I appreciate those few of you who've read (or just started reading) my work, but this ride ain't over yet. The year of 1,000 words a day has only made my aim clearer - now I just have to take the shot.
Stay tuned. Things are coming.
- D
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
...not entirely
While the "story a day" part of this blog has ended, it doesn't mean my fledgling writing career has gone down with it. As of right now, Feb 1, 2012, I'm halfway through editing what I hope will be my breakout novel, and I continue to write commercially for tech blog sites like InfoBoom and gaming sites like TORWars.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
It's Over!
It's finally here - the end.
After three hundred and sixty-five stories and 365,000 words, this blog has run its course. I know I have only a precious few readers, I'm grateful for anyone who took the time to stop by, even for a moment. This exercise often seemed like one of futility, but I can honestly say it's made me a better writer, one more certain of his own creativity and ability to write, consistently, day after day.
It's with some sadness that I stop - these stories have become a part of my life, a part of my routine and though the time they take will be easily replaced with the work of editing my novel, a part of me will always remain here, among the words.
- D
Story #365 - Beginnings
Beginnings
Dave Bondar didn't argue, and instead extended a hand. “I've learned a great deal from you, Professor – your constant negativity has given me a drive to keep fighting, keep writing even when I didn't feel like it. I doubt you'll appreciate the irony, but when publish my first book you'll be at least partly responsible.” Anger at the constant, belittling comments the man had made over the course of the term was the easier choice, but Dave was done struggling against opinions that didn't matter. He had dreams, and achieving them meant doing what he loved, and doing it well.
“I -” Klung started, but Dave cut him off.
“Don't bother prof, and don't worry about the Website. Creativity comes in all shapes and sizes and I just needed a place to let my muse out. You'll hate it, but give me a passing grade, and never see me again. Sound fair?”
After a long moment Klung nodded and Dave turned, a boisterous tune swelling in his head. Beginnings were always exciting.
***
“So you've had experience...where, exactly?” The interviewer's face was slack and his eyes dull – he'd seen at least forty other candidates before getting to Dave, and the looks on their faces as they exited the conference room said not one had been hired to work at the magazine.
“Nowhere,” Dave said brightly. “I've done a smattering of work online, but mostly write my own stuff. Chasing the dream of book publication, just like everyone else in your waiting room.”
The thin, suited man focused his eyes on Dave's own. “Really? And here I thought they wanted to work for my magazine.”
Dave shrugged. If the man really was the owner, his disinterest spoke volumes about the kind of operation he was running.
“No, not really. I'm here because I need a job to pay for my apartment in the city, and to keep food on the table while I write – everyone else waiting to see you is in the same boat. Getting hired would mean a better chance of meeting someone in the industry that wants to publish my work, not just have me spin out banal articles day and night.”
“If that's how you feel, young man,” the suit's tone was clipped, “then you're not the right fit for our business, and I suspect you'll have difficulty finding anyone to read your work. The samples you submitted were mediocre at best.”
Standing, Dave extended a hand that wasn't taken and then spun on his heel, mellow music coming to mind. Endings were always exciting.
***
“Dave!” Cora called. “I need your help down here – Murphy's throwing up again and Brianna won't stop crying!”
With a small sigh Dave headed to the kitchen, mind still on his point-of-view conundrum. Third and first-person drafts of his newest work's first chapter both had their advantages.
“Can you deal with the dog?” His wife asked, pointing at their heaving golden retriever. “I'm hoping Bri will exhaust herself and just go back to sleep.”
“Sure,” he said, giving Cora and his daughter each a kiss on the forehead as he went by. Grabbing a roll of paper towel, he pushed Murphy away from the mess she'd made and wrinkled his nose at the smell.
“You're quite the stinker, pup.”
Murphy looked up with wide, uncomprehending eyes and Dave smiled, giving her a quick scratch on the head before going to work on what she'd tossed up. Most of her breakfast was still intact, along with a baby sock, two small carrots and several items he couldn't identify. Fortunately, she was from hardy stock, and would be raring to go again once it was time for her afternoon walk.
“Go back to work, honey,” Cora said as he finished cleaning. “Our girl wants some food and then I'll put her to bed.”
