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Sunday, January 20, 2013
Friday, January 18, 2013
A Day Of Hard Choice
So, I decided to scrap a POV character today. Erron, the young initiate, is gone as a POV character. He still figures prominently, but as he was too passive, I will replace him with Malost, a character who has a much more active role in the story right from the beginning and one I hope will draw the reader in more strongly than the initiate.
Here is the first bit I wrote this evening:
Malost found the wine here in the City of The White Boar a good match for the weather; cold, toneless, and none too agreeable to the palate of those not born of these northern climes.
Toneless or not, he reflected, swaying slightly as he turned from the bar, it serves.
Finding his cup empty and the serving maid being groped by a largish man who had her on his lap, Malost decided he must head to the bar himself. Squinting, he marked its location and set out across a floor that seemed to roll under his feet like the seas surrounding the tiny homeland he’d left behind years ago.
He dropped another coin on the bar, slammed the cup back. Had another served, started on it.
Malost closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.
The smell of salt and sea, gulls crying on the wind.
Malost grinned, heart rejoicing in the sense of being back on the shores of his often-missed homeland.
A belch welled, found release, brought him crashing to the present with its thunder.
Almost, but not quite.
He again closed red-stained eyes, trying to find that place he needed to be, right on the edge…
Two Pathless hunched over a table, one with a tentacle waving, another with a hard shell covering half a twisted face, both before a third Pathless whose malformed skull had a raised crown of points and barbs along the brow.
“Patience,” the Crowned One urged, “the triptych will arrive in a few days. Until then, you must stay here.”
Ignoring the complaints of his companions, the Crowned One drank and upended his cup, ”I will bring more wine, food, and a proper offering before we make the next attempt.”
Malost knew, then, where they were. It was not so far from where he swayed.
A hiccup.
Stars, then bright light. A youth, as much boy as man, striding from the light, sun in his hair, speaking words Malost could not hear but understood, somehow, to be those of his namesake.
Another hiccup.
The same boy, now more a man, with grapevine wound through his hair, a song on his lips, and a jug of wine in hand, guiding others through a complex dance.
Here is the first bit I wrote this evening:
Malost found the wine here in the City of The White Boar a good match for the weather; cold, toneless, and none too agreeable to the palate of those not born of these northern climes.
Toneless or not, he reflected, swaying slightly as he turned from the bar, it serves.
Finding his cup empty and the serving maid being groped by a largish man who had her on his lap, Malost decided he must head to the bar himself. Squinting, he marked its location and set out across a floor that seemed to roll under his feet like the seas surrounding the tiny homeland he’d left behind years ago.
He dropped another coin on the bar, slammed the cup back. Had another served, started on it.
Malost closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.
The smell of salt and sea, gulls crying on the wind.
Malost grinned, heart rejoicing in the sense of being back on the shores of his often-missed homeland.
A belch welled, found release, brought him crashing to the present with its thunder.
Almost, but not quite.
He again closed red-stained eyes, trying to find that place he needed to be, right on the edge…
Two Pathless hunched over a table, one with a tentacle waving, another with a hard shell covering half a twisted face, both before a third Pathless whose malformed skull had a raised crown of points and barbs along the brow.
“Patience,” the Crowned One urged, “the triptych will arrive in a few days. Until then, you must stay here.”
Ignoring the complaints of his companions, the Crowned One drank and upended his cup, ”I will bring more wine, food, and a proper offering before we make the next attempt.”
Malost knew, then, where they were. It was not so far from where he swayed.
A hiccup.
Stars, then bright light. A youth, as much boy as man, striding from the light, sun in his hair, speaking words Malost could not hear but understood, somehow, to be those of his namesake.
Another hiccup.
The same boy, now more a man, with grapevine wound through his hair, a song on his lips, and a jug of wine in hand, guiding others through a complex dance.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Jealous Homicidal Man-Child Cock-Pimple Driver
It has been some time since I really ranted here. Today, the behavior of one man-child drives me to post about his subhuman behavior.
A man-child in a small white pickup truck was in the lane next to ours, left arm extended and flipping the bird to me and everyone else following him. Pardon, I presumed he was doing it to everyone. Events immediately subsequent proved me wrong.
I, being on my bike, make no response. I have better things to do, like staying alive.
