader?  Who is he?”

            “They call him the Jahon.”

            Tyler mulled on that for a few seconds before receiving a bruising back clap from Olag.  “Enough talk of those demon slime lickers.”  He gestured to Tyler’s mug.  “Drink, enjoy.  We’ll worry about Skags tomorrow!”

            “I’ll enjoy,” Tyler conceded.  “As for this.”  He held up the mug.  “One more sip and I’m done.”

            In spite of another overcast day, the sky remained way too bright for Tyler’s alcohol-muddled eyes to adjust to.  His head felt like it had been dissected and sewn back together with a rusty needle.  Every little sound from the wheedling of what passed as birds on this world to a whispered remark amplified the grinding discomfort of Tyler’s headache.  On top of it all, he could not figure out how that one more sip he vowed to take turned into multiple mugs of brew.  Worse than that, was his lack of memory when it counted, such as waking up the next morning to discover not one but two choice, fully naked Norlunder beauties on either side of him.

            Tyler was walking with the Goddess along the outskirts of the village.  Also accompanying him were the Goddess’ War Leaders Haruld and Voorgren, along with a coterie of personal guards. 

            “You need an obstacle running the length of this perimeter,” Tyler pointed out.  “You’re wide open.  An embankment going north and west should do the trick.  You’re bounded by the river in the south and the Skags are not likely to come at you from the forest since they require flat grazing terrain for their…” Tyler had to think hard, not only because his hangover was impairing his ability to focus, but because he had only recently learned the name of those butt ugly beasts the Skags rode.

            “Kreliks,” the Goddess added helpfully.

            Tyler gave a nod to the Goddess.  “Kreliks.  Of course it wouldn’t hurt to fortify that approach as well.”

            “Obstacles, fortifications. We have no need of such things,” the war leader called Haruld declared.

            His shorter, thinner comrade, Voorgren, concurred with an emphatic tap to his chest.  “Agreed.  Our fortification has always been the fighting prowess of the Norlunder warrior.  The weak build walls.  We build men.”

            “And the Skags have wiped out those men as fast as you could build them,” Tyler retorted.  “I think it’s time to try something new, gentlemen.  Because the next time the Skags attack…and they will in force…this village will fall.”

            The war leaders directed mildly flustered gazes at the Goddess.  “What say you to this, Goddess?” queried Haruld.  “Is our value as warriors to be impugned by this outsider?”

            “Tyler Worthington impugns no one,” said the Goddess.  “He is telling us how to achieve victory and that is of far more value than wasting lives on old, tested and ultimately failed methods of defending ourselves.  Gather a work detail and begin the preparation.”

            The Goddess’ tone invited no further debate on the matter.  The war leaders cloaked their reluctance beneath crisp utterances of acknowledgement. 

            Tyler, having tuned out the exchange, wanted nothing more than to return to his bed.

Thirty archers were lined up in an open field with the river to their backs.  Facing them at a hundred yards distant were man-shaped hide sacks stuffed with grass and tied to poles planted in the ground.

            Tyler gave the command and the archers removed arrows from their quivers, notched bows and released.  Over two dozen arrows penetrated the effigies, not one sailing astray. 

            Approval glowed from Tyler’s eyes at the precision marksmanship he was witnessing.  Norlunder archers were individually proficient, but they were not accustomed to working as a unit.  Tyler put the archers through continuous target practice drills, not because they needed it…although constant practice never hurt.  He was more interested in instilling within them a new sense of cohesion and discipline.

            The war leaders hovered in the background, their scowling faces betraying what they thought of the attention the outlander was bestowing upon the bowmen.  Archery was an art looked down upon in a society enamored with shock combat.  Bowmen were barely tolerated, yet recognized as being of limited utility on the battlefield.  Tyler’s new tactical scheme eliminated the stigma attached to bowmen, granting them equal status with the sword bearing infantry.

            “Why do you waste time with them?”  War Leader Haruld demanded gruffly.  “Cold steel will dispatch a Skag with greater reliability than a flying twig with a point at the end.” 

            Tyler visualized himself knocking some common sense into this arrogant blowhard.  Instead, he settled on civility.  “One twig may not be effective, but many twigs falling upon the enemy like rain will do plenty of damage.”

            Haruld’s inscrutable expression loosened in a brief dawn of comprehension.  Unwilling to concede the outlander’s point, the war leader grunted and walked away.

            Several hundred men, arrayed in dense formations, marched in sync in the same field where the archers drilled hours earlier. Each man possessed a twelve-foot wooden pole that had been sharpened to a stabbing point.

            Tyler watched the phalanxes maneuver, evaluating their coordination.  He yelled out a command and the first ranks of each phalanx thrust out their pikes toward an imaginary enemy.  Not bad for beginners in this type of warfare, Tyler thought.  Of course it remained to be seen how well the pikemen composed themselves in the face of a krelik charge.

            “A shame,” War Leader Voorgren tsked, appearing at the outlander’s side.  “So many good warriors who should have swords in their hands and you have them playing with sticks.”

            Voorgren was an itch Tyler wanted to scratch.  Without looking in the man’s direction, Tyler replied levelly.  “A row of those sticks will ravage a herd of kreliks more effectively than the shorter reach of a sword.  All that is required is that men hold their ground to meet the charge.”  Tyler turned to the war leader.  “That takes a special kind of courage.”

            Voorgren’s face twisted into a scornful mask for lack of a rejoinder.  He growled something beneath his breath and walked away.

They dragged the prisoner deep into the village and tossed him at the Goddess’ feet like a sack of tubers.  The mob shouted and screamed and spat in animalistic displays of wild release.  Voices calling for the prisoner’s death were augmented by calls urging the Goddess to give her divine sanction.  A foot lashed out from the mob, striking the prisoner in the side.  The prisoner gasped in pain and contracted into a fetal ball.

            Someone else approached the prisoner with a club.  The man raised the club over head, bracing for a bludgeoning blow.

            The man peered at the Goddess, seeking her approval to strike.

            The Goddess, seated on a stone slab cut to accommodate her pleasingly lithe proportions, raised a hand.