Dave kissed his wife more deeply and then headed back upstairs – she'd always been supportive of his dreams, even when they didn't quite match her own, and together he was sure they'd raise one hell of a daughter. Joyous music rang in his ears; middles were always so exciting.
***
The woman in front of him adjusted her glasses again and kept reading. She hadn't spoken a word since Dave sat down, and the only greeting he'd been given coming through the door was “Hi, sit please.”
Darlene McMannus ran one of the most successful small publishing companies in the state, and Dave had been lucky to get even five minutes of her time; as it happened, one of the other writers on the short story website he wrote for knew her and liked Dave's stuff. That was enough to get him the time, but impressing her all came down to what he could create, what he could bring to life on a page.
“Good,” Darlene said finally, setting down the small stack of papers. “Not the best I've ever read, but a damn sight better than most. You're a bit fancy for my tastes, but I think we can grind that edge off.”
“What?” Excitement flooded through him at even the prospect of what she was suggesting. “You mean -”
“Yes, yes,” she waved a thin hand. “We'll take you on. Now get out of my office and expect a call from one of my editors – you have a lot of work to do before this thing can be sold.”
“Of course, of course, I -” A dark look silenced Dave and he turned, face split in a grin of sudden pride. A boisterous melody pulsed in his veins, one all his own. Beginnings were always exciting.
- D
Monday, January 23, 2012
Story #364 - The Circle
The Circle
“I assume you understand the regulations?” Keeper Daly asked from a safe distance, and Jerlee nodded.
“Yes. I have half an hour to explore, and must return to these doors before they close again. If I am not here when the time elapses, you will not come for me.”
“Correct,” Daly’s voice rose over the grinding of granite slabs. “Enjoy this time, but do not become so involved that you are not present here when required.”
Jerlee doubted that would be an issue. Her entry into the Chamber of Circles was a privilege given only because of her father’s position with the Assembly, and she had no interest in ancient history or the machines that supposedly orchestrated the everyday lives of original Dantarans. With any luck, she would find a safe spot to stand just inside the doors and remain there until her allotted time elapsed. Her father’s colleagues would be pleased that tradition had been honored, and Jerlee could go back to enjoying the comforts that familial power supplied.
“The doors of knowledge are fully opened,” the Keeper intoned. “Soon, they shall close again. Balance in all things, rotation in all things. The Circle provides.”
“The Circle provides,” Jerlee murmured as she stepped forward, crossing the threshold and leaving Daly behind. Past the door’s massive hinges the dank cave was almost identical – light brown rock stained with luminescent fungus surrounded her, each outcropping as boring and dull as the next.
It was the humming that drew her in further, a low-toned buzz that set her skin to tingling. The sound wasn’t unpleasant but clearly unnatural – too regular to come from any of the stone or as a result of falling water.
Twenty steps in and the chamber expanded, its ceiling rising to a height she could no longer see. Ancient computer terminals lined smooth walls, and pale lights glowed down from above, dangling on silver strings. In the distance she saw a massive monitor, the green glow from its face suffusing the entire space and with a blinking cursor pulsing out steady rhythms. As if her feet operated beyond her control Jerlee drew closer, breath held until she felt lightheaded, then exhaled in a single great rush, its echo loud in the chamber.
“Yes?” A crystalline question shimmered over the cavernous space, and Jerlee jumped, barely managing to keep her feet planted as she came down.
“Who’s there?” She called in a small voice, and after a moment the same multi-toned sound responded.
“We are the Circle. We are life. You come in search of knowledge, as many before you. Ask.”
“I –“ Jerlee hesitated. “I don’t have any questions to ask. I’m not with the Academy. My father’s an important man.”
“Academy,” the voice said, and Jerlee was sure she could hear the faint whirring of gears - Daly had said something about the Circle’s knowledge being stored in one of the greatest technical wonders of ancient times, but she hadn’t paid much attention. “Yes. I am familiar with this term. Small-minded things, mostly, that cannot fathom what I hope to impart.”
Her mind raced as the thing droned on – if it was so powerful, so intelligent, perhaps it knew about things that really mattered.