As I am approaching, the driver starts screaming something. I can't hear what it is he's shouting, only see his wide-open, toothless mouth reflected in his side view mirror.
Again, I make no response, though I cover the brakes and prepare to take evasive action. As I draw even with his rear bumper this fucknut attempts to take my life by swerving into my lane. As the homicidal man-child cock-pimple has not left me time or distance to stop safely, I am left with the sole option of accelerating clear.
Luckily, the driver I was sharing the lane with was decidedly not a jealous homicidal man-child cock-pimple from hell, and helped out, pulling to the side to give me some extra room. I manage to clear them both by less than an inch, and then only by turning my shoulders sideways to avoid homicidal man-child cock-pimple fucknut barnacle-hemmarhoid's mirror.
Fight or flight kicked in.
I almost stopped, walked back to the man's truck (still stuck in traffic), and yanked him out, preparatory to a delicious (for me) beating. Visions of spilled blood and splintered bone made delightful passage through the halls of my mind.
Despite my fantasies of ripping the vile barnacle-hemmarhoid limb from limb, I have far too much to lose by engaging in such behavior, however righteous (and satisfying) it may be. So instead I rode on, seething with anger and the aforementioned desires.
It kept me warm, it did. When I arrived home I drank copious water and am writing this as a means to work out my reaction, but find it does not satisfy. Here's why:
I am certain that the self-control I (and others in the shitbird's past) exhibited is something the homicidal man-child cock-pimple fucknut barnacle-hemmarhoid relies on as a survival strategy. Certainly, if anarchy reined rather than the rule of law, the creature would already be so much dead tissue on the side of the road.
I am not angry, I am enraged. Not so much because of what was done to me, but for fear of the possibility that by not yanking him out of his car and beating him till the color runs from his eyes, someone else might be successfully victimized by the jealous homicidal man-child cock-pimple fucknut barnacle-hemmarhoid.
Because I would feel guilt at not having put a stop to the creature's behavior, I think that the next time someone does the same, I will excise my anger on the flesh of the fuckstick and damn the consequences.
You may note that I don't ask why the shit bag did what he did.
I don't need to.
He did it because he could.
Hammering
Been quite a few productive days over the past week. Hopefully hitting my stride on A FRIEND TO THE WATCH.
Still enjoy this song so very much for writing to:
Still enjoy this song so very much for writing to:
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Hunter, My Huntress (Almost Done)
The penultimate scene of the next installment of the Mughal Court serial:
Dara shook his head. While impressive, their antics were denying him a shot. Not that he couldn’t rely on his skills and shoot anyway, it was simply not a good idea to go firing into a field occupied by two princes, whether the shooter was a brother or not.
He briefly considered taking to his own horse while summoning a drink from one of his body slaves.
“Don’t want to take to your own horse?” Asaf Khan asked.
Having already decided against it, Dara punched his chin toward where his brothers were now racing back towards the firing line in a cloud of dust, “When their horses tire, there will be other game.”
Asaf nodded, looked sidelong at his eldest grandson, “Married life agrees with you, grandson.”
“Oh?” Dara asked, taking the gem-encrusted goblet full of iced fruit juice from his servant.
“You are more patient than you were. I may presume too much when I think it your wife’s doing,” he shrugged, “but there are worse reasons for change in the behavior of men.”
Dara hid his smile by slaking his thirst. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he answered: “Yes, many things are put in their proper places, especially now I have a son on the way.”
“A son? You are so sure? The astrologers tell you it is so?”
“Yes,” Dara half-lied. The up-timer history had it that his son rode to battle with him in his war against Aurangzeb, many years in the future.
“You must send me y–” Asaf stopped in mid-sentence, peering into the dust beyond Aurangzeb and Shuja.
Dara followed the line of his gaze, saw it at a heartbeat later: something gold-orange flowing along in the wake of Shuja’s horse.
“Tiger!” Asaf bellowed in his general’s voice, pointing at the great beast stalking his grandson.
Dara tossed his goblet aside, scrambled for his newest gun.
Shuja, hearing the shout, did the wrong thing: he reined in to look at Asaf Khan. The tiger was within twenty gaz of Shuja. When he came to a stop, it did as well. In fact, it went forequarters down, hunching its rear end.
