For theirs was a city
Build from staples and paper
But even at its coolest
Its cleanest
Its most paved
They were there
In the gutters
In the furrows
Beneath floorboards
Behind walls
Listening
Watching
Waiting
Probing for weaknesses
And every piece of information
Every chink in the armor
Borne on scurrying legs
Borne on owls’ silent wings
To the great king
Whose domain they had displaces
Who waited on silent throne
To reclaim what was once his
And would be soon again
Excerpt
Archived Posts from this Category
May 17, 2015
From “The King Under the Fields” by Anonymous
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: abstract, fiction, poem, story |Leave a Comment
May 16, 2015
From “Dvangchi, Qingvir, and their Dwarves” by Denny C. Franke
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: dwarves, fantasy, fiction, story |Leave a Comment
Of all the beings to interact with humans, dwarves have had perhaps the longest and most peaceful history. Unlike elves, but like orcs, dwarves established a great kingdom in their native lands to the far north. A rugged, tortured land of short summers, long winters, pine forests, fjords, and lake-filled islands with island-filled lakes, the archipelago formed the Kingdom of the Shattered Isles.
Dwarves tunneled below the permafrost to take advantage of the land’s latent geothermal heat and rich ores, while their outriggers sailed far and wide to trade (and occasionally raid) the great human kingdoms and even the orcs of the far south. Their stocky build and powerful physique made dwarven mercenaries extremely popular, and they served in the personal guard or shock troop vanguard of many a ruler.
But the dwarves’ hold on their land was always tenuous. Like elves, dwarves had extremely low population growth: females were only capable of pregnancy once every five to seven years, and the tendency of these cycles to align in the various hold across the Shattered Isles meant that serious losses to combat or disease stood to annihilate a population with startling rapidity. The fact that every dwarven pregnancy, without fail, was a difficult twin birth did not help matters; before the advent of modern medicine, many dwarven women died in childbirth.
These problems came to a head with the invasion of the Sea Peoples. Driven from their traditional homlands by the rising empire of the Hamurabash orcs, they set upon the Shattered Isles with savage fury. Their warships were less stable but much larger than dwarven outriggers, resulting in a series of lopsided naval defeats for the kingdom. Worse, the Shattered Isles had just emerged from a vicious war with a human kingdom, leaving their ranks thinned and more territory than usual to defend.
The Sea Peoples also possessed horses and heavy cavalry, which the dwarves had traditonally spurned in favor of infantry and naval warfare. They were of little use over much of the Shattered Isles but at the crucial Battle of the Two Lakes they were able to smash the dwarven army of the King Over The Isles in a charge over frozen ground. The Sea Peoples eventually gained complete control over the Shattered Isles, dispersing the dwarves that they did not enslave.
Known as the Shattering to dwarves, this event was a watershed for their culture. Many were welcomed with open arms by human kingdoms and settled within them in exchange for their service as warriors and sailors. The death of the King Over The Isles also had a profound effect on dwarven religion, which had been a dualistic faith with the king as high priest of Dvagnchi the Dayfather and the queen as high priestess of Qingvnir the Nightmother. Religious epics from the time before the Shattering emphasized the eternal courtship between the two and their shared rule over the world, each embodying opposing traits.
Such was the violence of the Shattering that the entire household of King Tsovngan IV and Queen Jinheiq III was slaughtered. Traditionally, the King and Queen would designate their own successors or leave matters to a Great Council comprised of the heads of the Great Holds. But with no designated successor, all the most likely claimants dead, and the Great Holds annihilated or in exile, no king and queen–and therefore no priest and priestess–could be chosen.
The void that this left in dwarven religious life led many of them to abandon the worship of Dvangchi and Qingvnir and take up the faiths of their new homes, from human religions to the Hamurabash. Those who remained faithful were often used as pawns by the surviving Great Holds in schemes to attain the Shattered Throne or to retake the Isles.
A combination of modern medicine and a latter-day revivial of Dvangchi and Qingvir has proved a headache for the modern lands settled by dwarves. Thanks to an innovation that dwarves refer to as tsviao qio nvrguchi, or “Homage to the Empty Throne,” the lack of an official high priest or priestess is overlooked through the support of local Twilight Courts–the traditional dwaven temple–and the setting aside of tithes to fund the reclaimation of the Isles or the official consecreation of a new homeland.
