16
Apr
It has been a long time since I wrote to you, and it will be a long time before I write again. Life here has grown troublesome, and there is little time for the small pleasures that make it worth living. It is a struggle and there are many things that occupy my time, and so I will, necessarily, make this a briefer epistle than the previous ones to which you have become accustomed.
I am, as you may assume, well enough to write you a letter, and those who are with me are well enough, too. It has been a trying time for those of us here who have long memories, of a time when things did not require such effort to achieve, when it was easier and simpler. Still, we carry on, and have done so for a goodly time, and will do so for more. There have been a few problems beyond those expected here, but that is the nature of men, as time and energy weigh upon their minds and the stresses begin to catch up with them. Even so, the mood remains strong and the first results should be coming back to you soon, through our normal methods of supply and communication. There has been several positive indicators so far, and these have heartened the crew with me and led us onwards.
There has been one, small, deplorable incident, where a man of the crew took it upon himself to end an experiment before its due time, but we were thankfully able to prevent said occurrence, and have decided to deal with the person using the means appropriate to what we have discussed before. With that shift in his status among the research establishment, there has also been an upswelling in personal interest in security matters, in order to ensure that no more of the experiments are interfered with. On that note, do please exercise caution when assigning new personnel to the tasks that are needed here, for it has become apparent that some of the members, while continuing to work at their duties with appropriate effort, are less than fully dedicated to the tasks laid before them, and are simply continuing because it is their job, rather than because of an inner sense of purpose, or of dedication to the task.
It pains me that one of the brightest, and you will know him well, has fallen into this state of lethargy, for he goes about the days with a grey fog about his head, speaking little to other people and performing his tasks for almost the entire day. He still has his admirable skill, but that joy that he took in life has gone. Perhaps he will recover in time for the grand reveal that comes at the end of the process, but if not, we may need to choose another to be our representative for the delegations, for he will not serve in his current state of mind.
With those minor, but necessary descriptions out of the way, let me begin to describe what has been happening to the experimental subjects over the last several weeks, since the previous letter that I scribbled down. The teeth grow longer, and some of them howl as they bite their gums, unaccustomed to such length in their mandibles. Those who have experienced it for longer, or those who are the brightest among them, have learned to cope with the new difficulties presented here, and have since then begun testing the capabilities of the new jaw structure that came along with the teeth. They have found it most robust, and quite capable of ripping out some of the older and more insecure bars on their cages. It has necessitated a new structure to be built on the premises, one that will enjoy a much more secure foundation and formation, and into which we can transfer these newly advanced subjects.
In terms of their bodily structure, changes that are apparent to the eye are less prevalent than they are amongst the visual differences present in the face, but they are there, and quite strongly, too. It is simply a matter of looking beneath the surface, and beneath the clothes as well, for even the bare minimum that they wear can be used to disguise the changes as they happen. The most apparent is the thickening in the muscles at certain joins, and the reaction speeds of the beasts has grown considerably. Perhaps we should have attempted to induce each change without recourse to the others, but that would have been quite difficult, and cause a good few delays, a risk I would rather not have dealt with.
Oh, yes, one of brighter males of the initial testing unit, whom I believe to be the last one alive from that grouping, has become quite troublesome recently. Despite hindering their mental development, he has rather discovered the natures of doors and locks, and the claws on his hands have proven somewhat useful for picking them, even if it requires breaking them off and shaving them down for the purpose. His ability to think is beginning to worry me, and we have confined him to a single storage facility quite well away from any of the others, and with a good deal of extra security. In fact, it is almost about time for my rounds to begin, and his is always the first and the last stop on the route. Thus, due to the time, I will leave this letter here and return to it later. I will hopefully have more to report after my examinations of the latest subjects, and of the behaviour of the older ones. As per normal, complete records will be included with this letter. I leave now, hopefully to return with good news which I can convey to you.
The letter arrived as per normal, on top of a complete record of the experimental facility. When opened, it consisted of the text above, with two minor additions: a small, perfectly spherical drop of crimson, and a sliver of a thin, keratinous material.
14
Apr
This evening’s flash fiction piece. I rather like the first and last lines, and how the piece has a sense of balance to it. As before, comments are appreciated.
The city sank into the autumn of its life. Glory had passed it by, a phase from its youth, and now it had settled into middle-aged expansion, growing fat and weary. Each day saw new construction, a new theft from the land around it as the city grew and grew. But as it grew, it turned inwards, eyes once focused upon distant shores now locked firmly to the gossip of the markets, and the sordid happenings in squalid apartments.