Asaf was screaming, as were more and more of his men. He started running for his own horse and household guard.
Dara knelt and lifted the butt, surging upright.
Shuja was looking around, trying to identify the threat. His horse tossed its head, moved sideways, uneasy.
Dara pressed his shoulder into the stock, trying to cock the lock, find his target, and get his hand on the firing lever–and had a moment’s panic when he couldn’t find it: Not a lever, a trigger, you fool!
The tiger was rocking its hips, getting ready to charge.
Talawat was beside him, quietly urging: “Shehzada, please do not try to do too much at once. Slow down. Calmly.”
Dara stopped. Breathed out. Found his aim point and his target. Slid his finger into the trigger guard.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Talawat’s silhouette nod. The gunsmith cocked the hammer back for Dara, “She kicks like a mule, Shehzada. Now kill us a tiger.”
Dara squeezed the trigger. The lock snapped forward, steel and flint sparking into the pan. A half-heartbeat later, the gun discharged with a thunderous roar and brutal kick to Dara’s shoulder.
The tiger leapt.
Smoke obscured Dara’s sight for a moment.
Shuja’s horse bolted, riderless, into view.
Talawat stepped forward and turned to face Dara, hands busy as he reloaded the piece with quick, economical motions. He could hear the gunsmith praying even over the shouts of Asaf’s men.
Asaf had stopped his rush to mount. It was too late.
The smoke cleared.
The tiger lay prone, part of one of Shuja’s leg and a boot protruding from beneath it.
Dara’s heart stopped.
It seemed years later when Shuja sat up from between its paws, face as white as bleached linen. Hands shaking, the younger prince heaved the heavy corpse aside and stood up, apparently unscathed.
Suddenly thirsty, Dara wished for strong drink and his pipe.
The line erupted in crazed shouts of joy. Asaf came charging back toward Dara, teeth bared in a smile that split his beard.
Shuja was walking, somewhat unsteadily, back toward the line.
Placing powder in the pan and stepping back, Talawat murmured, “Fine shooting, Shehzada.”
Dara pointed a trembling finger at his sibling, “I will give you his weight in silver, Talawat. Were it not for you, I would have surely rushed the shot,” he swallowed,”and missed.”
Talawat bowed his head, clearly aware of how badly things might have turned out, “God is merciful and loving-kind, to place one of my tools in the hands of one so gifted in their use: I will use your silver to make more fine guns for your use, Shehzada.”
Aurangzeb rode into view behind his dismounted brother, stopping over the tiger for a moment. After a moment he nudged his horse into motion. Quickly catching up to Shuja, he said something the other responded to with angry shake of the head. Shrugging, the mounted brother rode on toward the firing line.
As he came closer, Dara noticed his quiver was empty and his face had a thin smile drawn across it. For Aurangzeb, such an expression was a broad smile of unrestrained glee.
“I see we each took a tiger this day, brother.”
“What?” Dara asked, wondering where his wits had gone.
Aurangzeb nodded his head in the direction he’d come from. “Another one, possibly this one’s mate or nearly adult offspring, took the last blackbuck in the herd. He took some killing: all my arrows are in him.”
Asaf Khan drew close enough to hear this last, sweating from his exertions. Pausing to catch his breath, he was still beaming and making happy noises when Dara remembered to be civil: “Congratulations, brother, I’m sure it was a fine kill.”
“And to you on yours, Dara, though it appears your beast had an old wound to slow it; an arrow in its flesh, turned to poison.”
“Might explain why it went for Shuja with dead game at hand,” Asaf gasped while Dara tried, mightily, to still his angry tongue.
He failed: “Anger stirs the killer in the hearts of both man and beast,” Dara said, trying not to look at his brother as he did so.
Aurangzeb and Shuja had split up to either side of the herd, and were standing in the stirrups, loosing. Where their arrows fell, antelope staggered out of the herd, dead or dying. Shuja ended up on the near side of the herd, Aurangzeb disappearing into the dust kicked up by the herd and their own mounts.
Dara shook his head. While impressive, their antics were denying him a shot. Not that he couldn’t rely on his skills and shoot anyway, it was simply not a good idea to go firing into a field occupied by two princes, whether the shooter was a brother or not.