As a result, where once dwarves had been regarded as assimilated members of various states, there is a growing movement toward reclaiming their political and religious identity, their language, and a trend toward dwarven militias and armed groups that has resulted in bloodshed both in the modern Republic of the Shattered Isles and elsewhere.
May 15, 2015
From “All That Jublub” by Bernard S. Roberts
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, science fiction, story |Leave a Comment
“I don’t want to bother with flight plans or cargo manifests or all that jublub,” said Jai.
“All that what?” said Myassa.
“All that jublub. You know. Stuff. Crap.”
“From the context it’s clear what you meant, Chandrakant,” Myassa said. “I’m just reacting to the word you used to convey the concept.”
“Is the language I use really of that much concern to a security officer?” Jai said, flustered. “You’re kind of undermining my authority as captain here.”
“Two things, Chandrakant” Myassa said, stabbing a pair of fingers into the air. “First, you’re not the captain. You’re the owner. There’s a difference. Get used to it. Second, you undermined your own authority the second you uttered the word ‘jublub.’ What language is that, even?”
It’s just something my father used to say,” replied Jai. “Don’t worry yourself about all that jublub. It’s probably Hindi or something.”
“Oh no, I’ve heard Hindi and that ain’t Hindi.” Myassa jutted her chin forward, pulling her hijab forward when it threatened to come loose. “Hey, doc! What language would you say ‘jublub’ is?”
Dr. Strasser looked up from his workstation. “It is not a word found in any dictionary or any of the tongues of man,” he said in his deadpan way, such that Jai couldn’t be sure is the old geezer was joking.
“Taos, do you concur?” Myassa said, clearly relishing the interplay.
“Collating.” There was a pause as the ship’s AI considered its response. “No matches found in database query, Ms. al-Thurayya. When I have recieved permission to access the planetery data networks I can conduct a more thorough search.”
“That won’t be neccessary, Taos, thank you,” Myassa said. “And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Ms. bint Leya bint Raaheel al-Thurayya?”
“I am sorry, Ms. bint Leya bint Raaheel al-Thurayya,” said Taos in his flat affect.
“So, in addition to mocking my speech and undermining my authority as captain you’re deliberately confusing my poor old AI, al-Thurayya?” said Jai.
“You knew there would be consequences when you used the word ‘jublub.'”
May 14, 2015
From “Jane vs. the Megafrog” by Ari Penfield-Cuff
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, frogs, horror, humor, Jane Austen, Mr. Darcy, story, tadpoles |Leave a Comment
It had been a long night for the group of students holed up in Tammy’s parents’ holiday house in the mountains. First, a fierce storm blowing in off the mountains had put the kibosh on their plans to smooch each other out in the sunshine and at the lake. Then the power had gone out; when Bernard went to check the breakers, he never came back.
Eventually, the indoor smooching had stopped and the others had gone looking for him. Michelle had found his body, with the head sucked clean off, stuffed in an upstairs broom closet. She’d also seen a dark shape darting across the landing, and wet webbed footprints soaking into the carpet.
That had been enough to interrupt the smooching, if only briefly.
Picked off one by one, eventually the group was whittled down to the last two. They were cornered by the murderous creature, the shadow that had decapitated all their friends, out by the pool. Illuminated by the spotlights, it was fully visible for the first time: a monstrous, bipedal frog!
Tammy accidentally fell into the pool, horrified at the sight. Erica tried to grab her hand but the frog dove in after her first. Swimming faster than Tammy could sink, Erica couldn’t look away even as she was sure her friend was a goner.
And that’s when they came between Tammy and the pursuing megafrog: giant tadpoles, tails writhing, whose faces were the faces of every head the prowling amphibian had gathered. It hadn’t just been hunger or bloodlust, but a horrifying circle of life that had driven the creature’s depredations.
Batting the tadpoles aside, the frog swam greedily for the flailing Tammy. With her last gasp of breath, she entreated the only person for aid that she could think of in her final moments, the only one she was sure could rescue her:
“Help me, Mr. Darcy, you’re my only hope!”
May 13, 2015
From “The Teenage Drama of Brood 23” by Tweedy Brotherton
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: bugs, cicadas, entomology, fiction, humor, insects, story |Leave a Comment
“Oh my God!” buzzed Harold. “Cindy is dead!”