            The man with the club lowered the instrument and stepped back, obviously disappointed.  The need to inflict violence was so strong in the man he almost defied the Goddess’ silent command.  But fear of incurring the Goddess’ wrath outweighed his homicidal lust.  The man merged into the crowd as the Goddess rose from her stone perch to examine the barely conscious prisoner.

            She gestured and two guards flanking her throne rushed to the prisoner, grabbing him by each arm and yanking him to his feet. 

            The prisoner sagged in the guards’ grips.  His head lolled side to side, his dark eyes partly open, barely focused.  He had been stripped from the chest up.  He wore strange green leg coverings of a material the Goddess had never seen before.  But most strange all of all was his color.  The prisoner’s skin was a deep brown…almost black in hue.  His facial features were much fuller than that of a Norlunder.  And his hair…the Goddess touched his short hair, gently pulling at coarsely curled strands. She appraised the rest of him, finding him to be quite a pleasing specimen.  As tall, if not taller than her tallest guards, the man was heavily muscled, yet lean around the middle, giving him a most appealing symmetry.  The Goddess turned away before certain thoughts interfered with her objective scrutiny of the stranger.

            “Take him away,” she ordered the guards.  “I want him cared for until he is strong enough to talk.”

            As the guards removed the prisoner, the Goddess returned to her throne and sat.  She called for her attendant to bring over her black lioness.  The Goddess stroked the glossiness between the cat’s ears as it moaned delight.

            U.S. Special Forces operator Tyler Worthington had no idea where he was, how he got here or how long he had been unconscious.  All he knew was that one moment he was creeping through dense Congolese foliage on his way to assassinating a brutal warlord.  The next moment he was gone, transported by whatever means to another barely hospitable environment on a world he strongly suspected was not Earth.  Tyler found himself along the bank of a river, light headed, disorientated, bereft of his weapons and gear.  The land was gravelly, fog drenched and dotted with patches of dull green vegetation.  A treeline covered the near distance, disappearing behind the steep gradient of a hill.  A weird blue-green-brown mixture colored the sky, further convincing Tyler that he was on another planet.

            But how the hell did he get here?  That was when a band of ruffians set upon him, cutting short his reverie, pounding him into the dirt.

            Tyler burst into full consciousness as if from a fitful dream.  He scrambled to his feet, his senses heightened, his body revitalized.  He was in some sort of enclosure.  It was a hut with a hole in the ceiling, providing an outlet for the smoke rising from a fire burning at the center of the floor.

            A leathery flap covered the hut’s exit.  That’s where Tyler headed.  Cautiously he lifted the flap, bent and stole a peek outside.  A huge man wearing a metal helmet and chain linked armor covering a kilt-like getup stood just beyond the entrance, his back to the hut.  A cascade of blond hair flowed down the man’s back from beneath his odd medieval looking headpiece.

            Tyler squinted in amusement.  Wherever he was, the natives sure dressed funny.

            Stealthily, Tyler eased out of the hut.  He tiptoed toward his presumed guard and wrapped the man’s head in the steel vice of a sleeper hold.

            The guard struggled ferociously, but Tyler’s hold held, his flawless technique an effective counter to his victim’s brute strength.  Within seconds, the guard’s resistance slackened then ceased.  Tyler gently lowered the guard to the ground. 

            “Halt!”

            Tyler whirled toward the sound of that voice. 

            Four men, dressed much like the one he subdued, trotted toward Tyler with swords drawn.

            So much for slipping out of this place undetected.  Tyler sighed resignedly and removed the unconscious guard’s sword from its scabbard.  Tyler was an expert in the use of blades. But he had never handled a blade as monstrous as the one he was holding.

            Tyler stood his ground, preparing to meet the guards’ attack.  That’s when he saw her.  A tall, blond woman with a seductively snug fitting silver-plated garment snuggly wrapped around her well-formed torso.  An enormous cat, black as obsidian, accompanied her.  It was too large to be a panther.  The animal bore the look of a female lion.  Tyler gripped the sword’s hilt tighter, more apprehensive about the feline threat than the human.

            More blond warrior-looking types rushed to the scene until Tyler found himself confined within a bristling circle of spears and swords. 

            “Who are you?”  The woman asked.

            Tyler blinked, surprised.  He expected a language barrier.  “My name is Tyler…Tyler Worthington.  Who are you and where am I?”

            The woman approached.

            Tyler stared at her fixated.  The angularity of the woman’s features would have prevented her from being considered conventionally beautiful in Tyler’s world.  Though she was far from unappealing.  Her body was a finely cut meld of sensual and athletic.  The aura she exuded, transcended the physical in a way Tyler could not put into words.  Gray eyes, clear as sun-glazed ice stared back at Tyler with unwavering curiosity.

            “I am the Goddess,” the woman replied with earnestness.  “You are in the land of the Norlunders.”

            Tyler tried not to look dubious.  “A Goddess?  A Goddess of what?”

            The woman frowned minimally.  “I am the Goddess of my people.”

            Tyler wanted to press for an elaboration, but decided to leave it at that.  If this woman and her rabble of followers wanted to believe she was a goddess, so be it.  When in Rome…

            “Who sent you?”

            Tyler was momentarily thrown by the question.  “Who sent me?  No one sent me.  I don’t know how I got here unless you used your godly powers to summon me here.”

            The woman either had no concept of sarcasm or she simply ignored Tyler’s barbed reply.  “I am as subject to the whims of the Fates as any mortal.  If the Fates sent you to us, then that means you have a purpose.”

            “Too bad your subjects beat the crap out of me before you reached that conclusion,” Tyler growled, his body still feeling painful vestiges of the Norlunders’ warm reception.

            “Forgive my people,” the Goddess solicited.  “They thought you were in league with the Skags.  Had you looked anything like one they would have slaughtered you where they found you.”

            “What’s a Skag?”

            “Demons in the guise of flesh and blood,” the woman replied, her gray eyes turning hot with loathing.  She glanced past Tyler to where her unconscious guard rested.  “You must be a warrior to have subdued Olag.”

            Tyler lifted his chin.  “You could say that.”

            “Then your purpose will be served with us.”