He briefly considered taking to his own horse while summoning a drink from one of his body slaves.
“Don’t want to take to your own horse?” Asaf Khan asked.
Having already decided against it, Dara punched his chin toward where his brothers were now racing back towards the firing line in a cloud of dust, “When their horses tire, there will be other game.”
Asaf nodded, looked sidelong at his eldest grandson, “Married life agrees with you, grandson.”
“Oh?” Dara asked, taking the gem-encrusted goblet full of iced fruit juice from his servant.
“You are more patient than you were. I may presume too much when I think it your wife’s doing,” he shrugged, “but there are worse reasons for change in the behavior of men.”
Dara hid his smile by slaking his thirst. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he answered: “Yes, many things are put in their proper places, especially now I have a son on the way.”
“A son? You are so sure? The astrologers tell you it is so?”
“Yes,” Dara half-lied. The up-timer history had it that his son rode to battle with him in his war against Aurangzeb, many years in the future.
“You must send me y–” Asaf stopped in mid-sentence, peering into the dust beyond Aurangzeb and Shuja.
Dara followed the line of his gaze, saw it at a heartbeat later: something gold-orange flowing along in the wake of Shuja’s horse.
“Tiger!” Asaf bellowed in his general’s voice, pointing at the great beast stalking his grandson.
Dara tossed his goblet aside, scrambled for his newest gun.
Shuja, hearing the shout, did the wrong thing: he reined in to look at Asaf Khan. The tiger was within twenty gaz of Shuja. When he came to a stop, it did as well. In fact, it went forequarters down, hunching its rear end.
Asaf was screaming, as were more and more of his men. He started running for his own horse and household guard.
Dara knelt and lifted the butt, surging upright.
Shuja was looking around, trying to identify the threat. His horse tossed its head, moved sideways, uneasy.
Dara pressed his shoulder into the stock, trying to cock the lock, find his target, and get his hand on the firing lever–and had a moment’s panic when he couldn’t find it: Not a lever, a trigger, you fool!
The tiger was rocking its hips, getting ready to charge.
Talawat was beside him, quietly urging: “Shehzada, please do not try to do too much at once. Slow down. Calmly.”
Dara stopped. Breathed out. Found his aim point and his target. Slid his finger into the trigger guard.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Talawat’s silhouette nod. The gunsmith cocked the hammer back for Dara, “She kicks like a mule, Shehzada. Now kill us a tiger.”
Dara squeezed the trigger. The lock snapped forward, steel and flint sparking into the pan. A half-heartbeat later, the gun discharged with a thunderous roar and brutal kick to Dara’s shoulder.
The tiger leapt.
Smoke obscured Dara’s sight for a moment.
Shuja’s horse bolted, riderless, into view.
Talawat stepped forward and turned to face Dara, hands busy as he reloaded the piece with quick, economical motions. He could hear the gunsmith praying even over the shouts of Asaf’s men.
Asaf had stopped his rush to mount. It was too late.
The smoke cleared.
The tiger lay prone, part of one of Shuja’s leg and a boot protruding from beneath it.
Dara’s heart stopped.
It seemed years later when Shuja sat up from between its paws, face as white as bleached linen. Hands shaking, the younger prince heaved the heavy corpse aside and stood up, apparently unscathed.
Suddenly thirsty, Dara wished for strong drink and his pipe.
The line erupted in crazed shouts of joy. Asaf came charging back toward Dara, teeth bared in a smile that split his beard.
Shuja was walking, somewhat unsteadily, back toward the line.
Placing powder in the pan and stepping back, Talawat murmured, “Fine shooting, Shehzada.”
Dara pointed a trembling finger at his sibling, “I will give you his weight in silver, Talawat. Were it not for you, I would have surely rushed the shot,” he swallowed,”and missed.”
Talawat bowed his head, clearly aware of how badly things might have turned out, “God is merciful and loving-kind, to place one of my tools in the hands of one so gifted in their use: I will use your silver to make more fine guns for your use, Shehzada.”
Aurangzeb rode into view behind his dismounted brother, stopping over the tiger for a moment. After a moment he nudged his horse into motion. Quickly catching up to Shuja, he said something the other responded to with angry shake of the head. Shrugging, the mounted brother rode on toward the firing line.