“No! Oh, no!” Her sister Katie rushed over to where Cindy lay on the sidewalk. “It’s not fair! She was only seventeen years old…she’d just come out of her shell…she’d only had sex once…and now she’s gone!”
The others raised their voices in a mournful wail.
“Then again, we’re all going to die by tomorrow,” Katie said. “If we’re not eaten by birds first.”
Buzzing in agreement, the assembled cicadas–none of whom had functioning mouthparts as an adult–dispersed to try and do their business in the 8-12 hours of life remaining to them.
May 12, 2015
From “Glorbl’s the One!” by Noel G. Borl
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, story |Leave a Comment
Buy Glorbl! shrieked the billboards lining the boulevards.
“This all looks awfully familiar, doesn’t it?” said John.
Presented by Glorbl!” proclaimed a plaque at the corner of a building, long abandoned and beginning to sag under the weight of many years.
“I suppose it does, after a fashion,” Mary said. She shook her leg to free a flier (Glorbl’s the One!) that had been pressed against it.
As they continued down the road, they noticed that the density of Glorbl advertisements became newer, better preserved; the infrastructure was as well. “Looks like the middle was the last bit to fall apart,” John said.
The ad copy became more desperate as well: from Glorbl Needs YOU! to Please Help Glorbl Help You! to Glorbl: Too Big To Fail!. It had been pervasive earlier, but the city’s core was overrun with advertisements that were more vibrant in their faded greens, pinks, and yellows. In time, the place was practically wallpapered with the stuff, and the fliers and Glorbl promotional detritus was ankle-deep in drifts.
“What do you suppose Glorbl was?” asked Mary.
“Everything, by the look of it,” said John. “At least at the end.”
Mary nodded. “Evo One to Evo Mother, come in Evo Mother.”
The speaker on her spacesuit–required to filter out the poisonous methane atmosphere that everything on Eta Carinae IV breathed–crackled in response: “Roger that, Evo One. Status Report?”
“Another extinct one,” said John. “Looks like this bunch was after something called Glorbl, or at least that’s what the translator makes of it.”
“Roger that, Evo One. Come on back.”
Just like Betelgeuse VII and its Ynyyxr, the Sklog on Aldeberan II, and Canis Majora Prime’s Vxleen, Eta Carinae IV had yielded a dead civilization that had gone into its grave relentlessly hawking itself to death.
“There’s a lesson here somewhere,” said Mary as they lifted off. She cracked a bottle of Vin Fiz Neo, downing it in great gulps. “But I’ll be damned if I know what it is.”
May 11, 2015
From “The Fire Rescue Squad” by Eric Seufer
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, story |Leave a Comment
The Fire Rescue squad pulled up just as the bucket brigade had begun to beat the flames back. “Hold it!” cried their chief. “Back away from that blaze!”
The bucket brigade meekly did as it was told, knowing that there was little point in interfering with professionals like the Fire Rescue squad. Deploying, the squad took up positions surrounding the conflagration.
At the chief’s word, they began to douse the flames with kerosene, butane, coal, and matches. It sputtered and smoldered for a moment as the last of the bucket brigade’s water evaporated away, then coughed forth with renewed vigor.
“How are you feeling?” asked the chief, laying a hand that was made of glowing semisolid magma upon the shoulder of the fire elemental that had been rescued from death at the hands of the bucket brigade.
“I think I’ll be okay,” the elemental, a salamander from the Quasi-Elemental Dimension of Ashes, said. “I just need to finish burning up this city block and get my appetite back.”
May 10, 2015
From “No Place Exists Until” by Anonymous
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, story |Leave a Comment
I never get tired of it, the thrill of discovery. I’ve talked to some people who, with some regret in their voices, bemoan the fact that there are no longer any blank spots on the map.
I disagree.
The entire map is blank until you see it. Descriptions are faulty, pictures lie like rugs, and people are falliable.
No place exists until you have seen it.
May 9, 2015
From “Ransack Roller” by Altos Wexan
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: Altos Wexan, fiction, story |Leave a Comment
Bucephalus “Ransack” Roller Jr. was born to a blacksmith and cobbler in Henthigh, a highly urbanized region known for its strong drink, hearty food, and thick accent. As a lad, Roller helped his father Bucephalus Sr. in the arduous task of shoeing horses and forging tack, as well as pulling out the occasional errant tooth or setting the occasional broken bone. “Bucephalus” means “oxhead” in the Old Tongue, and it has a long and proud tradition in the Roller family; needless to say, Ransack hates the name and tends to threaten physical violence against anyone who uses it.