            Tyler shook his head in vigorous rejection.  “My only purpose is to get the hell out here and back to my own world.”

            The sound of a horn echoed from nearby, eliciting alarmed reactions from the warriors.  The big cat let out a menacing growl.

            The Goddess shifted her gaze to the general direction of the sound and her eyes narrowed.

            Tyler followed her gaze.  “What’s going on?”

            “The Skags are coming.  Time to show your mettle.”  The Goddess bounded away, the black lioness in tow.

A fear-wrought commotion cascaded over the village.  Women and children fled past Tyler away from wherever the danger was.  Armor clad, shield bearing warriors dashed in the opposite direction, their expressions dancing with the anticipation of facing that very danger.  Tyler was inclined to join the women and children, but his own unwillingness to back down in a fight, coupled with simple curiosity compelled him to join the warriors.

He found himself along the outskirts of the village, next to a wooden watchtower.  A heavy fog blanketed the gray tundra beyond the village boundary.  Tyler initially saw nothing.  Suddenly a multitude of forms took shape, bursting from the mist into horrifying visibility.  Large creatures built like men, but with grotesquely misshapen faces made all the more hideous by bloodlust. 

The Skags wore dark leather like material that covered their torsos but left their pale, muscled arms bare.  They galloped toward the village astride monstrous boar-like creatures with curved tusks and enormous snouts dripping with exertion.

 Tyler barely had time to let that hell spawn image settle into his perception before the first mounted terror was upon him. 

            A Skag-mounted beast plowed into a cluster of warriors, impaling one on its long white tusk.  The beast flung the instantly dead warrior off its tusk as if flicking away a fly.  The Skag thrust a lance with a serrated head at another downed warrior, transfixing the latter to the ground.  Extracting the bloodied lance blade, the Skag settled on Tyler and wheeled his mount in that direction.  Tyler held the sword he stole from Olag in front of him as the beast thundered toward him like an antiquated locomotive.  At the last second Tyler leapt to one side, delivering a slash to the beast’s legs.  The force of the contact was jarring enough to dislodge the sword from Tyler’s grasp.  Tyler was propelled to the ground.  A piercing howl emanated from the animal as it bucked in pain, tossing its rider in the process.

            The Skag took a tumble but emerged back on his feet, with lance in hand.

            Tyler rose to face the Skag weaponless.  He spotted the sword, lying perhaps a dozen feet out of reach.  Tyler went for the weapon, but the Skag was closer and he moved swiftly to intercept the human with a lance thrust.

            Tyler reared back, avoiding a thrust that would have laid his throat open.  When the Skag tried a second thrust, Tyler swerved left as the blade swished within inches of his ear.  He grabbed the lance’s shaft and pulled.  The Skag lurched forward off balance.  Tyler delivered an elbow to the creature’s jaw and heard as well as felt bone shattering beneath the splotched skin of his opponent’s repulsive face.  The Skag dropped, injured, but unkowed by the blow.  The Skag unsheathed a dagger and tried to regain his footing.  Tyler, in possession of his opponent’s lance, jerked it into the Skag’s throat.  The Skag collapsed and this time he stayed down.

            Tyler turned in time to see another Skag-mounted beast bearing down on him.  The human gripped his lance javelin style and hurled it.  The lance caught the Skag in the chest knocking him off the animal.  Tyler rushed to the downed rider and plucked the lance out of the Skag’s corpse.  He spun around 360 anticipating more opponents. 

A group of Norlunders was engaged with a half dozen mounted Skags in a confused melee.  A Norlunder with a bow released an arrow that pierced a Skag’s upper chest.  The Skag knifed to the ground where Norlunders hacked him to pieces in a gore-strewn blur of swords and axes. 

            Three dismounted Skags torpedoed into a knot of Norlunders.  A Skag wielding a spiked mallet sunk one of those spikes into a human forehead.  He kicked a second Norlunder to the ground and raised the mallet preparing to bring it smashing down on the human.  Tyler swung his lance.  He was close enough to the Skag that the blade ripped a gash through the creature’s armpit.  The Skag turned to Tyler in a welter of rage and charged, bringing his mallet down in an overhand swing.  Tyler deflected the mallet with the lance blade, whacking the Skag between the eyes with the blunt end.  The impact was solid enough to have been lethal.  Either way, the Skag went down like fallen timber. 

            A powerful roar for the briefest of seconds drowned out the tumult of battle.  Tyler turned to see the Goddess’ lioness leaping through the air with a frightening grace.  The black cat flew at a mounted Skag from an angle, snatching its victim from off his mount and driving him into the unyielding dirt-packed surface.  The lioness buried its blade sharp teeth into the screaming Skag’s body, tearing out chunks of flesh. 

The Goddess was not far removed from her pet.  She held two swords.  The blades were not as long or wide as the swords wielded by the male warriors around her.  They were slender and slightly curved, possibly forged for her handling alone.  Almost dainty looking by Tyler’s estimation.  But when an arc of that dainty steel carved through two onrushing Skags simultaneously while gutting a third one in the same motion, Tyler revised that unflattering estimation.  And the Goddess dispatched those three Skags with the sword in her right hand.  The sword in her left hand moved seemingly of its own accord, depriving an attacking Skag of his battle-axe…along with the hand that held that axe.

            A mob of Skags, some mounted, others on foot, surged toward the Goddess.  The entire battle seemed to shift in that direction.  Tyler rushed to her assistance when it appeared that the Goddess was going to be subsumed in a howling tide of malformed monsters.  He became a tornado, whirling through a press of Skags with his lance, stabbing and slashing with the blade, bludgeoning with the shaft.  Tyler swiped at the ankles of an enemy warrior, upending the Skag.  Just as he was poised to drive the lance blade through the Skag’s neck, a deep bellow shook the air, as if blasting from a broken tuba.

            Tyler looked up and spotted a mounted Skag in the distance blowing a black horn.  The Skag wore a conical helmet with a T shaped standard jutting from the tip.  Tiny bones from small animals were strung along the standard’s cross section.  Tufts of blond scalps, presumably removed from unfortunate Norlunders, hung from the vertical section.