As he came closer, Dara noticed his quiver was empty and his face had a thin smile drawn across it. For Aurangzeb, such an expression was a broad smile of unrestrained glee.
“I see we each took a tiger this day, brother.”
“What?” Dara asked, wondering where his wits had gone.
Aurangzeb nodded his head in the direction he’d come from. “Another one, possibly this one’s mate or nearly adult offspring, took the last blackbuck in the herd. He took some killing: all my arrows are in him.”
Asaf Khan drew close enough to hear this last, sweating from his exertions. Pausing to catch his breath, he was still beaming and making happy noises when Dara remembered to be civil: “Congratulations, brother, I’m sure it was a fine kill.”
“And to you on yours, Dara, though it appears your beast had an old wound to slow it; an arrow in its flesh, turned to poison.”
“Might explain why it went for Shuja with dead game at hand,” Asaf gasped while Dara tried, mightily, to still his angry tongue.
He failed: “Anger stirs the killer in the hearts of both man and beast,” Dara said, trying not to look at his brother as he did so.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Hunter, My Huntress
Submitted the re-worked short story, MIDNIGHT COURT Friday night. Now I am at work on the second in the serial, HUNTER, MY HUNTRESS.
Here is what I came up with this afternoon:
Seeking distraction, he again took up the gun he’d had as a wedding gift from Father last year, the inlaid piece monstrous heavy yet reassuring in its solidity. He sighted down the nearly two gaz of barrel, arms immediately trembling from the weight of iron, ivory inlay, and mahogany.
“Here,” he grunted.
Body slaves overseen by his Atishbaz gunsmith, Talawat, hurriedly set up the iron tripod needed to support the hunting piece while he struggled to hold position.
“Ready, Shehzadi,” Talawat said.
Trying to keep the weight under control, Dara slowly lowered the gun into place. Talawat slotted the pin allowing the gun to stand upright and ready to action into place, easing the awkward weight from Dara’s arms.
Rubbing the ache from his muscles, hoofbeats drew Dara’s attention. He looked down the gradual slope to the watering holes that marked the two sides of the shooting zone for the hunt. The beaters were working toward that spot in a steadily shrinking circle. About one hundred gaz of grassy clearing lay between the slowly-drying watering holes, with about half that much distance between grandfather’s tent and the open space.
One of Asaf Khan’s men emerged from the wood line at a gallop, crossing the zone and pounding up to the camp. In a fine display of horsemanship, the sowar swung down from his mount to land lightly a few paces in front of Dara’s grandfather.
Asaf Khan, standing in the shade of his tent, stepped forward and listened as the young trooper made his report, “At least a hundred head of blackbuck and red antelope, a small herd of nilgai, Wazir. Tiger spoor was also found, but no one has laid eyes on it, yet. Should not be long, now, before the first of the beasts make an appearance.”
Gray beard dancing, the still-powerfully-built Wazir smiled, called out as he waved dismissal to his man: “A tiger would make a worthy prize for one of my grandsons!”
“Perhaps for Dara, grandfather. He has yet to take one.” Aurangzeb drawled from inside the tent.
Dara watched Asaf’s smile dim before he turned and answered, “One tiger could never be enough for the sons of Emperors.”
“I did not say it was, grandfather.” Aurangzeb said, striding from the tent and into the sun.
“I will kill it, grandfather!” Shah Shuja, crowed, raising his bow. Born between Aurangzeb and Dara, Shuja seemed always afire with desire to please his elders. At eighteen he was a man grown, however, and larger than Dara by a head. Of course, that head was rarely full of things other than those he might hunt, fuck, or ride.
Asaf turned to face his eldest grandson, “And you, Dara?”
“I will take what it pleases God to place before me.”
“Pious words,” Asaf said, nodding approval.
Behind grandfather’s back, Aurangzeb shook his head and commanded his horse be brought up.
“Where are you going?” Asaf asked, edges of his beard curling down as he frowned.
“I will take the animals my brothers miss." Aurangzeb's lips curled in a smile, "that way I am sure to have a good day hunting.”
Doing his best to ignore the insult, Dara gestured at his leopards, “Brother, that is why I have brought my cats, to run down escaping game.”