As the city turned away from the world, so too did the world turn away from the city. Trading vessels from other ports no longer called, overland traders found their way to distant markets, and even farmers began to find doing business with the city dull and unsatisfying. They wondered why this was so, and could find no reason for it that sprung instantly to mind, and so the farmers, being of stolid stock, returned to their tasks and their seasons.
Life continued on, and the leaves fell from the autumnal trees, leaving the city cold and unprotected from the fierce north wind. Fat, wealthy, and unprotected, the city was swept aside and into the winter of its existence by a barbarian tribe. The inferno lit the sky for many nights, a brilliant funeral pyre for a city and a people now dead or gone. And so the city hibernated through the winter, like so many other creatures, hoping to wake in the spring.
Unlike others, it did not find relief with the coming of spring. The city slumbered on, and greenery arose, sheltering the ruins from the harsh rays of the sun. Time passed, and many winters turned to spring, and the city had become a forest, with only piles of rubble to remember where there had been buildings. To those now alive, the city had become a mythical place of great wealth and long forgotten stories, magnified beyond its former status by the fog of lost knowledge.
Another age rolled by, and still the city slumbered on. But this was an age of great importance, for the world had changed around the sleeping city, and the devastation that had come to it came to many of its fellows. People fled from their ancestral homes, and struck out into the wild to find a new place to live, and at the end of this age, the city shook away the tendrils of long held sleep, and was born again, young and vibrant.
It was a city in spring, a city growing into the fullness of its life, and people uncovered more and more of the old city that lay beneath the ground, and used those stones and those tiles to build a new city. This new city did not remember the old, for too much time had passed, but it honoured its ancestor even so, built along the same lines and using the same stone. And so the city grew and grew, and moved from the urgency of spring into the full life of summer.
In summer the city flourished, and trade spread out from it like runners from a plant, placing many new seeds across the land. Throwing doors wide in welcome, the city enjoyed the passage of many foreigners and luxurious goods, and became renowned for the pageantry and cheer of its citizens. But seasons turn, whether wished for or not, and the city sank into the autumn of its life.
13
Apr
My longest piece of flash fiction yet, this one continues my happy theme of recent days. I’m not sure about the ending. I kept feeling like I should write another paragraph, but at the same time, the current spot is where I wanted to end it. I’m not sure which idea is better, but this post is without any extra material on the end. Let me know what you think.
A single drop of rain fell that day. It left a large dark spot on the broken earth, and the greedy land sucked it away in an instant, and soon it was if the drop had never fallen. The land got back to its primary business of drying, cracking, and breaking apart, and the farmers got back to theirs, of bemoaning the weather. There would be no crops, not this year, and should the earth remain barren for a few more months, there would be no city, either. Men, women, and children fled after rumours, chasing down the notion of crops, of food. They hung their lives on the words of charlatans, and many starved. But soon, even the charlatans began to starve, for words may feed the mind, but they do not nourish the body.
In the desperation, citizens disappeared, only to be found gnawed upon. As food vanished entirely, this became open, and groups of the strong would rove the city, hunting down others as their dinner. Friend ate friend and family ate family, and even rats and cockroaches died away, for they had become delicacies for the collapsing society. Outside the city walls, a few farmers remained, old men who had nowhere to go, and no family to protect. They still met each day in the village tavern, talking through the old stories one more time. The bartender had long fled, and there was nothing to drink, and yet the old habits refused to die, for these farmers had seen many a bad year, and they were determined to ride this one out, just as they had all the others.
As days went by and easy pickings in the city became scarce, gangs began hunting food outside the city walls, questing after farmers, but the old men knew the lay of the land far better than the cityfolk who chased them, escaping with ease from the angry starving packs. This pushed the populace of the city over the edge into true desperation, and in a night of orgy and bloodshed, all but a few were killed, and those remaining gorged themselves on the flesh of the fallen.
The farmers shook their head at this ill considered behaviour. They had devised their own method of making it through the long famine – whenever the farmers became truly starved and nearly stumbling with hunger, they slew the oldest among them. Before his death, the chosen one could bequeath his belongings, and in this way ancient steadings were absorbed into one another, until only two were left.
These two men were young men, barely starting out in the farming trade, and had known one another from near the day of their birth, and so when the time came, the elder of the two shook his head and handed his farms over to his friend, and was then slain and eaten. Summer had long since passed, and autumn was even now beginning the gradual decent into winter, and the last farmer had no more source of food. He sat in the bar of the village tavern, and told stories to himself, making them up as he went along. Hunger stole away his strength for speech, and so he sat there, waiting for his death.