            At the horn’s signal, Skags began retreating.  The Skag at Tyler’s feet struggled to rise in an effort to follow his brethren.  With a lacerated ankle, the Skag wasn’t going to get far without assistance.  Tyler decided to let him go.

            A Norlunder warrior had other ideas.  The Norlunder pounced on the wounded Skag, cleaving the latter’s skull open with an axe.  The rest of the Norlunders went after the fleeing enemy killing as many as their blades and arrows could reach before terminating their pursuit.  Tyler let the humans warriors have at it.  He lowered to his haunches to catch his breath now that that the danger to himself had subsided.  He blew out a huff of dismay.  This medieval-style combat was a son-of-a-bitch…especially to someone highly trained in the covert aspects of modern high tech warfare.

I expect this list to grow. I just wanted to share.

Blade Runner

Minority Report

Soylent Green

The Terminator

The Handmaids' Tale

The Matrix

The Butterfly Effect

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I, Robot

A Scanner Darkly

28 Days Later (which seems more like horror, but it's speculative)

Iron Man

Wall-E

It seems that I irked a few people with my post on pseudo-Afrocentrism. I admit that I expected  to attract some angry comments when I wrote that, but contrary to what someone claimed, I am not here to troll. I came here seeking a community of people interested in African-themed fiction, so without further ado, let's switch back to that topic for this post...

Lately I've been thinking about the Medjay, an elite class of warriors from ancient Egypt, and I've uploaded two drawings featuring Medjay onto my photo album here. I now feel like writing a little story about them, though I don't know how long it will be. All I know is that it will be action-packed and feature creatures from African mythology.

As a very active african nationalist born in america. I will not accept nor respect Brandons opinion. Brandon seems to be a fire starter,a diversion from the subject and creativity we are here to share and experience. This is the tactics europeans use before you realise what an operative is doing. It asked for a reason, WHAT is the main focus of this site! Opposite from white! So why are you here speaking on what africans are or are not period. Its obvious you have not studied African history..or your own! Weve heard from you and your forefathers long enough about who we arent! You lied then and either your ignorant,naive or your lying again. Peace

As someone who frequents message boards oriented around African history, I've run into several individuals who have some very...unorthodox ideas about the role of black people in world history. According to these people, black Africans founded nearly every significant civilization in antiquity, including Greece, Mesopotamia, the Olmec culture of Mesoamerica, and the Chinese Shang Dynasty. I've even met people claiming that the ancient Celts and Vikings were black!

Such individuals would likely be called "radical Afrocentrists", but the more I consider their claims, the more I doubt that this label is really applicable to them. I've noticed that these guys actually seldom pay much attention to cultures inside of Africa itself; they're more concerned with finding blacks in far-flung reaches of the planet. Take as an example Gregory Walker's Shades of Memnon trilogy, which claims a significant black presence in Olmec Mesoamerica and Shang Dynasty China. Walker may proclaim that his books are pro-African, but while the protagonist is indeed Egyptian, as far as I can tell he is in Europe, Asia, and the Americas rather than Africa proper for most of the books' length.

On the other hand, if you study the word "Afrocentrism", you'll see that it implies a focus on Africa. How can people be Afrocentric if they spend more energy declaring non-African cultures to be black than encouraging the study of genuine African cultures? This emphasis on peoples outside of Africa isn't Afrocentric, but is if anything the opposite.

Mind you, I'm not against the notion of black Africans exploring faraway lands by itself. If there's any evidence for it, I can even buy African merchants trading with the Olmecs, Chinese, or what have you. However, I really do not like the idea of black Africans founding every significant non-African culture, for it's implicitly disrespectful to non-Africans. It's tantamount to how Europeans used to claim a non-African origin for every major civilization in Africa, such as Egypt and Great Zimbabwe. The truth of the matter is that the history of world civilization is multichromatic, with its builders ranging in complexion from ebony black Kushites to lily white English. That's a much more colorful picture than the one painted by racial supremacists of any shade.

This is a re-design of an illustration I did for The Akonadi poster Design contest. More info on my blog

I originally wrote this article for the History section of the Rome: Total War Heaven website; the version posted on the website may be viewed here. However, below I've made some changes to the original article to include more references.

Ancient Egypt's African Roots

This view is wrong. The ancient Egyptians were not Europeans or Asians. They were in fact largely indigenous Africans, both biologically and culturally. That is not to say that there was no cultural or genetic influence from Europe or Asia, but any such influence was not enough to dilute a fundamentally African identity.

Physical Anthropology

Before the ancient Egyptians' biological relationships to other African peoples can be discussed, a common misconception about Africans must be refuted. This misconception is that indigenous Africans universally have a specific set of facial features commonly called "Negroid", such as wide, flat noses and full lips. While many African populations do have those features, there are also many who do not. Physical anthropologist Jean Hiernaux (1975) writes:

In sub-Saharan Africa, many anthropological characters show a wide range of population means or frequencies. In some of them, the whole world range is covered in the sub-continent. Here live the shortest and the tallest human populations, the one with the highest and the one with the lowest nose, the one with the thickest and the one with the thinnest lips in the world. In this area, the range of the average nose widths covers 92 per cent of the world range: only a narrow range of extremely low means are absent from the African record. (53-4)

Thinner noses and lips, so-called "Caucasoid" features, are especially common in northeast African regions not far from Egypt, such as Ethiopia, Somalia, Eritrea, and northern Sudan. Why this is the case is not known, although some anthropologists have speculated that there is a correlation between nose width and humidity, with narrower noses being more adaptive to drier climates. Whatever the cause, the point is that native African features are not restricted to the "Negroid" stereotype.

If we keep that in mind, how do we know whether the ancient Egyptians were more closely related to other Africans than to Europeans or Asians?

