Discovery: The Science of Magic

by Pappy October 30th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Introduction

I wasn’t always a modern day wizard. Indeed, after years of looking for and failing to find a better alternative, it still doesn’t feel right to use that word. Wizard, after all, implies an adept of the arcane, a master of the mystic. But as my story will reveal, magic is neither arcane nor mystic, and I am neither adept nor a master. But to my knowledge, I am one of a handful of individuals who have stumbled onto the rediscovery of magic and an understanding of its source; knowledge that in this modern society of science and technology is worth more than all the processing power of the world’s super-computers combined.

Believe it or not, this knowledge came to me by the fusion of my choice in career path, and a penchant for juggling hobbies and interests as readily as a clown man-handles bowling pins. A student of anthropology, I focused my collegiate endeavors on religions’ influence on human cultures. The science of shared perception, that groups of individuals could in essence create their own concepts of reality in order to explain what their sciences could not, intrigued me. To really understand how these perception were built, however, I had to weigh in factors from myriad other aspects of that culture. From their level of technological advancement to the vagaries of sexual mythos, to understand the rise of religion in a culture one needs to understand almost every other aspect of a society’s evolution.

This naturally led me to dabbling in hobbies across the sciences. Agriculture, metallurgy, and historical context became evening playgrounds after the term papers and homework were complete. When I got around to examining the evolution of major modern religions such as Christianity and Islam I delved deeper into telecommunications, chemistry, and even physics to create my contextual reference points.

Most people would be shocked to learn that modern theoretical physics much more closely resembles New Age metaphysics than it does Einstein’s indelible E=Mc2 or the birthing of atomic energy. Today’s theorists are contemplating the very nature of existence. They ponder that the Universe itself exists only as we perceive it, and that by changing our collective perceptions we can change the Nature of our own realities. Great minds in physics evaluate factors from not 3 or 4 dimensions, but from as many as twenty-six dimensions; most of which are beyond human comprehension.

To boil it down, the line between science and religious beliefs are blurring, and whether believers understood it or not, I came to the conclusion that believing in something might just be enough to make it real. The most difficult part of this is so simple it’s nearly comical. You see, how does one believe in something when it violates every essence of thought the logical mind has come to recognize? It’s more than just a temporary suspension of dis-belief; one must accept these new realities without cause, nor basis in thought, the way we know the ground is there beneath our feet even when our eyes are closed.

It requires the absence of thought.

Audio Drama Script: Bloody Twilight

by Pappy October 30th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Originally Documented on 10/5/2006

For those not familiar with it, Shadow Falls was an online audio drama with a full cast of actors. It revealed an ominous world where two ancient forces, the Coyote and the Wolf, struggled for dominance over evil, using the townspeople of Shadow Falls like pawns in a battle that lasted generations. Towards the end of their first season they asked for listener submitted short stories. This was the script I had worked up and was going to produce, but never got the audio work done.

Radio Drama Script for a piece of Shadow Falls fan fiction.
——————————————————————–
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Jonas Evans - family farmer
Martha Evans - Jonas’ wife
Luke Evans - Jonas’ son
Penny Evans - Jonas’ daughter
——————————————————————–

Narrator: Before there ever was a town of Shadow Falls, before the indigenous people had shared their knowledge with the European newcomers, an ancient evil already walked this land. The Evans family - the very first white settlers to cast their lots here, discovered this only too quickly…

(short, ominous music fades out)
(sound of crickets)

Jonas: Penny, put down your water bucket and come here for a minute, darlin’.

Penny: Yes, Pa. What is it?

Jonas: Look at that sunset. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?

Penny: Oooo, it’s so pretty, Pa! What makes it look pink and orange like that?

Jonas: I wish I knew, sweety. I do know it sure is somethin’ to see, though.

Penny: (excitedly) Ooo, Pa, look over there, the moon is rising over the trees!

Jonas: (nervously) Oh, um, yes it is, isn’t it?

Penny: It’s almost as pretty as the sunset - all the same pinks and oranges.

Jonas: (softly) It’s almost red.

Penny: What’s the matter, Pa? Is it a Bloody Twilight?

Jonas: (angrily) Where did you hear that?

Penny: Luke says when the sun and moon are both out and and colored like that it’s called a Bloody Twilight.