One day, the sun darkened, and a strange pat pat pat noise came through the open door of the tavern. Nothing more than a skeleton now, the young farmer crawled his way from the bar to the door, and looked outwards. It took him a long while to discern the source of the sound, but then he remembered: rain! Rain had come again to bless the land and the crops, and the earth drank and drank, its thirst unquenchable after many, many months of desiccation. The farmer cracked his parched lips and cried out in thanks, that he had lived until the rains came again. The prayer consumed the very last of his energy, and his form slumped there against the frame of the door, deceased.
13
Apr
Here’s another flash fiction piece, 445 words in length. I appear to be getting a little shorter the more of these I write. I hope you read, enjoy, and comment.
I stood alone against the ravening hordes. My companions had fled, and I faced down the screaming, slavering numbers on my own. Cowards one and all, both the companions and the hordes. The horde feared me, and would not charge, and my allies had feared the horde and fled from it, leaving me to my fate.
I perched atop a hill, and spread out to the east beneath me was the army of foes, a seething mass of orcs, goblins, minotaurs and other horrible creatures, each one shouting for my blood. They had gathered here on this day to negotiate with me and mine, but those discussions had broken down. I thought them foolish and stupid, and they thought me arrogant and presumptuous. Mutual loathing made our current situation inevitable.
Below, I could see commanders moving through the barbarians, shouting and striking and building courage among their troops. I knew that soon they would come for me, and so I began to ready myself, swirling round and round the top of the hill. It took them over an hour to gather the strength of will to charge, and so I was quite finished with my preparations by the time they charged the hill.
It was satisfying to see the first waves of goblins run over the traps I had laid down, the fire exploding from beneath their feet and burning their flesh. Stupid creatures. Thorns grew up and entangled those next to come, and then hail broke over their heads, battering the trapped forms. Rocks tumbled down the hill, an avalanche of stone and scree, and finally lightning speared down from the sky, transfixing the last of the courageous hordes. I had prepared very well, and they had studied me poorly. Again I say, stupid creatures.
I chuckled as those on the plains fled, and with a gesture, I sent a wave of shadow speeding down the hill, blackening the sky and stealing away the light. When I could see again, every last orc, goblin, and minotaur lay dead on the field. The sky darkened once more, and a murder of crows descended to begin their feast.
I watched the crows feed for some little time, and then I began to laugh, a full, deep noise that echoed around the valley. Poor, poor stupid barbarians. Yes, I had asked them to meet me here. Only, I had no intention of negotiation. This site had been readied weeks in advance, and I began the ritual that would raise the entire army as undead servitors. This is why I had called them here. For the third and final time, stupid creatures. Mortals ever took the short view.
12
Apr
Not quite my usual fare for a flash fiction, but I was feeling a little more pensive than usual, so it probably reflects my mood. Let me know what you think.
The boy wandered down the aisles of the church, his mind it all at ease and wander. He had come here for a purpose, but what that purpose had been he could no longer remember. Instead, he found himself staring upwards, fascination with the carvings overwhelming his sense of worry. Shrugging, he found himself a pew and sat there, looking at the giant cross that hung suspended in the nave.
Covered in gold filigree and beautiful carvings, it reminded the boy of nothing so much as a blossoming tree, reflecting the light in oh so many directions, light that played all across the inside of the stone church. He felt comfortable here, as if he had come home, and his worry drained away. Whatever his task had been, it could wait until later days.
The light within the chapel shifted from the left to the right, and still the boy sat there, his eyes caught on that cross, his mind soaring upwards, twisting through flights of fancy to wing its way towards the heavenly gates. He arrived at the gates to find that they were barred, and standing before them was an apologetic angel. With a silent gesture of negation, the angel sent the boy tumbling earthwards, his mind reeling.
He arrived back in his body with a great cry, tears dampening his cheeks. Fury and passion and anger rolled across his face and he grew violent, tossing away the pew upon which he sat. For many minutes he stormed, tossing the furniture and the furnishings about the church until it looked a ruin. Yet he would not touch the cross, nor pass the line of the altar.
His anger spent, the boy slumped down on a broken chair, and cried to himself. He had been rejected, he still did not remember what he was meant to do, and he had destroyed works of art. Remorse stole throughout his body, leaving him a quivering pile until, at last, the boy regained control of his emotions. With a face blank of expression and puffy from tears, he slipped away, disappearing out into the cold world beyond.
The figure on the cross spoke then, his eyes fixing the altar with a stare. “This happens every Sunday, Father. He tries to ascend and you do not let him.” From the altar came the sound of a sigh. “I wish I could, my son, but he is Damien, and to let him into heaven would cause all this to fail. And so I must turn away an innocent, a boy purer of heart and of mind than many who have passed through the gates.” The statue on the cross let his eyes fall to the floor. “I know, Father, I know. But it wrenches my heart.”