One method used by physical anthropologists to determine how closely related populations are is by measuring and comparing the shapes of their skulls, since skull shape varies from region to region. Populations with more similar skull shapes are regarded as being more closely related. When their skulls are subjected to this kind of analysis, ancient Egyptians appear to be especially closely related to northern Sudanese (Godde 2009) and are overall more closely related to northeast Africans than to Europeans, Asians, or Berbers (Kemp 2005). Similarities with "Negroid" sub-Saharan populations are particularly strong in skulls from southern (Upper) Egypt (Keita 1990, 2005). Those opposed to an African origin for the Egyptians often cite Brace (1993), which claimed to have found Egyptians to be closer to Europeans than Africans, but Howells (1995:95) criticizes this study's measurements as over-emphasizing the shape of the nose instead of evaluating the entire skull.

However, it must be noted that studies have also found some evidence for change in Egyptian skull shapes over time, possibly as a result of mixing with non-Egyptian immigrants. Berry and Berry (1967) report that Egyptian skulls show little change between the beginning of Egyptian civilization (3100 BC) and the Middle Kingdom (2080-1640 BC), but do change significantly during the New Kingdom (1550-1069 BC). This may reflect increased admixture with foreign immigrants, for example the Southwest Asian Hyksos. Zakrzewski (2004) also reports that a set of skulls from very late in Egyptian history is significantly different from earlier Egyptian skulls.

Another line of evidence showing a relationship between ancient Egyptians and populations from tropical Africa concerns the skeleton beyond the skull, specifically the proportions of the limbs. Tropical African populations have proportionately longer limbs than European or Asian populations, because longer limbs dissipate heat more easily. Measurements of ancient Egyptian skeletons has shown that their limb proportions were within the range of tropical African populations (Zakrzewski 2003), and sometimes their limbs were proportionately longer than those of some tropical Africans, leading Robins and Shute (1986) to call them "super-Negroid".

This is especially significant because even though we think of Egypt as a hot place, it is not truly tropical (it cools off during nighttime and winter). Populations living in subtropical desert climates similar to those of Egypt, such as the San of southwestern Africa, normally have limb proportions intermediate to those of Europeans and tropical populations (Trinkaus 1981). If the ancient Egyptians' limb proportions were like those of tropical Africans rather than subtropical peoples like the San, that implies that their ancestors must been relatively recent migrants to subtropical Egypt from a truly tropical area, such as tropical sub-Saharan Africa.

Yet another line of evidence concerns hair texture. You might think that casually glancing at Egyptian mummies' hair might answer the question of what their hair texture was originally like, but this is wrong. As shown by Brothwell and Spearman (1963) and Bertrand et al. (2003), Egyptian mummies' hair appears to have been damaged by the mummification process. Damage to the hair can cause discoloration and texture changes.

Fortunately, there is a more reliable way of discerning hair's original texture. First, using a special instrument called a trichometer, measure the cross-section of the hair, then divide the value for the minimum diameter of the hair by the maximum and multiply the product by a hundred, producing an index. Hair that was originally curly or kinky will produce an index between 55 and 70, while straighter hair will produce an index over 70.

According to Conti-Fuhrman and Massa (1972) and Massa and Massali (1980), hairs recovered from ancient Egyptian mummies have an average index of 60.02, falling within the kinky to curly range. In other words, ancient Egyptians' natural hair was curly to kinky like those of Africans. However, it must be noted that Egyptians usually shaved their heads to rid themselves of lice and wore wigs most of the time, so most Egyptian artwork does not depict Egyptians with their natural hair.

Finally, there comes the question of exactly what skin color the ancient Egyptians were. It is tempting to look at Egyptian paintings, but it must be remembered that Egyptian paintings were symbolic rather than realistic in nature. Individuals may be depicted as red, yellow, gold, green, white, or black depending on the context. Between the Old and Middle Kingdoms, it was common to depict Egyptian men as brown-skinned and women as yellow-skinned, but for some unknown reason, by the time of the New Kingdom, both sexes were portrayed as brown-skinned.

A better method of determining Egyptian skin tone would be analyzing the melanin content of samples of skin tissue taken from their mummies (melanin is the pigment which determines skin tone in humans). Mekota and Vermehren (2005), after studying Egyptian mummy skin cells, concluded that they "were packed with melanin as expected for specimens of Negroid origin"---in other words, Egyptians had a level of melanin and thus skin tone within the range of tropical Africans. We can therefore safely conclude that the ancient Egyptians were what we would call "black".

Not only were the ancient Egyptians biologically related to other Africans, but archaeology and cultural anthropology have shown that their culture had indigenous African roots as well.

Archaeology and Cultural Anthropology

The ancient Egyptian language is not the only thing that came to Egypt from the south. Some aspects of the Egyptian institution of pharaoh also show ties to more southerly Africans. Aldred (1978) says that the Egyptian pharaoh, who was believed to control the flooding of the Nile, may have been descended from a "rainmaker king" similar to the kind prevalent throughout black Africa. The Egyptian practice of sacrificing servants to accompany a dead pharaoh into the afterlife also appears to be of Sudanic origin (Ehert 1996). Even the iconography associated with the pharaoh may have originated in the south, for the oldest evidence of this iconography is found on an incense burner found in Nubia (Williams 1986).

In addition to language and political institutions, other aspects of Egyptian culture show ties to sub-Saharan Africa. Eglash (1995) shows that fractal designs, which are widely used by African cultures, are present in Egyptian architecture and cosmological signs. The Egyptian counting system also has sub-Saharan roots (Eglash 1999). According to the Encyclopedia Britannica (1984), many aspects of Egyptian religion (animal cults, ritual dressings, and the role of the king as head ritualist or medicine man) are closer to northeast African religions that European or Asian ones. Frankfort (1956:39-40) shows that much of the ancient Egyptian worldview has parallels in sub-Saharan cultures. Djehuti (2005a) lists many beliefs and cultural practices (for instance, circumcision rites, divine kingship, ancestor veneration, and totemism) common to both ancient Egypt and sub-Saharan Africa. The same author (2005b) also shows that personal names in both ancient Egypt and sub-Saharan Africa had great spiritual significance. Finally, de Heinzelin (1962) and Arkell and Ucko (1965) report tools of central African design being made by early Egyptians.