The nature of Buchaphalus Sr.’s work with animals and the occasional surgery was good training for an adventurer, exercising both body and mind. But Ransack never had much aptitude in the forge, and after a spectacular incident involving a horseshoe that became a tiny iron bomb, he found employment elsewhere as a bouncer and then a night watchman, where his strength and keen intelligence were both in demand.
When Ransack was about 18 or 19, the Kingdom of Henthigh fell to a revolution after a decade of misrule by the insane King Incitatus IV. The youth earned his nickname by leading a mob armed with clubs and tools to a nearby barracks and ransacking it for supplies to equip the rebels. Unfortunately, the rebel coalition fell apart at around the same time Incitatus did, and no sooner had they his head on a pike then they began infighting. Ransack, despite his valuable services, found himself blacklisted and was forced to look for work elsewhere.
After sailing from Henthigh, Ransack worked a variety of jobs: mercenary, schoolteacher, carny, prospector. Mercenary was the profession he defaulted to whenever his current venture fell through. He didn’t subscribe to any particular ideology or creed (though he remains a semi-devoted follower of The Traveller) he tended to sell his services to those on the popular side of uprisings or those outlying settlements abandoned by central governments. His early experiences taught him that the rich and powerful rarely tended to give the poor a fair shake, opting instead for a fair shakedown.
Ten years of job-hopping and mercenary work later, Ransack returned to Henthigh in an attempt to settle down once the People’s Democratic Republic of Henthigh got its act together. He brought with him a young wife he had met as a schoolteacher and wooed as a mercenary: Tabitha Hye. Ransack and Ms. Hye-Roller had twin children while he made an attempt to make an honest settled living in Henthigh: Dyse Roller, a son, and Paynte Roller, a daughter.
Tabitha had expensive tastes, though, acquired in her homeland of New Guernsey. One day, Ransack returned home to find his wife and children gone, having packed up and abandoned him on a trampship without leaving a destination or forwarding address. In the ensuing twenty-odd years, he has attempted to find them from time to time with no success. Both Dyse and Paynte would be about 21-22 years old now; their father did his best to train them in the ways of combat and hostage negotiations before they disappeared.
Ransack is tall and sturdily built, with a receding hairline that he caps off with a salt ‘n’ peppa ponytail (more salt than peppa) as if to show that he can grow all the hair he wants, he just can’t get it to take direction. As a man in his 50s, he wears spectacles: a pair of pince-nez bifocals for close work and a much sturdier pair of wrap-around-the-ear combat glasses for scrapes. Damage to the combat spectacles gives him -1 to his, destruction of the same confers a -4. Damage to the reading spectacles gives him a -1 to perception and charisma rolls, destruction of the same confers a -5 to perception and a -2 to charisma. He tends to wear a many-pocketed wasitcoat over shirtsleeves and keeps a neatly-trimmed mustache and goatee.
May 8, 2015
From “Adventures in Filtered Space” by Alfred Petesic
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, story |Leave a Comment
Not everybody could withdraw into the comforting reality of their chosen Virtual Space, though. Some rejected it, but many who would have liked to live a life of digital leisure couldn’t afford it or couldn’t be spared.
Many of them opted for Filtered Space instead.
The procedure was simple: the same wet neural interface was installed, but rather than being networked to a public or private Virtual Space, a small flash-memory Filter was installed. Unobtrusive and wireless, it served as a mediator between the real world and what the Filtered Space user experienced.
Based on a set of surprisingly simple and user-designed heuristics, the Filter reinterpreted the stimuli of the outside world in such a way as to make actual events seem to be part of a more fantastic reality. Fantasy, science fiction, steampunk…there were dozens of Filters and even more settings within them. A simple janitorial job could be a lot more exciting on a space station, after all, or in a grim film noir cityscape.
Many people who otherwise lived in Virtual Space would hook up to Filtered Space during the rare instances when they had to move or be moved. With the proper IT support, the process could be managed seamlessly, without interrupting the magic of their virtual worlds.
Excerpts From Nonexistent Books 