“Computer,” she said abruptly. “What do you know about the Assembly?”
It whirred for a moment and then began to rattle off information. “Assembly. Formed 1256 Free Year by Mathus Halbren. Still in existence, directed by Strauss Tom’son and soon to be overthrown –“
“Stop!” She cried. “What do you mean, overthrown? How can you know that?”
“We are the Circle,” the thing said firmly. “All is known to us – all is merely rotation to be discovered.”
“Fine, fine – tell me what will happen to my father!” Panic rose in her voice – she had heard rumblings of concern from both her parents, despite their attempts to conceal it.
“Likely predictions indicate that he will die by poison at hand of Boris Muldor.” Jerlee’s breath caught in her throat. Assemblyman Muldor was her father’s closest friend!
“I won’t listen to this,” she declared. “You can’t possibly know the future!”
There was distressed clicking, almost as if the machine was perturbed. After a moment, a soft response floated out. “You are correct, seeker. The future cannot be known. I read only the past.”
“Past?” Anger began to build in her chest – she hadn’t wanted to tromp through a murky cave or seek knowledge from some dusty machine. “Talk sense, you piece of scrap metal!”
Shimmering force-shields sprung into existence all around her, and a deep-toned klaxon sounded. “Aggression will not be tolerated, Seeker. You must calm yourself.”
Jerlee took a deep breath and forced herself to focus. Daly’s time limit had to be coming close, and she didn’t want to be trapped.
“I apologize,” she said slowly, “but tell me – if you’re so smart – shouldn’t you be able to predict exactly what I’m going to do?”
A tinkling sound almost like soft laughter came to her ears, and when the voice spoke again the shields lifted and warning sirens stopped. “You are pert, young Seeker, to see so much. Here, inside the Circle, we cannot know what has occurred, what will occur. You are within the diameter.”
There was a pause, followed by sudden discordant strains, as if a debate were taking place.
“It is decided,” the voice came again, stronger and with greater certainty. “You will remain with us. There is much to learn, we think, before the Circle turns again.”
Jerlee heard the sound of scraping stone behind her, and the quickly-quieting sound of Keeper Daly’s voice.
“But I don’t want to stay here!” Jerlee wailed. “I want to go home!”
“You are home,” the machine spoke again after a long moment. “You are one. You are none. You are the Circle.”
- D
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Story #363 - The Guardsman
The Guardsman
Being assigned to transport Lord Eligh’s daughter from the estate all the way to Landau City had initially seemed the perfect assignment – many of those also given the job were Tomas’ good friends, and all reports from the Magi were for good weather and smooth traveling for the entire two-week journey.
Of course, the trip had not gone as planned, with a sudden thunderstorm significantly hampering forward progress after the second day and Presta becoming more shrill with each passing hour. To hear the Lady tell it, her carriage was a “work of the under-beast – foul smelling, uncomfortable and hot!” She’d made Johnny-boy’s life a living hell, and Tomas had never seen his friend so out of sorts over any other job he’d captained. Several choice oaths slipped from the big man’s mouth, and Tomas began to worry that rash action might be in the cards.
The attack eliminated any such concerns.
They’d come screaming out of the woods, dirty men with gap-toothed mouths and crude weapons, but the ferocity of their attack combined with sheer numbers was enough to overwhelm the ten guards around Presta’s carriage. Still standing with a wound that would have felled any normal man, Johnny-boy ordered Tomas to take the young Lady to safety, and had then single-handedly held off a full charge by the rabble still on their feet, giving enough time to escape.
“This would not have happened if you people were competent,” Presta went on as they pressed forward through the brush, blonde curls bobbing in time with her words. “I’ve told my father time and again that he must set a better example, must provide more discipline in order to keep servants in line.” The sneer on her face managed to give even cruel words a darker cast.
Tomas held his tongue, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. Good men had bled and died for her safety – silence, if not gratitude, was the appropriate response. Main roads had to be avoided, precautions taken to have any chance of survival, but all Presta could do was complain.