Some traits of ancient Egyptian culture also came from the Sahara west of Egypt. This area, now desert, was a grassy savanna until 5,500 years ago, allowing people and animals to live there. The oldest evidence of mummification comes from the Sahara (Donadoni 1964). The oldest evidence of a complex society in Egypt is also found out in the desert. This is the Nabta Playa culture, dating between the 10th and 7th millennia BC, which was characterized by huts built in straight rows, wells, a circle of megaliths similar to England's Stonehenge, and stone-roofed chambers containing cattle bones. These cattle bones most likely represent sacrifices offered to the gods (Wendorf and Schild 1998), a practice that was continued by later Egyptians.

After the Sahara dried up, the proto-Egyptians migrated into the Nile Valley, adopted farming, and developed two early civilizations, one in northern (Lower) Egypt and one in southern (Upper) Egypt. Of these two, it was the Upper Egyptians whose culture evolved into what we think of as classical Egyptian civilization. It is in Upper Egypt that we find evidence of social and economic differentiation among people, a differentiation that would evolve into the class system of later Egypt. Ultimately the Upper Egyptian culture would dominate Lower Egypt and conquer it by 3100 BC, making Egypt into a unified country and beginning the Old Kingdom (Bard 1994).

This genesis of Egyptian culture in the south and west is inconsistent with any argument that would classify Egypt as a "Near Eastern" or "Mediterranean" civilization. If Egyptians were indeed of Asian or European origin, we would expect the north to dominate and conquer the south, but the reverse is the case. This shows that the ancient Egyptian culture was essentially an indigenous African one.

Why is Egypt's African Identity Not Realized?

I can think of two possible reasons. One is that, due to the cultural and genetic influence of various Southwest Asian and European conquerors on Egypt, beginning with the Hyksos in the Second Intermediate Period, Egypt is viewed as part of the "Middle East" rather than being truly African. It is certainly true that the modern country calls itself the "Arab Republic of Egypt". Perhaps people think that since Egyptians nowadays identify with Arabs rather than other Africans, the ancient Egyptians must have been "Arabs" as well.

The other likely reason is that it is a legacy of racism against Africans. In the 18th and 19th centuries, when Egyptology first emerged as a discipline in the West, Westerners felt that Africans were incapable of creating civilization on their own. For example, the Australian anatomist G. Eliot Smith, quoted in Kamugisha (2003), claimed that "the smallest infusion of Negro blood immediately manifests itself in a dulling of initiative and a 'drag' on the further development of the arts of civilization". The idea that Africans could build a civilization as powerful and influential as Egypt's would have been unimaginable to most Westerners of the time.

Not that the possibility of an African ancient Egypt had never occurred to any Western intellectuals. Some, like the 18th century orientalist Count Constantin de Volney, actually accepted it, asserting that the Egyptians were "real Negroes, of the same species with all the natives of Africa". Others denied it. The 19th century Egyptologist Gaston Maspero claimed that the Egyptians, far from having the "general appearance of the Negro, really resembled the fine white races of Europe and Western Asia" (Poe 1997).

Ultimately, modern science, stripped of the prejudices of the past, would vindicate de Volney. However, most laypeople are not aware of this evidence, so they still incorrectly perceive Egypt as "Near Eastern" or "Mediterranean" rather than truly African.

Why Does This Matter?

Some people may wonder why the skin color or ethnicity of the ancient Egyptians matter. Who cares if they were black, white, or magenta?

This debate matters because ancient Egypt has been inaccurately depicted for so long. Portraying the ancient Egyptians as non-African is like portraying the Romans as being non-European or portraying the Maya as being non-Native American. It is perpetuating myths. If Egypt is to be accurately portrayed, its African identity must be accepted.

In conclusion, ancient Egypt was a fundamentally African culture founded by African people, not an import from Europe or Asia. If we are to move forward from our racist past, acknowledging this is a good step to take.

Bibliography

"Egyptian Religion." In Encyclopedia Britannica, 506-8. 1984 ed. Vol. 6. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., 1984.

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Recently, I was talking to Wanuri Kahiu, director of the Kenyan science fiction short film Pumzi (she's also set to direct Who Fears Death: The Movie). I asked her how she came to science fiction . She said that she didn't grow up reading or watching science fiction, that it was organic. "The story led me to science fiction," she said.

I had a similar experience. As a kid, I read everything, including some science fiction but not much (I didn't see a hint of myself in science fiction novels back then- no girls, no blacks. I didn't purposely shy away from sf, I simply was never drawn to it and I didn't have anyone to turn me on to it). Yes, I grew up consuming Isaac Asimov books like crazy...but not his science fiction novels, his science books (though I did read I, Robot...I enjoyed reading about the robots). As the story of Pumzi led Wanuri to science fiction, the stories of Zahrah the Windseeker, The Shadow Speaker and Who Fears Death led me to it.

My short story "Spider the Artist" was pivotal for me. It was my first time consciously writing "pure" science fiction. One day, editor John Joseph Adams had come to me and asked me to write a story for his anthology Seeds of Change. He said, no fantasy, just science fiction.The idea was a bit foreign for me because my world on and off the page is full of magic and fantasy. However, I always like a good challenge so I took him up on it. "Spider the Artist" was the result.

After writing it back in 2008, I was sure of two things: 1. That I was on the right path with Who Fears Death (I was editing it around the time I wrote "Spider the Artist" and I remember going back to it and turning the volume up on some things). 2. That I would write more science fiction. I liked the taste very much. I thank John Joseph Adams for gently nudging me to the table. I think he changed the direction of my work.

A burst pipeline in Nigeria

Here's a brief description: "In “Spider the Artist,” Nnedi Okorafor takes us to Nigeria of the future, where Big Oil protects the pipelines with spider-like AIs known as zombies, and tells the tale of a woman who faces down one of the murderous machines armed only with a guitar."

I must admit that I'm not exactly the kind of person you would expect to join the Black Science Fiction Society, largely because, as you can deduce from my photo, I'm not black. However, I am interested in African cultures and history, particularly that of Egypt (yes, I do consider ancient Egypt to be African), and I support the black struggle against racism in America, so I think I still have a good reason to hang out here.