Jonas: Luke said that? It’s nothing; nothing at all, honey. Do me a favor and get your brother, then go in the house and help your Ma with supper.

Penny: Yes, sir.

(sound of footsteps running off)

Jonas: (to himself) It’s too soon. This shouldn’t have happened at least ’til after Summer Solstice.

(heavier footsteps approaching)

Luke: You needed me, Pa?

Jonas: Take a look, son. What do you think?

Luke: Looks like Bloody Twilight to me.

Jonas: (angry) Don’t call it that! And don’t you ever discuss it with your sister again, you understand?

Luke: I was just trying to …

Jonas: I don’t care what you were trying, son. We don’t give names to these things. It only gives them life and power over us. And we don’t go scaring the women-folk. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it as we always have, but don’t you go givin’ it no name! Am I understood?

Luke: Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Should I get one of the new lambs?

Jonas: Better get two or three, son. Something is different this time. I can’t lay my nose on it, but somethin’ is different and I don’t like the feel of it one bit. Better to be safe than sorry. Tie them to the fence near the woods in the far pasture. You better take the rifle with you.

(sound of a rifle being cocked and passed to Luke)

Jonas: Oh, and Luke.

Luke: Yeah, Pa?

Jonas: Be careful, son.

Luke: I will, Pa.

(15 seconds music fade in and back out. cricket sounds replaced with faint howling in the background)

Martha: Jonas, why don’t you come inside and eat some supper? The children are already done, and would like to say goodnight before they go to bed.

Jonas: I’ll be in soon, Martha.

Martha: Jonas Evans, standing out here on this porch isn’t going to change a thing. You and Luke have done what you needed to do. Now stop frettin’ and come inside.

Jonas: (sounding tired) Somethin’ is different this time, Martha. I can almost feel it in the air. I gotta tell you, it chills my bones.

Martha: (worried) I’ve never heard you talk like this, Jonas. Is it the wolves or the coyotes this time?

Jonas: Maybe, that’s it. I can’t tell. It might even be both.

Martha: Both? Is that possible?

Jonas: I just don’t know, Martha.

Martha: Well, Luke said you staked out extra sheep this time. That should be enough, right?

(long pause as the sound of howling begins to get louder)

Jonas: We can only hope, hon. We can only hope. The real question is, how long will they continue to be satisfied with sheep, no matter how many we put out?

Penny: (voice distant, calling from inside the house) Goodnight, Pa! I love you!

Jonas: (calling back) Goodnight, Penny-girl. You have sweet dreams..

(howling continues as the music fades in and then all fades out)

Story: Mars New Arabia

by Pappy October 30th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Originally documented 3/5/2006 

“Mars New Arabia, this is Tango Echo Seven Niner One Two. Over.”

Jef Shoals listened to the incoming traffic with mild interest, the chatter mixing in with numerous other conversations from around the amber-lit control room. Scanning over the datastream he saw TransEarth 7912 listed as inbound from Earth, although it wasn’t due in Mars Regional Space for another 36 hours, give or take. He wondered what prompted the early contact.

He keyed the mic on his headset in response. “This is New Arabia Control, go ahead, 7912. Over.”

There was a long delay before the pilot’s nervous voice returned.

“New Arabia, we’re getting anomalous astronav results here. We’ve missed the last two nav buoys by our estimates and both primary and secondary realignment systems are offline. Do you have us on contact yet? Over.”

Jef quickly started touching various sections of the datastream feed that crossed his station, trying to call up the errant vessel. Finding nothing on TE7912 he ran a search on all unidentified contacts. There was only one, and not a likely candidate.

“7912, unless you’re ahead of schedule and way off the mark, I don’t have you here yet. I have one unidentified craft orbiting Phoebos, probably a mining skiff. Are your transponders up? Over.”

His fingers deftly manipulating the stream without waiting for an answer, Shoals set up alerts for TE7912’s transponder beacon as well as any new unidentified ships. He’d know about it the second a relevant contact was made. He also lit up the Situation Console, notifying his supervisor of a potential problem. Several heads turned his direction as other space controllers saw the huge screen at the front of the room kick into life.

The Situation Console, or SitCon as they referred to it, was a multi-user datastream interface that allowed the entire New Arabia Control staff to jump in if necessary. It recorded every action taken, coordinated data linking, and except for training exercises was only used during emergencies.