“To die at the hands of such foul men,” she went on, “speaks to the character of those who were to be my ‘protectors’. Their ends were deserved –“ Presta’s words were abruptly halted as Tomas spun, large hands taking a firm grip on slender shoulders.
“You will not speak of my companions, my friends in such a manner, Lady. We were sworn to protect you and did so as well as we were able – Johnny-boy gave his life for yours; I watched him die as we left that clearing. They were not simply servants – they were true and honest, more than you will ever be.” He took a deep breath to calm himself, but it had little effect, and his tongue ran ahead of good sense. “I will see you safely to the city or die trying, but should you ever again sully the name of those who gave their lives for you I will cut out your tongue and teach you a lesson in the true value of silence.”
A small sound came from Presta as her teeth clacked hard together, her normally pale face turning an even more deathly shade of white. Those at the estate stepped lightly around their Lord’s only child – there was no way she could take over the lands when her father passed, but there was some hope he could marry her off to a suitor from a smaller house, one that wanted advancement badly enough to endure her temper.
“Excellent,” Tomas said shortly, “you have an agile mind, Lady – when you choose to use it.” He turned away to conceal a smile; there were a number of things he’d wanted to say for years, and since the chance they would reach Landau City alive was slim, there was no point in holding back true feelings.
The next few days passed in total silence, and despite poor weather along with hastily constructed lodging Presta did not complain. Tomas was considering an apology as they tromped down a thick game trail when he felt a sharp tug on his arm.
“Look!” Presta hissed, and Tomas raised his eyes to the clearing only steps away. A single man in purple stood in its center, bright blue eyes locked on Tomas’ own.
“Magus Trian!” He called as they broke through the brush. “We were ambushed! Attacked! How did you find us – did you bring any men?” There was an enormous rush of relief, chased almost immediately by a looming sense of…fear.
“Your band was more resourceful than I gave them credit for, Tomas,” Trian said softly, hands flashing in an intricate series of gestures. “But it is of no matter now. Both you and Lady Presta will meet your end here, by my hand. I regret only that direct intervention was necessary.”
“No.” Tomas said firmly, stepping forward to draw his sword. “I will not let you harm her.” The man had always been odd, but treasonous? It was beyond madness.
Trian laughed, a mocking thing that rang out over the clearing. “You amuse me, Tomas – you always have – but that is hardly a reason to keep you alive.” His eyes narrowed, and his hands began to glow with greenish light. “Death is coming, guardsman. Make your peace.”
“No!” Presta screamed, slipping around Tomas to face Trian alone. The magus smiled as green fire blazed but though it enveloped the young girl it did not burn, and confident azure orbs were suddenly afraid.
“What? It cannot be!” Trian screamed, and Presta raised both hands.
“It can, you fool – and you should have known better all these years. My power is hardly weak, hardly pitiful. Nothing like yours.”
“Please, I –“ whatever else Trian wanted to say was lost in a storm of bone-white fire, and within moments only smoldering ashes remained. Presta tossed a dark look over her shoulder and then extended a thin hand.
“Come, Tomas.” She said softly. “You must get me to the city, and we have much to discuss.”
The fear in Tomas ebbed, but did not dissipate entirely. What he guarded was suddenly more than expected.
- D
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Story #362 - Follower
Follower
Sherrie was sure it was there, sure it was running amok behind plastered-in ceilings and faux-wood panels. She’d had the exterminators in three times with no luck, four priests of different religious affiliation and more recently a shaman. All told her the same thing – there was nothing in the walls.
They were wrong.
She didn’t bother to tell them it hadn’t started with the apartment she was renting, that the thing had been following her since she was a child, living in her parent’s old Victorian. It came with her to University, slipped into her dorm and even made it through her first marriage in the tiny condominium – something about her seemed to pull it along, no matter where she went.
At first she’d chalked up her surety to childhood delusion – even imagined playmates could seem quite real to those whose home life was less than ideal. But courses in psychology and a deeper understanding of her own issues did nothing to rid her of what followed, and she’d begun to wonder if perhaps her problems were too overwhelming to self-analyze.
