September 17, 2010

From “The Harrowing of Bernwald” by James P. Graham

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Maybe it was the way people walked, or the way their carts worked over the deeply rutted main street. Maybe it was the furtive glances from the children, or the long contemplative stared from the elderly. The general brownness of the place, perhaps, everything caked by dust and debris that would normally be brushed away in the course of daily life.

It could have been any one of those things, or even all of them; Reynald couldn’t be sure. But he felt one thing as clearly as if it were spelled out in stone on the local church.

Bernwald was a melancholy place.

Borne down by some weight, the heavy sadness was evident in every man, woman, and child Reynald could see.

 

August 19, 2010

From “Convenient Aliases” by Joachim Müller

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The man picked himself up, and tossed aside the mangled remains of his weapon. “My name is Tobias Schiller, but to most around here I’m ‘the Kraut.'”

Vincent had never heard of anyone embracing that term with anything approaching good humor. “You don’t mind being called that?”

“What, a ‘Kraut?’ No. In fact, I’ve come to embrace it as a useful shibboleth,” Schiller said, grinning.

“A what?”

A shrug. “It means way of telling one sort of person from another. Anyone who calls me ‘the Kraut’ has exposed themselves as a little crude, a little ignorant, and certainly no friend of mine. Useful when consorting with gangsters and machine guns both, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

August 11, 2010

From “Blood on the Sand” by Jean-Yves Chauchat

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“Henri said that the tribesmen captured everything from the convoy. The Hotchkiss and its manual. A frontal assault would be suicide, mon capitan!”

“Then you may remain behind,” said Captain Richat. “Your cowardice will be noted in my official report.”

Claude’s eyes widened at the tribunal and bullet-pockmarked wall the captain’s words implied, and shouldered his rifle. “V-very well, mon capitan. I will lead the assault as you have requested.”

“Excellent. Carry out your orders then, corporal.”

Claude led his men over the crest of the dune, whooping and running. The distinct rumble of a machine gun soon followed; Richat kept himself low and quietly counted the bullets fired by tens.

“Ten, twenty, thirty…”

Screams from over the dune, and rifle fire.

“Seven-ten, seven-twenty, seven-thirty…”

The firing stopped just after Richat’s count made it to one thousand one hundred. He casually surmounted the dune and strolled toward the tribesmen’s position. They were violently arguing over the Hotchkiss, and clearly exposed. The captain’s Lebel cracked eight times, one for each of the raiders. His pace didn’t slacken as they fell; he tossed the rifle aside, its magazine empty, and withdrew his revolver from its well-oiled holster.

Several Bedouin were still alive; a quick report from the pistol put and end to that. Richat found Claude, breathing shallowly and weeping blood from multiple wounds, just before the Hotchkiss.

“You see, corporal,” he said, “the Hotchkiss tends to overheat and become useless after about a thousand rounds have been fired in quick succession. The tribesmen lack the discipline to perform a barrel change; all that was needed was an assault to soak up their fire until that point.”

Claude tried to speak, but red foam was all he could push out.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Richat. “I will be sure to mention your brave, foolish, and totally unauthorized charge in my report. You may even qualify for a posthumous promotion.”

 

August 9, 2010

From “Purple Nights in the Furniture City” by Altos Wexan

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This post is part of the August Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is color as a metaphor for an aspect of one’s writing.

Graham’s apartment was lit well enough from the streetlights below that Allison was able to find her way around without fumbling for a light switch. WJR was playing quietly in the dark, combining with the rain on the windows to generate a sheet of white noise.

“Nice place,” Allison muttered, glancing at the spare surroundings and the heap of dishes in the sink. Her gaze alighted on the overstuffed armchair in front of the radio. “What’s with the purple loveseat?”

“Purple’s my favorite color,” Graham said. “I’ve loved it ever since I had a little cast-iron toy truck that was that shade. Poor old girl was down to her last flecks when Mom melted her down for a scrap drive during the war.”

“Even so, purple doesn’t seem like your color,” Allison said, settling into the chair. “It wouldn’t strike most people as very manly, though it’s anyone’s guess how much raw masculinity matters to someone in your line of work.”

“Not just any purple,” replied Graham. “A very ancient and powerful hue they called ‘Tyrian purple.’ You could smell the sea-slugs they boiled in its manufacture for miles, and only emperors were allowed to wear it. Then, in time, people got to thinking it was a softer color, a pretty color, and now if you see purple at all it’s on a lady’s dress. Slumming in the fashion industry to pay the bills when once only the most powerful man in the world had the right to use it.”

“You think that’s a sad fate for a color that once represented absolutist oppression, huh? Some might say that purple’s gotten its poetic due.”