“Affirmative, New Arabia, all transponders are up. We’re also experiencing intermitent comm distruption. We can’t find anything wrong, though… Over.” The pilot’s voice cracked, obviously growing more distressed with the circumstances.

“Roger that, 7912. I’m setting up radio relay through all traffic within the shipping lanes. That should help improve comms. Now let’s figure out where you are. I’m going to need to know your current speed, which buoy you last passed, and if you made any nav adjustments since then. Over.”

“Lose one, Jef?” Shoals looked up to see Mr. Olivine, the Control Manager, standing over his shoulder. From this angle the amber light glinting off Olivine’s cybernetic right eye gave the man a sinister appearance.

“Not quite, sir,” he replied. “We never had her to start with. TE7912 is inbound, but still out of Mars space. She’s missed a couple buoys and both realignment systems are out. We’ve got no transponder yet, so I’m working on getting a rough estimate on her location.”

“Ok, I’m on this one with you, Jef.” Olivine sat at the station next to Shoals, fingers diving into the stream. “Mars space or not, she’s ours to reel in.”

* * * * *

Story: Golden Nectar

by Pappy October 30th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Originally documented 3/3/2006
This is an incomplete draft

He looked from the bar out over the sparsely populated room, taking a long pull from his beer as he did. It tasted like golden nectar, he thought, and he savored another drought.

“It’s not as if I’m a drunk or anything,” his mind wandered. “What do I drink, maybe three or four a week?”

It was the quality of the hefeweizen he reveled in. Sure, he had no complaints about the light buzz he felt when he drank, but the taste was the thing. The same beer poured from a bottle couldn’t do equal justice to what he’d come to expect, either. Nope, it had to be draft, served with a quarter slice of fresh lemon, a nice frothy head, and that opaque, milky look that bottled stout couldn’t quite capture.

He turned slighly to the sound of the little brass bell dancing above the front door. Millicent Baylor was steering her two red-headed rugrats into the dining room and towards a booth. He thought he saw her glance in his direction, but if she had there was no outward sign of recognition.

“Wow, even after all these years she still looks hot.” He blinked, drained the last of his glass and motioned to the waitress for another.

For one brief, shining moment during high school she’d been his. A few weeks of fooling around after football games and it was over before it had ever really started, but it was still one of the high points of his memory.

He grinned sheepishly at the waitress as a fresh hefe materialized to replace his empty. He even delighted in the little sense of guilt he felt for enjoying the brew so much, and sometimes he thought Maggy could read it on his face when she delivered his guilty little sin.

“You sure you don’t at least want a sandwich or something to go with that, Arty?” She intoned, her smoky voice every bit as sexy as the cleavage springing from her low-cut blouse. Maggy understood the science of gratuities, as her tip jar could testify.

“Thank you, dear,” he replied, “but this is just perfect.”

“Well you know where to find me if you change you mind, sweetheart.” Maggy turned towards the kitchen and the half-empty catsup bottles awaiting their nightly refill.

After admiring her delicious rear slip out of view Arty returned his attention to earlier thoughts. Millicent sat in the booth with her back to him, her long red curls hanging over the back of the seat. The boys jostled in the seat opposite her, sword fighting with rolled up menus. They both had their mother’s trademark green eyes and freckles. They looked to be between six and nine years old.

“Was I really gone for that long?” he wondered. It didn’t matter; they’d never been serious, and he had no vested interest in her personal life. He just found it a bit boggling that she’d obviously gotten married, or at least shacked up with someone long enough to produce a few kids and find her place in the domestic routine.

“Domestic syndication,” he laughed softly into his glass. Arty was no different than anyone else, and jealousy tended to lead to mockery. A decade and a half had passed since leaving this hometown hamlet, and yet he’d never come close to finding his proverbial soulmate out in the world. Not that he thought Millicent was it, but why should she find hers and he find nothing?

He absentmindedly took the lemon from his brew and chewed at the pulp. Half way through his second pilsener and the tell tale signs of numbness caused his lips and tongue to tingle slightly. The brew was following it’s routine pattern; a light buzz, lips starting to numb, eyes slightly drooping. He’d be making his first trip to the head any minute now. How weird was that, Arty thought? Finding a sense of comfort in the familiar onset of alcoholic awareness certainly could not be a good symptom if one were engaged in a wider diagnosis of his psyche, but measuring the stages was indeed another guilty pleasure he enjoyed about his diner visits.