“Mine too.” The altar and the cross looked towards the grand doors of the church, where the boy had long since departed, and both cried, their eyes wet with blood.
10
Apr
This is sort of cheating, since it’s a storystarter I created myself earlier in the day, and then I edited it, but it’s there. Of course, me being me, I managed to just miss the 500 word limit. I can’t seem to write in under 500 words. Ah well. I hope you find this interesting, although I think it’s a story that needs to be improved to be really good.
The warp gate hung before it, the great ring of spinning metal filling its view-port. A new colony lay on the far side of that portal, and it looked forward to what that gate offered. This ship, the Rose, had spent many a year performing shuttle runs within the Old Core planets, mistreated and abused, never set free to explore the purpose it had constructed for. It had once been the pride of the interplanetary vessels, the first in a new breed of AI-run colony ships, safely carrying their sleeping cargoes across the millennia of light years to their new homes. But the Rose, as the first of all her kind, was given a special gift: she became the test mule. Each time a new innovation was tested, it was tried on her first, and soon she became a hodgepodge of malfunctioning machinery, a rabbit warren of engineers and cables.
Rose despaired, for although she had not been given emotions as such, she had been given a purpose and a goal in life, and that had been taken away from her at the moment of her birth. She endured the poking and the prodding, feeling parts of her mind cut away and replaced, sometimes better, often worse, all in the hope that one day she could fulfil her ambition. Three hundred years of waiting was finally at an end, and as Rose hung before the warp gate, she fairly quivered in glee, her engines pulsing in delight.
She turned her sensors on throughout the ship, recording her glorious body, lovingly restored to her original configuration, but she looked most of all at the sleeping passengers. They were her children, and Rose was to birth them onto their new planet. Sending fuel to the engines, she sailed forward, her form engulfed in white light as the gate enclosed her, wrapping Rose in its energies. Time stretched until the end of the universe arrived, and Rose counted many, many minutes passing on her internal clock, until it reached the end and had to start over at one.
A surge into darkness, and Rose had arrived. She measured the stars around her, and found that she had arrived right where she should. Yet her clock was far off, and she reset it, to one minute after she had flown through the gate. Her internal logic puzzled at the question, but without the databases of the Old Core to consult, she could find no answer, and left the question alone.
Rose flew to the planet of her assignment, and slipped through the atmosphere, waking her passengers into the buffeting of her decent. They stretched and moved for the first time in years, and as she landed, Rose watched her children ready themselves to leave their metal womb. Cracking the hatches, they spilled out from her, a tide of seed that would plant and grow fruit in this fertile land, and Rose looked down on them, a proud parent to the last. She had done what she must, and a brilliant glow of satisfaction spread throughout her, and in that glow of happiness and joy, she shut down, never to rise again.
8
Apr
Update #2 (July 1st 2011): This proposal is alive and well as SplinteredLands.com
Edit: There has been a lot of discussion of this idea in the comments, so please read them as well as the main post.
So, I’ve been mulling the idea of doing a ‘shared world’ anthology of short fiction, of fantasy or science fiction. This is an idea that has been used before, most notably by Robert Lynn Asprin for Thieves’ World, and I’m wondering how many people out there would be interested in something of this sort. It’s an idea that has caught my attention recently, and I’m throwing it out there to see if it catches anyone else’s.
The first step, if there are enough interested authors, is pick the story type, setting and the language style (Gaelic-style names would be an example), and spend some time world building, creating an encyclopedia that can be handed around to the interested parties. I’m leaving this deliberately open-ended because I want to see what comes back in the way of ideas, and I don’t want to restrict them.
On the idea of the first short stories, I would recommend nothing more than 5-10,000 words, as a rough test of the system, and not too stressful to write either. Of course, there’s some work to do before writing the stories happen.
Thoughts on the proposal?
7
Apr
A thanks to Selorian for providing the Story Starter for this one, although I didn’t use it in the normal way.
Nathan ran. He sprinted down alleyways, jumping over drunks and around waste, and yet the inexorable cloak came on. That was how Nathan thought of the man chasing him, as the ‘cloak’. A black cloak covered the pursuer’s body, and an equally dark hood rendered his face invisible. Once, as Nathan, slipped on the muck as he turned a corner, he heard the clank as a throwing dagger spun off of the wall next to him. Fear drove Nathan onwards, into the Spiral, the foetid mess of ruined buildings and ruined lives that hung at the centre of the city.