Graham shrugged. “I feel like purple and I both have a lot in common, in point of fact. Our best days are behind us, and we’re left to grind out what we can in a long, slow afterlife. Such potential, at the beginning, all wasted. So it’s livening up ladies’ dresses while I sit here with a job that can’t afford to pay me. Made into a handbag against your will or chasing down an overdue library book because you’ve got nothing better to do…I’d say there’s a kinship there, wouldn’t you?”

Graham gazed at his shoes as he spoke; Allison felt like she out to do something to lighten the mood, which the weather had already rendered depressing enough. “Being a handbag isn’t the worst thing in the world,” she said. “I know a few alligators that are dying to be just that.”

“Ostriches too,” Graham said, smiling a little. “And I could teach them a thing or two about putting your head in the sand.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post an entry of their own about a colors as metaphors for aspects of writing:

Aheïla (direct link to the relevant post)
Ralph_Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
AuburnAssassin (direct link to the relevant post)
semmie (direct link to the relevant post)
Anarchicq (direct link to the relevant post)
CScottMorris (direct link to the relevant post)
PASeasholtz (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
DavidZahir (direct link to the relevant post)
aimeelaine (direct link to the relevant post)
FreshHell (direct link to the relevant post)
sbclark (direct link to the relevant post)
Bettedra (direct link to the relevant post)
Guardian (direct link to the relevant post)
M.R.J. Le Blanc (direct link to the relevant post)
laffarsmith (direct link to the relevant post)

 

July 19, 2010

From “Nefarious Times in Depression-Era Central City” by F. G. Jims

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The projector stuttered for a moment as the projectionist changed reels. After a moment of distortion, the newsreel began to flicker on the silver screen.

“Central City News Corporation presents: News on Parade!” the announcer intoned, sounding to all the world like an overeager color commentator at Central Stadium.

“Crime Watch! Be on the lookout for these notorious gangsters, hoodlums, and criminals! Report any sightings to the theater management or the nearest CCPD dispatcher! Remember, these vile persons may be in the theater alongside you!”

“That’ll be the day,” Günter muttered.

A man appeared, sneering into the mugshot camera. “Rex Fuzzgaze, the thought-stealer! This diabolical Liverpudlian sorcerer has perfected the subtle art of mind control, impressing others with his gaze and using them for his nefarious purposes! Do not approach!”

Günter snorted. “Needs to see a barber about those eyebrows.”

An unassuming-looking businessman, well-groomed, holding his card with no clear expression. “Pendleton Carvey, the mad mechanical genius! His nefarious automata held up the Central Reserve just last week! Wanted dead or dying!”

“Probably didn’t have enough to occupy his mind during his day job,” Günter opined.

A woman, very pretty except for deeply sunken eyes and stringy hair. “Macha DeVries, the mutant mistress of ghouls! An accident at a university labs has placed her in a state of living death with command over the recently deceased! Won’t be taken alive!”

“Hmph,” said Günter. “I don’t believe that one for a moment. Too fantastic.”

“You’re right about that,” his seat neighbor croaked, stretching a pale, bony hand into her bucket of popcorn. “The camera adds at least ten pounds.”

 

July 17, 2010

From “The Amarna Heresy” by K. G. T. Monroe

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“You understand, the translation will have to be approximate,” Smiths said. “A lot of heiroglyphs is context and inferential.”

“Just read it.” The revolver was argument enough.

“The Aten had no form, no voice, only will. Arising from the darkness of all which exists outside the Maat, the divine order of the cosmos, it first manifested as a weak and guttering spark. Only by associating itself with the bright disc of the sun was the Aten able to attract the notice of mortals, who came to view it as an aspect of their sun god, Ra. In this way, the Aten was first able to whisper into the ears of the chief priest, the Pharaoh. Over a generation, the whispers grew strong enough for the Pharaoh, and by extension his people, to allot the Aten a place in their great pantheon of deities. And when an aged and infirm ruler gave way to a young and impressionable one, the whispers grew ever louder.”

“Keep going.”

“In those days, the Aten was possessed of a great love for those whose belief had allowed it to escape from the darkness of the Duat, the underworld, but also a terrible jealousy. Through the Pharaoh, it insisted that the old gods were to be swept away–the whispers so insistent that the young ruler soon came to be preoccupied with his new religion alone, to the ruin of the nation. The Divinity, which existed in the guise of the many local gods at that time, reacted by withdrawing itself from the land. The Aten was unable to cope with the subsequent widespread famine, plagues, political upheaval, and general chaos, great though its powers had become. With the death of the Pharaoh from illness, the Aten was cast down from its lofty perch, and the light which represented it faded once more as successive rulers ought to erase it from their history.”

Smiths paused. “S-shall I keep going?”

The gun again, flashing in the torchlight. “Please do.”

“Cast once again into darkness, the Aten grew bitter at its fate, and came to resent the mortals on whom it had depended and whom it had once tried to love. It gathered its strength once more, slowly, and resolved to complete what the long-ago Pharaoh had once begun – the sweeping away of the old world for a new. Rather than co-opting, it would create anew. But although its strength returned, the Aten could not set its plan in motion.”