Story: Old Country

by Pappy October 30th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


CHAPTER ONE

I grew up hearing all the stories about the Old Country. Nanna introduced us to every legend, myth, character and villain in nightly tales by the wood stove. To hear her tell them, you’d think she’d have been there to witness it all, but so far as anyone knew the Old Country had been dead and gone for some 300 years now.

Sure, if you listened to the traders who passed through town there were always rumors that Amurca was alive and well, that the States were reuniting and settling their differences, but it was always far away in some distant city. Most of us didn’t even know if these places existed or where they’d be located if they did. Places with foreign names like Seatel, Denvir and Losanglees. There were rumors about a great domed city called Jefferson Dome, where men were free and equal and democracy flourished.

Nanna explained to us about democracy. She said it was an Amurcan birthright. It was more dear to her than anything, this idea that people could live freely and decide their own fates. She told us to listen close and to tell our children’s children until the time was right to claim what was ours. We all loved Nanna, but we also all thought she was a bit off her rocker. There wasn’t anything remotely like democracy on the Caroline Coast and we all doubted there ever would be.

It was hard enough growing up knowing you were more likely to be put to death for missing a work quota than to die of old age. If Bolson, the Caroline King, didn’t work you to the grave, the sea would claim you, or illness and depression might drive you to end it all yourself. Life was rough and we figured the Amurcan myths were just Nanna’s way of making it a little easier for a few hours each night.

Our town, more like a village, was called Bright. Bright, Caroline, population 1,475, was located four miles inland from a small bay on the Alanta Ocean, in the edge of a great pine forest grown up from the sandy soil of some ancient dune. Some of us spent days out on the bay in boats, working nets for fish, turtles, and anything else edible the sea might produce. Others were busy lumber jacking, felling timbers or hauling them to the mill in Culver, on the other side of the river to the North.

A small group of men worked a secret mine far up in the hills, not for Bolson’s reserves, but for trading stock to help acquire the goods our people needed. This was the most dangerous job, for the mine often collapsed and if Bolson’s men ever learned of it they’d slaughter anyone who had taken part in the deception. Nanna laughingly referred to the mine as our “Bolson Tea Party”, although we had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

I was daydreaming about Nanna’s stories when I heard the cloppity clop of horse’s hooves coming down the dirt road in front of me.

“Traders coming, never seen these ones afore,” shouted the rider as he passed at a solid trot. “Tell the olders, no sign of Bolson.” The rider never slowed, continued another hundred meters, then spurred the horse to the West, heading towards the lumber camps.

Traders. We all looked forward to their visits, but not without a good deal of angst. Traders meant new supplies, news, stories, and occasionally even new families arriving in Bright. They also meant we had to be on extra watch for Bolson’s patrols, who frequently stopped in town to ensure we were hard at work collecting the King’s resources. If they were to catch us trading anything but the simplest of subsistence goods it would mean bloodshed. Then there was always the threat that one of these traders might sell us out to Bolson directly. Trading was tricky business.

I bolted off the road and down the hill, jumping ferns and fallen logs, heading towards town. The Olders needed to know so they could put together a trading plan. Fall was a few months off, but the Olders tended to start thinking about winter goods early in the season when they were more plentiful.

A few minutes later I burst into the trading post, out of breath.

“Oli, what is it?” It was Older Best. He usually spent his days in the trading post, counting stores, keeping track of things we needed, and loading carts of goods to be shipped northwards to Bolson’s fortress in Rawley. He had always been kind to me and called me by my nickname. Rumor was he and Nanna were romantic in their younger days, but that wasn’t anything I’d ever wanted to dwell on.

“Traders, sir,” I rushed. “Matthew Egers just road in from the North and told me to let you know. He says he never seen these ones before! He headed towards the camps to call in the others.”

Older Best raised his eyebrows. “Has anyone gone to warn the fish yard yet?” His deft hands were already wiping at the counters with a worn rag.