Three years and fifteen therapists later and her “concern” still wasn’t alleviated, but her wallet was certainly lighter. Though some of those she’d seen had recommended useful methods of coping and ways to make her personal life function with greater ease, none could address what lay underneath. To be fair, she’d never told them exactly what she needed cured, merely that she felt “shadowed”. Still, she didn’t believe her lack of honesty was what limited the effectiveness of therapy – it was because head-shrinks couldn’t cure real problems.
It was a lamp by her bed that finally tipped her off, a little ceramic thing with blue flowers James had given her for a silly first anniversary gift. They’d parted on poor terms but he had been a good man, one who was simply too “normal” to deal with her swings in mood and changes of heart, and she’d always treasured what he gave.
A long day of work had exhausted her, and when she first saw the lamp shattered on the floor Sherrie assumed it had been vibration from the subway that ran underneath the building. The muffled, cackling laugh from her walls told another tale, and she’d known with startling, certain clarity that she was not alone.
She moved only marginally in her chair, making sure the blanket covering her did not move. It had taken months to develop what she believed was a viable plan to catch whatever plagued her and she wasn’t about to ruin everything with a stray movement or foolish sound.
An early-morning grease fire did the trick; she’d showered, dressed and stumbled into the kitchen to make breakfast before work as usual, but made a “mistake” that sent billowing smoke out into the apartment. Sherrie put the fire out quickly and made for the front door, doing her best to make it seem she’d left for the day, muttering about what she’d do when she got back. Before the smoke had a chance to clear, however, she’d leapt under into her blanket-covered chair and taken refuge.
Her work knew she wasn’t coming – she’d taken a week of vacation to ensure her chances were as great as possible to not only catch but confront the thing that lived inside her walls and had crawled inside her life.
Sherrie shifted again. After only half a day the ordinarily comfortable recliner had started to feel like rock under her hands and knees. She’d been careful to pick a position that gave her the largest view of the room with minimum effort, but was paying the price.
Desperation began to settle in – even with certainty that something lay beyond the walls, Sherrie started to question her subterfuge and wonder if the creature needed to leave its home at all. Perhaps it fed on cobwebs and drywall dust, and if so, it was well-supplied.
A moment caught her eye at the living room heat register, and she watched as it was pushed slowly away from the wall and then toppled to the floor. Out of the black hole a figure emerged, tall and thin and covered in angry scars. Its face was gaunt and hungry, and deep eyes stared out from a too-small head.
“You!” Sherrie shrieked, throwing off her blanket and charging across the space, slamming into the thing’s shoulders and bearing it to the ground. “I’ve found you!”
The figure under her smiled, a twisted reflection of her own pearly whites and then smoked into nothingness, sliding up and into Sherrie. Rigid agony slammed into her and tears began to flow, desperate sadness came crashing through.
Understanding came along with weeping, knowledge that what she’d seen was not only real but necessary. Sordid details of her life were coming into sharp relief, half-remembered images suddenly drenched in color and sound. Displacement was a term she knew, a concept familiar to her but Sherrie had never believed such a manifestation was possible, that a body could do so much to protect itself.
Three more giant sobs and the burdened part of her came wrenching free, spit back out into the world to slip away through the open wall. Sherrie could hear it scrabbling, scratching at the ceiling and ringing off the pipes.
“Thank you,” she whispered, forcing herself to stand. “Thank you!” She repeated with greater force. “And I’m sorry!”
There was a rattling above her, a rhythmic shaking of the walls in response to her words. She could not say why but the noise sounded…appreciative.
With a small smile, Sherrie took a seat and turned on the television, settling down into deep upholstery. All around, the sounds of her visitor, her passenger calmed strained nerves and gave her, finally, a sense of peace. Not all could be washed away so easily, not all could be changed, but she had found her demon and confronted it, emerged on the other side unscathed.
There was something in her walls – something real. Something right.
- D
Friday, January 20, 2012
Story #361 - Regen
Regen
The councilman in front of him was one of those people; Rellin Tralo had risen from the ranks of a common citizen to the position of councilman in a very short span of time and had the backing of both religious zealots and liberal firestarters – no mean feat for any politician.