Although my dream career is biological anthropology, I do enjoy writing and drawing as hobbies. In fact, I've recently completed a 6,866-word short story set in prehistoric Egypt circa 4000 BC. I plan to write more stories with Egyptian or other African themes in the future, and when I have enough I'll probably combine them into a book collection similar to those containing Robert E. Howard's Conan the Barbarian stories.

PROLOGUE

            In the middle of the colorful forest by the river bank through a cloud of white mist, was the birth of a young boy.  There were only three to bear witness to such the occasion, and only one to take him home.

            “He has such a spirit this one,” said the copper complexioned woman holding the baby in her naked arms, her long dark hair disheveled for once. 

            “Yes.  Just like his Papa,” beamed the lean burly man dressed in a hemp loin cloth; who after touching both the woman’s and the baby’s face, quickly jumped to his feet to do a little jig.

            “His birth has been a long time coming,” said another woman as she smiled down at the happy family.  “Are you sure you don’t want to keep him with you?” she asked.

            “If only we could.  He will be safer with you.  He’ll be a happy boy, he has such spirit.” The first woman smiled.

            She slowly got up and placed her son in a wicker basket.  Within the folds of the blanket, she placed her favorite pearl handled hair brush and a lock of her black silky hair.  The man placed a twig from his favorite branch and a leather pouch with a long string.  Within the pouch, his and his son’s secret alone it was to share.

            The father and mother signed a note on a piece of paper made of leather saying:

            Dear Son,

                        Happy was the joyous day of your birth.  We will forever keep it with us.  Though we may not have you physically now, we have you always.  Love is you.  Take us with you wherever you go, in your heart and in your thoughts as we do you also.  Someday soon we will be reunited and when the time comes our son, you will solidify your place beside us.  Words cannot express the sorrow of letting you go, but you are in great, trusted, capable hands.  Love her as we love her.

                        See you soon our baby.

                                                Love, Momma & Papa

            They folded up the note, the mother kissed it, and they placed it in his basket also.  They kissed him on the forehead one at a time, blessed him, and bid him adieu.

            “Ma’Zelle, take care of our boy.  No one must know who he is or where he comes from,” said the mother.

            “His safety and well being is in your hands,” said the father.

            “I promise to raise him as my own and protect him as my own.  He will not want for anything but the two of you, and one day soon I’ll make that come true for him too,” said Ma’Zelle.

            “We know that you will,” they said in monotone unison.

            The three adults embraced as they said farewell.  Ma’Zelle bent over and picked up the basket with the baby, then waved a final goodbye to his parents.  She walked slowly out of the enchanted forest.  Who’s to say when she would be able to enjoy this place again; this land she called home.

            “Sweet Caroni,” she sighed.

            She made her way out of the forest and back to her home and she noticed her lights were on.  As she got closer to the lovely cottage surrounded by trees, bushes and bright colorful flowers; she could hear the voices of men and women chattering.  She smiled to herself.

            Opening her front door, she walked through the living room straight back to her living quarters and deposited the basket.  She cast a sleeper spell over the baby and covered him up with one of her widely knitted throws.  She walked back out of her room, gently closing the door behind her.

            She jumped as she turned around to walk to the kitchen flinging a foreign object across the room that was no object.

            “Ow Ma’Zelle.  Damn.  Did you have to do that?” said the short stout gentleman dressed in a black dashiki ornately embroidered in deep purple threading.

            “I’m sorry Imbar.  Don’t sneak behind me in my house then.”

            “Yes well, I saw you as you came in going straight back to your room with a peculiar package.  What’s in the basket?”  He asked as he got up and made his way back over to her, peeping over her shoulder at her bedroom door.

            “Nothing of your concern,” she said, turning him around and leading him to the kitchen.  “just a going away present for myself.”

            Before her room completely disappeared out of her sight, she cast a barrier spell on the door so no one, especially Imbar, could open it.  Eleven of her most talented trusted and good hearted witches and warlocks were gathered around her kitchen table; Radiis, Imbar, Newlie, Gadar, Tangora, Cyrus, Ketara, Relbyna, Brenton, Hargro, Primus, and Ma’Zelle made Twelve.

            In the center of her kitchen table laid a map of the earth.  There were twelve large, colorful dots on it that each one was assigned to.  They pulled their assignments anonymously so no one else knew where the other was going.  On each assignment were directions to a power source for their new home.  They all were assigned to make a new realm; a new world of sorts to where they guide and assist other beings gifted as themselves, as well as in other ways.

            At the table there was only one that new the exact location of all the power sources.  Her job was to give the map to the leader of the colony in Caroni, only the map.  Her memories of where the power sources were as well as everyone’s knowledge of what they’d seen on the map was to be erased that eve.  Newlie passed out twelve small cups with a smoking concoction, very thick, very sweet and silver.  It was to erase the memories they all shared of the twelve realms.  All they had after that was a parchment of paper with written direction addressed to them alone, not to be shared with anyone of where they were going, where they were leaving, and what they were going to do.

            Prior to drinking the concoction, Ma’Zelle had in hand a memory stone.  She passed her memories to the stone and left it in her pocket.  There was someone else who was being sneaky at the table.  They did not use a memory stone, but prior to drinking as well, they slipped a bark wrapped in a little purple leaf into their mouth with a small cough.  The bark with the leaf was used to weaken the strength of the memory brew and to bring the memories back over time.  Why was it done?  They don’t even know, but they felt it might be information they could use later on.

            “Everyone, we have one bit of business to do before we leave Caroni.  It will take all of us and we must all be ready to leave tonight.”

            “Another mystery, ay Ma?” asked Cyrus.

            “Yes, another mystery,” chuckled Ma’Zelle, “and we have to leave tonight for good.”

            “It’s so soon,” sighed Cyrus.

            “I know I’m not ready to go yet,” said Gadar.

            “ Yes, but we must go.  So it has been told.” Said Brenton

            “I think it’s exciting! “ Beamed Tangora

            “Me too; our own new world.” mooned Imbar.

            “That’s all well and good, but no more Caroni.  Are you willing to give that up?” asked Ketara

            “My realm will be just like Caroni.  I will always have it with me.”

            "You shouldn’t get so attached to things in this always changing world,” replied Imbar

            “We should go now and get our affairs in order,” said Radiis rising from the table.