“Don’t know, sir,” I said, hoping I wasn’t going to get that job too. There were only two horses in town that weren’t directly involved in work tasks, and those were used by the scouts that kept watch over the north and south roads into our little valley. It was a long run down to the fish yards, especially in the summer heat. I wouldn’t be back in town for hours and would probably miss the traders’ arrival. That was always the best time to be hanging around, just in case any kind of gifts were going to be passed out in greeting.

Traders were an odd bunch. Some you saw frequently and got to know real well. Those were generally the ones who plied the local routes, keeping the small Caroline towns in touch with each other. They were the basis of the local economy, what little of it made it past Bolson’s taxes. Others were strange people, with a variety of customs and accents, bringing in goods we often had never seen before. These foreign traders didn’t have to live under Bolson’s constant shadow and were the ones most likely to bring in new rumors and stories that kept the Amurcan myths alive.

I once saw a group of traders, I think they were from some place called Mountaina, they wore nothing but raw fur and animal skins and smelled like they hadn’t bathed in years. They told stories about Amurcan armies that were fighting a big war in the north to unite two states. They said ten thousand men had died in a single battle. I couldn’t even imagine that many people in one place. It took all we had just to feed and care for barely more than a thousand people and we were one of the larger towns in Caroline.

Older Best must have read the look on my face. “Don’t worry, Oli, we’ll send Matt down as soon as he gets back from the camp. No use wasting your legs on a horse’s job when your back is more suited to helping me here.” He grinned with this, knowing I was trapped.

“Yes, sir,” I moaned. At least I’d be one of the first to get a look at these newcomers.

I spent the next hour moving boxes and helping Older Best cover the trapdoor to the cellar where our contraband goods were kept. I finished sweeping the porch as folks began gathering around in front of the post. As was traditional in most towns, this was the largest open area in town with various benches and seats around three sides and a large open fire pit lined with stones in the middle of the square. A good trade meet was often the biggest social event of the year.

“Who is it this time, Oli?”

I turned to see James, my best friend, walking up from the direction of his house. He was carrying his mother’s trading bundle, a large fur bound neatly with twine, everything his mother might want to use for barter goods wrapped safely in side.

“Hey, James,” I said. “We’re not sure who it is yet. Matt Egers said they were new.”

“Well, whoever they are, I hope they brought some hard candy.” James grinned and hoisted up his bundle for emphasis, “I’ve got some of Mom’s best ready to go.”

James had an insatiable sweet tooth. He and his father worked the fish yards, mostly repairing boats, nets, and salting and drying fish. They brought his mom all kinds of shells from the beach, and she had become well-known throughout our area for some of the finest hand-crafted shell beads and buttons to be had on the Caroline Coast.

“We’ll know soon enough,” I pointed his attention up the road.

A procession of wagons, led by one of our mounted scouts, was just making its way from behind the trees lining the road to the north. Little kids started whooping and hollering, jumping up and down, and a general feeling of excitement overtook the crowd.

The wagons flew brilliantly colored flags, each a field of bright green bearing some kind of dark blue sphere or possibly a shield in the middle. I couldn’t make out any more details from this distance, but I knew I’d never seen this standard before. Each vividly painted cart was pulled by oxen, most by a single animal, but the last carriage was led by a pair of the beasts. You could tell by the slow trundle of its wheels that this vehicle was laden with as much as it could carry.

“Would you look at that.” declared James. “That’s the wildest caravan I’ve ever seen!” I laughed at his slack jawed expression.

A tall Older with long straight hair stood with one foot up on the wagon’s buckboard, holding the reins in one hand and waving at the throng with his hat in the other. He wore a wildly multicolored robe hanging loosely from his shoulders. His baggy white pants seemed to balloon away from his body accept at the waist, where they were held by a bold red sash, and where they were tucked into the jet black, highly polished boots.

I’d never seen traders like these before, that was for sure. My face must have looked as comical as James’. Nanna came up to my side from behind and stroked my cheek.

“Oli, dear, you look like a little boy again,” she smiled. “I keep forgetting traders like these haven’t passed through here in decades. When I was a girl, carnival traders were common. It’s nice to see the tradition is still alive.”

“What’s a carnival trader, Nanna?”

“You’ll see, sweety.” She grinned a wry smile and winked.