“I’m sorry, councilman Tralo,” Keno said slowly, “but any faster and the entire matrix would de-stabilize. We want to present you with a healthy and powerful army to win the war, not one that will self-destruct after the first battle has been fought.” He knew a large measure of Tralo’s support came from his aggressive stance regarding the war – no one was more vocal in Chambers than the thin man about defending planetary freedoms and pushing the invaders back into black, empty space.
Of course, Keno knew full well that it was his planet that had invaded first and the strikes now were only retaliation. Most citizens knew the same but chose to ignore such information in the face of constant news reports from the front lines – colonies at the outer edge of controlled space that were under heavy attack from Nalbis ships. Each day a new horror appeared on monitors across the globe, fresh destruction for citizens to endure.
“That’s just fine, my boy,” Tralo said with a broad smile. He was younger than Keno and most of the others in the room but had a way of seemingly wise and elderly; a combination of ill-fitting sweaters, owlish glasses and a slow gait made the guise almost believable. Even more senior members of the council by term of service deferred to Tralo, nodding in unison as he spoke. “We’re all proud of your efforts. You’re helping to secure a future for our world and its colonies,” his voice rose as he turned, one fist raised in defiance, “and your innovations are to be commended! You are the highest form of patriot, the most noble of men. You sacrifice, you endure. You are the future.” It was a pretty speech, but Keno knew it wasn’t really for his benefit - there were always cameras recording, always photos being taken wherever Tralo went. The councilman needed to make a good impression, no matter the circumstance.
The man and his retinue filed out, and Keno felt a sense of calm return as he leaned in to tweak his droid’s circuits. He didn’t enjoy showing off his work to direct superiors, let alone those with political leanings. Though regenerative cybernetics meant good men and women wouldn’t have to die in service to their planet, he had no interest in the technology he’d developed being perverted into a weapon of colonization rather than repulsion.
“It won’t work, you know,” a voice came from the shadows. “They’ll discover what you’ve done soon enough.”
“I’m well aware of that, Burnaby,” Keno said acidly. “And I don’t care. Tralo and his cronies can scream all they want but the damage is already done – it’s in the base-level programming, now, and all through the regen circuitry.”
“That won’t matter.” His former assistant came sweeping out of the back work area, face drawn. “You know that. Once they discover what’s happened you’ll be given two options: remove what you’ve done or facing the firing squad.” Tralo had implemented the archaic punishment for “traitors”, a term that was often used to cover those who disagreed with his ideas in public.
“Then he can shoot me,” Keno spat out the words. “I won’t change the programming.” The army would function just as intended, respond to any attack and let Tralo take back the colonies, but any attempt to use the regenerative technology for aggressive action would lead to refusal of the battle-droids to cooperate; under duress they would simply shut down.
“I know that,” Burnaby said as he moved closer. “But you’re not the only one Tralo can lean on. I’m not sure I can endure without some kind of encouragement.”
Keno let his hands drop and turned to face the shorter man. Burnaby had been “reassigned” after several conflicts with higher-ranking members of the technology consortium, and while he had always been a capable assistant he didn’t share Keno’s views on the state of society and its disturbing shift to a more confrontational space policy.
“I beg your pardon?” His voice was ice. “What exactly are you saying?”
“It’s a simple solution, Ken,” Burnaby turned out an oily smile. “You give me the last bit of detail I need to make regen technology work in my field, and I get rich. You get the benefit of knowing that your little side-project is covered no matter what Tralo sends my way.”
The arc-spanner was in Keno’s hand without thought and he drove forward, thumbing the contact as it touched Burnaby’s chest. A guttering scream escaped the short man’s lips and then he slumped forward, eyes open in shock.
Keno moved quickly, before emotion had time to catch his action, dragging Buraby’s limp form across the lab to the scrap-metal liquefier. In moments the body was nothing more than a bubbling mass, one quickly scoured away by intense heat.
He frowned slightly and then moved back to the line of droids, more tools coming to hand. There was no doubt the murder would be found out, eventually, much as his modifications to the army. Tralo would be furious and a firing squad was the likely conclusion, but the work had to be protected – flesh and blood beings were monsters by nature, but those constructed of metal and circuit could be something more.
Something better.
- D
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