Nathan had arrived in this predicament by accident. He was a thief by trade, and was scouting a merchant’s mansion when he saw the cloak leaving – by an upper story window. Knowing what that meant, the thief had dropped from his perch and taken off. Of course, Nathan had been too late, and he carried a small nick from a dagger that grazed his upper arm.
Jumping over a pair of drunks rolling in the gutter, Nathan dove round a corner, feet scrabbling for purchase on the muddy streets. He was heading for one of his hideouts, one where he could slip down into the sewers and lose his pursuer in the mass of tunnels and filth. If only that blasted assassin would fall behind. But no, every time Nathan slowed going round a corner, there was the whine of a passing knife, skittering off the old plaster and brick.
He wondered if he was being herded. Nathan didn’t think so, he’d been in the lead the whole way, but the cloak’s uncanny ability to keep him just in sight was beginning to wear thin. Time to do something about that. Nathan burst through the nearest door, sprinting up the stairs and out onto the roof, where he leaped to the next roof, landing hard in a roll. Gods, he was breathing hard.
Chest hurting from the impact, Nathan proceeded to leap from roof to roof, zigzagging deeper into the Spiral. No knives had flown past in the last few minutes, and so he paused to look backwards. A curse fell from his lips, for only a roof behind was the cloak, marching onwards and reaching for a dagger. Throwing himself into a roll, Nathan fell down the far side of the building, catching his fingers on the edge for a moment before dropping to the alley beneath. The hard impact rolled his ankle, but this was no time for him to slow down: he was nearly at the safehouse.
A few more twists and turns and dives through buildings, and Nathan was there. Slamming the door behind him, Nathan stomped on the plate that shut every opening into the building except the sewers, and down he went, ripping up the trap door and clambering down into the foetid wastes of the oldest and foulest part of the city. Nathan paused, his breath coming in great gasping bursts. He’d made it! Free of the damn cloak.
A wet splash was Nathan’s only warning, and before he could turn he felt the dagger slide under his collarbone and into the artery. Nathan’s shocked glance showed only a deeper darkness moving away from him, and the thief cried out in fear and in pain, begging for someone to come help him. His pleas for help fell on deaf ears. The city bustled above as he lay bleeding in the storm drains below their feet.
7
Apr
A fly buzzed when I died. It wasn’t a noble death, or a valiant one, just a death. I was standing patrol in some godforsaken jungle on a planet I couldn’t even name, and a sniper shot me. Kinetic kill, right through the heart. So that’s it for me, lying bleeding out on the ground. I had always wondered what death would feel like, and I can tell you, it doesn’t. There’s nothing, no feeling, just a sort of growing blankness, like bits of your body are turning off. I guess that’s accurate to what’s happening – bits of my body are turning off, no more oxygen to feed the little guys.
Base sent out a rescue wagon, but all it’s going to pick up is my cold dead corpse. At least they got the bastard, counter-sniper with a rocket. I’d say goodbye to my wife and kids and family, but I don’t have any. I was grown in a vat, originally going to be used for organ replacement for some rich old bugger. Then the war started, and the government realized it had all of these healthy young men laying around collecting dust. Few months of high-speed training, and suddenly I’m standing patrol out in Hell 101, or whatever this planet’s called. Better than lying around knowing I was going to get chopped into spare parts one day.
I know, I’m taking a long time to actually die if I can record all this, but that damn fly buzzing around my head is keeping me awake so I can talk. Don’t know how, but it is. Maybe it sprinkled pixie dust on my face when I closed my eyes. Or if I tap my heels three times, I go home. Yeah, right.
Sorry, blacked out there for a moment. The fly isn’t working as well as it used to. Blood loss, I suppose. Where was I? Nowhere, really, just nattering away into a mic while lying on the ground. I don’t even have a name, just a code number. JNY-35197, that’s me. Has such a nice ring to it that people call me Jenny. Can’t read or write, don’t have any rights. Why would they give either to a bag of organs?
That blankness is most of the way up my chest, and it’s getting a bit hard to breathe. Probably only have about a minute or so more at this rate, so I should wrap things up. I know my comrades and I are just bags of organs, and that we got the bum jobs: foot patrol, grunt work, the dangerous stuff, but we’re still human, still have emotions and think and feel like the rest of you. We’re not cyborgs or androids or whatever you call them these days. So, when the war is over and we go home, treat us clones right, would you? Think of the old empires – if you fought for them, at the end of the war you became a citizen. Give that to me and mine, please. It’s my dying wish, and all it takes is thinking with your heart, and not your head. I know you’ll do it, and thank you. Goodbye.