            “Before you go everyone,” Ma’Zelle said, also rising, “meet me at the river’s edge in the enchanted forest when the moon is highest in the sky.”

            More chairs slid back from the table as more people rose.

            “We don’t have much time, so we best be on our way,” said Ketara.

            “Soon and very soon,” said Primus to Ma’Zelle as he clasped her on the shoulder before walking down the corridor to the front door.

            “We didn’t even get to eat,” whined Imbar

            They all shared a laugh as they continued to exit, making way to their own destinations.  Ma’Zelle too had someplace to go.  Her destination was James, the leader of Caroni.  She rolled up the map and placed a seal on it so that it will only be opened when necessary.  Wanting to pack up so many things in her house, she decided to take the whole thing.  After feeding the baby, she cast him under another spell to keep him content and still during their journeys.  She also took the memory stone out of her pocket.  While forgetting its significance she put the stone in the baby’s pouch his father had placed in his basket.

            Stepping out to the front of her house, she placed her hands in the air as a music conductor would.  She directed the space in front of her shrinking her home and its contents to a miniature version of itself.  She walked over to the shrunken house and picked it up placing it in an ornately carved silver box that was then placed in her bag next to the map.

            James met Ma’Zelle at the entrance to the cave behind the waterfall called ‘God’s Mouth.

            “I got your message and came alone.”

            “You swear you have told no one, not even your brother,” Ma’Zelle inquired looking around.

            “You swear?  What is the meaning of this really?”

            “It is time for us to go.  We have things to do in different locations, but before we go, I have to give you something.”

            “What is it?”

            “Here but don’t open it until the day come that you need it;” she said taking the map out of her bag and handing it to him.

            “How will I know? When it’s time I mean?”

            “It has been said there will come a time when the places where we are going will need this map during a time of civil unrest.  It is coming James.  I need you to be prepared, but don’t tell anyone, especially about this map.  You need to guard it with your life.”

            “I trust your words and I hear you, though I do not understand.  I will guard this map and be as prepared as I can, but I will need to tell people of my preparations so they will know why they do what they do.”

            “If you wish, but keep your circle small. The less to know the better.  No one must be told of the map James, remember that.  I must go.  I hope to see you again one day my friend,” said Ma’Zelle reaching out a hand to cup James’ shoulder. 

             “Likewise Ma’Zelle. I can only hope for Caroni to stay peaceful as it is today.”

             “Listen for the still peace James.  The quiet.  Once all is calm enough to hear a pin drop, the flood gates are going to open and those nearest and dearest to you may be in the flood.”

             “There’s always a lot to digest when I meet with you. Safe journeys my friend.”

             “Thank you James.  Goodbye for now,” she said then vanished as she floated around the waterfall.

James just looked at the space where she was standing then back at the map.

             “For Caroni’s sake Ma’Zelle, I hope this one time you’re wrong,” he said somberly as he walked back to his home stashing the map in his ruby silken robe embroidered with gold threading and brilliant gems.

Ma’Zelle wasn’t the first to arrive at the river’s bank, nor was she the last.

             “Alright Ma’Zelle, we’re all here," said Primus as the final member of their party arrived.

             “Yes, thank you all for doing this.  There is no one else who can," said Ma'Zelle

             “Where are we going?” asked Relbyna.

             “There is a neighboring island, enchanted in secrecy a few miles out to sea.  We need to go there tonight and refortify the islands spells, making it stronger against the dark forces.  GiGi is waiting for us there.”

             There was a ripple of whispering running through the crowd.

             “GiGi?” asked Brenton.

             “I thought she was dead,” said Gadar

             “What happened to her?” asked Hargro.

             “Yes, how did she end up there?” asked Imbar.

             “She was blown over there,” Ma’Zelle chuckled

             “Damn it Ma’Zelle, be serious,” said Cyrus.

             “I am, and she was.  Do you remember a few years past there was a wild, vicious storm with great winds that was not too far from here?”

They shook their heads in agreement.

            “Well GiGi was flying back home that same night from one of her usual outings.  She thought she could handle the winds, but they handled her instead and blew her safely to the island where we are going tonight.”

           “That is funny. Amazing, but funny,” said Imbar.

          “How did you find out about it?” asked Radiis.

          “She sent me a message.  The messengers know the way.  They are one of the few that know the way.

          “How are we getting over there?  I don’t see any boats,” inquired Cyrus.

         “That’s because we’re not taking boats.”

         “Well, what are we talking?” asked Gadar.

         “Those,” said Ma’Zelle, pointing to the water’s edge at twelve large green lily pads with twelve large white lotus flowers trimmed in purple at the guiding head.

         “What about our stuff?” screeched Tangora.

         “I suggest shrinking them, or leave them behind.  The choice is yours,” said Ma’Zelle patting her single bag.

         “I don’t know if I can do all of this Ma’Zelle,” said Newlie sweeping her hand to the mountain of leather trunks behind her.

         “Wow Newlie!  Did you put the whole East Village in your luggage?” laughed Cyrus.

         “I think she took the west side too,” laughed Hargro.

         “No, I did not.  I didn’t know what to bring, so I brought a little of everything,” replied Newlie.

         “Well shrink that pile and stick it in your hand bag,” said Ma’Zelle.

         “Everyone consolidate.  These trunks and luggage pieces are not going to fit on these pads.  Levitate them above you, drag them along in the water below you, or stick them in a single bag or your pocket,” said Radiis.

         There were whirls of colorful dust fragments as witch after witch and warlock after warlock stood in front of their piles and conducted the space in front of them; shrinking the contents to doll house size pieces.

         After collecting their belongings, they each stepped on a lily pad.  With Ma’Zelle taking the point, flanked by Radiis and Ketara, everyone else fell in behind.

         “Off to Cacara,” said Ma’Zelle tapping her foot on the pad.

         “Off to Cacara,” the others repeated following her lead.

         And they floated off across the top of the water standing on their lily pads into the smoky horizon with only the moon lighting their way.

Sistah wins Settlement in "The Matrix".  Could walk away wilth over 2.5 Billion Dollars!

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