Aurangzeb shrugged, took up a lance. “Then I will race them, and beat them, to the kill.”
Asaf stepped toward Aurangzeb, “I would advise caution, Brave One, if there is a tiger in among them, it will easily overtake a horseman. They can only be hunted safely from elephant howdah.”
Aurangzeb shrugged again, put spurs to his tall horse and sped off to the left of the firing line, a trail of attendants and guards in tow.
“Here they come!” one of grandfather’s cronies cried.
Here is what I came up with this afternoon:
Patience growing short in the afternoon heat, Dara’s favorite leopard yowled and spat at her handler, ready to hunt.
Dara grinned, ready as well. The beaters had started the day before, working through the night, driving all the wild game resident in several square kos toward where the hunting party lay in wait. The prince welcomed the prospect of release from the tension being around Aurangzeb always seemed to provoke in him.
Seeking distraction, he again took up the gun he’d had as a wedding gift from Father last year, the inlaid piece monstrous heavy yet reassuring in its solidity. He sighted down the nearly two gaz of barrel, arms immediately trembling from the weight of iron, ivory inlay, and mahogany.
“Here,” he grunted.
Body slaves overseen by his Atishbaz gunsmith, Talawat, hurriedly set up the iron tripod needed to support the hunting piece while he struggled to hold position.
“Ready, Shehzadi,” Talawat said.
Trying to keep the weight under control, Dara slowly lowered the gun into place. Talawat slotted the pin allowing the gun to stand upright and ready to action into place, easing the awkward weight from Dara’s arms.
Rubbing the ache from his muscles, hoofbeats drew Dara’s attention. He looked down the gradual slope to the watering holes that marked the two sides of the shooting zone for the hunt. The beaters were working toward that spot in a steadily shrinking circle. About one hundred gaz of grassy clearing lay between the slowly-drying watering holes, with about half that much distance between grandfather’s tent and the open space.
One of Asaf Khan’s men emerged from the wood line at a gallop, crossing the zone and pounding up to the camp. In a fine display of horsemanship, the sowar swung down from his mount to land lightly a few paces in front of Dara’s grandfather.
Asaf Khan, standing in the shade of his tent, stepped forward and listened as the young trooper made his report, “At least a hundred head of blackbuck and red antelope, a small herd of nilgai, Wazir. Tiger spoor was also found, but no one has laid eyes on it, yet. Should not be long, now, before the first of the beasts make an appearance.”
Gray beard dancing, the still-powerfully-built Wazir smiled, called out as he waved dismissal to his man: “A tiger would make a worthy prize for one of my grandsons!”
“Perhaps for Dara, grandfather. He has yet to take one.” Aurangzeb drawled from inside the tent.
Dara watched Asaf’s smile dim before he turned and answered, “One tiger could never be enough for the sons of Emperors.”
“I did not say it was, grandfather.” Aurangzeb said, striding from the tent and into the sun.
“I will kill it, grandfather!” Shah Shuja, crowed, raising his bow. Born between Aurangzeb and Dara, Shuja seemed always afire with desire to please his elders. At eighteen he was a man grown, however, and larger than Dara by a head. Of course, that head was rarely full of things other than those he might hunt, fuck, or ride.
Asaf turned to face his eldest grandson, “And you, Dara?”
“I will take what it pleases God to place before me.”
“Pious words,” Asaf said, nodding approval.
Behind grandfather’s back, Aurangzeb shook his head and commanded his horse be brought up.
“Where are you going?” Asaf asked, edges of his beard curling down as he frowned.
“I will take the animals my brothers miss." Aurangzeb's lips curled in a smile, "that way I am sure to have a good day hunting.”
Doing his best to ignore the insult, Dara gestured at his leopards, “Brother, that is why I have brought my cats, to run down escaping game.”
Aurangzeb shrugged, took up a lance. “Then I will race them, and beat them, to the kill.”
Asaf stepped toward Aurangzeb, “I would advise caution, Brave One, if there is a tiger in among them, it will easily overtake a horseman. They can only be hunted safely from elephant howdah.”
Aurangzeb shrugged again, put spurs to his tall horse and sped off to the left of the firing line, a trail of attendants and guards in tow.
“Here they come!” one of grandfather’s cronies cried.
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