“For it yet needed mankind: its beliefs and its aid.” The words came from the darkness before Smiths could translate them.

 

July 11, 2010

From “Dark Shapes in the Anderton Dunes” by Peggy T. Killdeer

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“Why do they call her Apostle Alexandra?”

“Because folks what meet her tend to have a very personal interview with the Lord not long after. Folks don’t rightly know what her Christian name is, or if Alexandra’s any natural part of it. Has a nice snap to it, it does, but not much for truth in it.”

“Surely people must know something.”

“You might think so, but no,” Yarbough said. “Hardly ever comes into town and only then visits a handful o’shops…buyin’ what she can’t make, I reckon. Even then she usually keeps a kerchief on.”

“So nobody can identify her face…” Sands mused. “That’s one hell of a story, Mr. Yarbough.”

“It’s probably been embellished a might bit,” Yarbough averred. “Folks ’round here don’t have much but the cattle and settler trade to sustain ’em, meaning a teaspoon of gossip does a tablespoon’s work.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not thinkin’ of seekin’ her out, are you? That ain’t the sort of thing a paperman’s built for.”

“Maybe not,” Sands said, finishing his whiskey and sliding the glass down the bar. “But that also means that no one else has tried.”

 

July 6, 2010

From “A Clockwork Armageddon” by Jamie Grutherson

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In those days, clockwork automata like the Mechanical Turk were all the rage. And while many, like the Turk itself, were elaborate hoaxes, many automata were quite real and capable of a range of action and motion astounding to many in the modern day (who consider our forebears to be stupid and backward to a man).

It’s said that the finest of the Renaissance automata came from the Vienna workshop of one Conrad Hutzdorf. Hutzdorf created elaborate machines capable of simulated motion when wound, figures with an internal asbestos bellows which would “smoke” before delighted patrons, and even–based on a request from the Emperor himself–a mechanical nightingale like the one in the stories, whose chirps were produced by panpipes concealed in its base.

Hutzdorf maintained no apprentices as befit expect a craftsman of his station; those few who worked with him made only specific parts to order. Many speculated on the reasoning for this, but Hutzdorf maintained that he preferred to do the work himself, and his patrons did not seem to mind the 6-8 months needed to create each piece.

The craftsman disappeared around 1779-1780 when his workshop was gutted by fire. No body was ever discovered, nor was a cause for the blaze determined, which gave rise to wild speculation in alehouses and parlors throughout town. The most prevalent of them had a patron brashly breaking into Hutzdorf’s workshop after having a commission refused, only to find the craftsman with his chest opened and making adjustments to his own clockwork mechanism! Enraged, the clockwork Hutzdorf reputedly set the fire that wiped him from history and fled elsewhere.

Stuff and nonsense, of course, but an interesting piece of historical background for the Hutzdorf piece that was to appear at our auction house in Philadelphia.

 

July 5, 2010

From “The Plight of Lesser-Known Dragons” by Sue O. Ilios

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For although the bardic tales are littered with stories of fire-breathing wyrmkin, they but scratch the surface of these creatures’ fascinating natural history–with their long-ago extinction, now all but lost to us moderns.

To be sure, many breathed fire, but they were only a lucky few. Most of the great serpents did lack the specific combination of forebears and kismet to ignite their breath, relying instead on foul stenches, acids, billowing steam clouds, or–the the most part–strong jaws and an agile neck.

Flight was similarly a trait only the most fortunate of the great wyrms posessed, and many lacked the power even with wings. Far more chose to take to rivers and lakes, rocky crags, or mountain passes to buffet on ill-starred passersby.

Consider the case of Smallmaw. He could only expel a blast of air from his mouth, which was too constrained to rend and tear a grown man, and whose stunted wings could not support flight. Yet this wyrmkin rose to be among the most feared in the British Isles before the Roman invasions purely on the strength of the one aspect our legends accurately describe: a deep and cunning intellect.

 

June 30, 2010

From “Victoria’s World” by T. Yancey Dunmount

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“The name comes to us from the Greek planetoi, which literally means ‘I wander.’ They, like many of the ancients, noticed that some stars seemed to move about the sky rather than remaining stationary, and hence they were known as wandering stars. Today, of course, we know that this is not the case, and that the orbits of the planets are more or less fixed in relation to the Earth. Their apparent wandering is but an illusion.”

“We all know this, Hempsey,” said Cullins. “Why do you prattle on telling us things we learned as students?”

“I am simply building up to the point of my discussion,” Hempsey replied evenly. “I ask you: what if one could prove those long-ago Greeks prophetic?”

“Surely you don’t mean-”

“Oh but I do,” Hempsey said. “Our astronomical observatories in Siam, Prussia, and Newfoundland confirm that, as we speak, a rogue planet is passing through our solar system.”

 

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