Nanna could put a positive spin on anything. She’d raised me after my parents death, and it was her zestful outlook on life, her rich beliefs, and a loving heart that made this otherwise perilous existence bearable. For her, my adolescent embarrassment of being referred to like a child in front of my friend could be ignored.

I smiled, reached my arm around her diminutive shoulders and squeezed.

The wagons were pulling to a halt on the edge of the square. The lead trader, still standing with one foot on the buckboard, placed the reins on the seat, rested his hat on his head and waved his arms to gain everyone’s attention.

“Friends! Friends,” he boomed. The crowd hushed. “People of Bright, I want to thank for such a warm and friendly welcome. My name is Eli Zhirofski and this is my family.”

He swept his arm back over the traders’ caravan. I couldn’t help but notice a girl not much older than myself, helping another man behind the rear of the last wagon. She was beautiful. Long, black hair fell off her shoulders nearly to her waist. From my vantage I couldn’t see much of what they were shouldering down from the wagon, but I didn’t care. She was captivating in her own right. Older Zhirofski’s voice pulled my attention reluctantly back to the front of the caravan.

“We’ve been traveling the road these many months since early spring, and you’ve made us feel the most welcome of any place we’ve visited this year. In return my family and I would be pleased if you’d allow us to honor you with a gift.”

From behind his wagon the black haired beauty emerged, leading on a rope the largest hog I’d ever seen. She grinned and waved as the townsfolk began cheering. Older Zhirofski made a showman’s leap down to stand next to her. After a moment, Older Best stepped forward and waited patiently for it to quiet again before speaking.

“You are, of course, most welcomed in Bright! We humbly accept your gracious gift, on the terms that you share it with us in feast tonight. I must warn you, however, we’ve not had traders here so entertaining as the Zhirofskis in many years. If your smile and warmth of personality are as infectious as I expect, we may not let you leave!”

“Then I fear we shall have to remain wary of kidnap, my friend!” Zhirofski turned to his family members, most of whom had now gathered behind him and the girl, and feigned an exaggerated look of fear. “Let us then spend the evening in friendship and leave matters of business to tomorrow.”

Both Olders laughed and embraced one another by the forearms. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought these two knew each other. It was like old friends greeting each other after a long absence. I didn’t know why, but it made me shiver lightly with emotion. This was certainly not what I’d been expecting. Most traders I’d ever seen just showed up in town, passed out a few trinkets, and then set to the business of trading.

Nanna gave me a slight nudge. “Well, go on, Oli.”

“Go where, Nanna?” I was confused.

“Go make yourself some new friends, of course!” She exclaimed and again nudged me towards the throng.

I wasn’t the only person unfamiliar with this apparently old tradition. While many of the Olders were moving forward, greeting the Zhirofskis with hugs and handshakes, a number of the younger townspeople were mulling about, unsure of what to do.

***** Outline ****

  • Oli and James meet the Zhirofskis. They all enjoy the festivities
  • Oli is emabrrassed when Alena Zhirofski pulls him in to dance with her near the fire in front of the whole town
  • Later, sitting with James and Alena, Oli notices Nanna having a private conversation with Eli Zhirofski over behind the wagons. Eli turns to look at the kids several times and Oli wonders if they are talking about him.
  • Nanna sends Oli into the trading post to get another barrel of ale, but asks him to take his time and pay attention.
  • From the backroom of the trading post Oli eavesdrops on a meeting of the Olders with Eli Zhirofski. Zhirofski informs the Olders that the Amurcan tales are indeed true. The Amurcan army is about 2 months away from arriving in Bright, and looking for a place to set up for the winter. Zhirofski believes Bright Valley would be the ideal location.

END CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

  • The Olders debate what to do with Zhirofski’s revelation. Some don’t believe it and suspect Zhirofki is trying to trick them for some ulterior motive. Nanna makes an impassioned argument in support of Zhirofski.
  • Oli sneaks out and tells James what he heard. James suggests Oli ask Alena about it since she appears to like him. By the time the feast is dying down Oli asks Alena, but instead of answering she takes him by the hand and leads him to the last wagon. There is Eli Zhirofski, as if waiting for him. Alena tells Eli that Oli needs answers, and then leaves them alone.
  • Oli asks Eli about the Amurcans. Eli says it is true. Shows Oli a trunk full of various flags, and says that each town they go to they fly a different flag, claiming it is the ancient trader flag. They do this so that local kings and tyrants will believe they are true gypsies without allegiance; a carnival trick. The Zhirofskis are in fact scouts for the Amurcans, helping identify towns, routes, military strengths, etc.
  • Eli shows Oli a hidden compartment in the wagon. In it is the true Amurcan flag, tattered and torn with scorch marks. It is one of the last remaining of the original flags. He explains the meaning of the colors and the stars.
  • Eli also tells Oli of his earlier conversation with Nanna. She loves Oli very much and her heart aches for Oli to know freedom. She asked Zhirofski to take Oli back to the west with him. She doesn’t want Oli to be there when the fighting starts. But Eli is heading north, not west, and Oli refuses to be convinced to leave Bright and Nanna behind to make the trip on his own.
  • Oli goes home and to bed, both excited and confused. He gets very little sleep. He spends the next day wandering in the woods with Alena, talking about the future, Amurca, fears, etc while the town conducts its trading business with Zhirofski. Alena has to get back to help her family pack up the wagons to leave towards evening.
  • Alena says goodbye to Oli. Gives him a kiss. The Zhirofskis leave heading north the next morning.

END CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

  • Several days go by and a large contingent of Bolson’s army rides thru Bright, heading south. Nanna notices a column of smoke rising from the north and sends Oli to investigate. He takes a horse and avoids several more contingents on the road. He arrives at at the scene to find the Zhirofskis dead, their wagons burning, and the oxen slaughtered. He cannot find Alena’s body, but manages to rescue the Amurcan flag from the wreckage and a sword from Eli Zhirofski’s dead hand.
  • Oli takes the woods south instead of the road. Along the way he hears a scream and follows the sound to a low creek crossing where he sees Alena trying to fight off two of Bolson’s men. Oli takes the sword and rides into fray. Fight scene. Alena is rescued, but in shock from the slaughter of her family, and a severe injury to her leg. She carries a leather pouch that has all the scouting info her family has gathered for the Amurcans.

END CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

  • When they arrive back in Bright they find the trading post burning, Older Best murdered in front of it. A dozen or more towns folk dead around town, almost all the Olders, and several houses burned out. Nanna is slumped in the doorway of Oli’s home a deep gash in her head. She survives, but is blinded by the injury.
  • Over the next few days Oli cares for Alena and Nanna, learns that James’ entire family was killed at the fishyards, James was conscripted into Bolson’s army and carried off south. Oli begins a militant conversion. He stirs in anger as Bolson places a small permanent contingent in Bright to maintain a firmer grip. They force him to act as stable boy for their horses. He keeps Nanna and Alena hidden in the basement of the home. It becomes grim as people are executed for minor crimes or offenses

END CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

  • One night, after Bolson’s soldiers fall asleep, Oli steals a horse and rides south hoping to find the Amurcans to deliver the Zhirofski’s pouch. He carries the Amurcan flag tucked in his jacket. From mountain at the southern pass he can see fires burning and hear the far of shouts and din of battle.
  • Placeholder for action details. Oli rides through the battle lines, but gets captured by the Amurcans.

END CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

  • Oli has to convince Amurcans he’s not one of Bolson’s men. Zhirofski’s flag is the proof.
  • Oli delivers pouch to the Amurcan commander, tells him how bad its getting in Bright. Commander promises to arrive with help as soon as possible. Oli rides back around the lines and arrives back in town with just enough time to return the horse before sunrise.
  • Two days later, three Bolson guards beat in the door of Oli’s house and find him there with Nanna and Alena. Fight. Two guards dead, last holding Alena with pistol. As he tries to back out of the house James appears from behind and smashes in the man’s head with a rifle butt. A horn blows and Bolson riders from the south heading north are in full retreat.

END CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

  • James explains how he was forced to join in the fight against the Amurcans to the south, but once the retreat started he was able to escape and return home. Amurcan scouts begin to arrive within a few hours.
  • The Amurcan forces begin to set up in Bright. Contrary to what Oli believed, this is only a small expeditionary regiment. There’s no army coming until spring or later.
  • James moves into Nanna’s house with them
  • Oli spends most of his time trying to console and care for everyone. Alena, Nanna, James - all carrying physical or mental scars from the events. Having others to care for has allowed Oli to put off dealing with his own emotional reactions
  • Alena introduces them to Aaron Stainsforth, the lieutenant her father used to report to. Stainsforth is trying to figure out how to get new intel on Bolson without the Zhirofski caravan.
  • That evening Oli goes out on the porch. A strong wind is blowing in from off the coast. He climbs up on the porch and hoists the Amurcan flag up over his home. Nanna can hear the sound of it flapping in the wind and asks Oli what it is. Oli replies “It’s the sound an Amurcan, claiming what is rightfully his, Nanna.”

END CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

  • James is seldom at the house and leaves whenever Alena is around. Oli gets angry with him and thinks James is jealous of her.
  • James is transformed, both by the loss of his family and the combat he participated in while a conscript in Bolson’s army. He moves out of Nanna’s house, becomes distant and starts drinking. To avoid the Amurcan troops (he feels guilty for the ones he killed) he spends most his time alone at the fishyards, trying to do the work he used to do with his father.
  • Lt. Stainsforth agrees to go speak to James at Oli’s request. They both visit James at the fish yards. James blames the Amurcans and the Zhirofskis for losing his family. Says if they had not come Bolson’s men would have had no reason to go on the rampage. Stainsforth tries to talk with him, but James assaults him. Stainsforth refuses to fight back. When it’s over James takes off down the beach, Stainsforth is bloodied.
  • Stainsforth notices dark smoke out on the ocean, rising from over the horizon. Oli has never seen anything like it before here. Stainsforth is disturbed and concerned by this. He believes it may indicate a level of shipping the Amurcans didnt believe existed anymore. They watch as it moves slowly north and out of sight.

END CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

  • They return to town and Stainsforth reports the potential ship to his Commander. The need for better intel now becomes more critical. Bolson’s Carolinians are building up in Culver, securing the bridge north and increasing the threat of another attack on Bright. The Amurcans set up perimeters on both the northern and southern passes leading into the valley, but are concerned they may not have the strengths to repel a Carolinian assault.

Story : “A Dream of Fishes” Part IV

by Pappy April 29th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Chapter Two

From the open doorway of her tent positioned high on the hill, Ophetta watched the battle playing out in the marshlands below. Tendrils of dark smoke drifted up from the scene, rising to meet the carrion birds circling overhead. She counted at least two dozen dead or wounded sprawled in the mud, most of them enemy. It sickened her to see how they ignored their fallen comrades. No wonder they were losing.

Three days of carnage and the Belydonian generals still continued to throw their fighters at Kausidor like dandelion seeds to the wind. There was no strategy to it, never had been, with obvious results. The well honed defenses had easily repelled the invasion of Kausidor’s eastern border, shredding the offensive with the efficiency of a butcher’s carving knife. The pointless loss of life curtled Ophetta’s stomach.

“Ma’am, we are ready.”

Ophetta turned to the young girl who’d beckoned for her. Her apron smeared with blood and dirt, the nurse pointed towards the soldier now sitting up on the operating table, a fresh bandage over much of his upper right arm. Ophetta approached the man and examined the wound’s covering.

She cupped her left hand over the outside of his wounded arm and reached up under the soldier’s chin with her right to gently turn his face towards her. She looked into his eyes for a moment. He stared back, and Ophetta thought she saw a hint of fear there. He was much too young to be here. War destroyed the youth in a man, she thought.

“Your wound will mend in a few days,” she said softly to him. “Your king thanks you for the defense of our homeland.”

Ophetta concentrated her healing aura with true compassion and a diffuse green energy penetrated from her hand into the man’s arm. She could feel the tissue below responding, pulling together and closing the gash that had nearly severed the muscle completely. Yes, this man would regain use of his arm in short order.

“Tell your sergeant you are to return to the barracks, by order of Chief Surgeon Ophetta. Your battle is over, at least for today.” She stepped back from him and smiled to see the fear had fairly drained away from his face.

“Thank you, Miss Ophetta,” he said.

She nodded and turned back to her post overlooking the battle as the nurses helped the soldier to his feet and out the back of the tent.

Ophetta saw the remains of yet another Belydonian charge crumble in the boggy marsh, men dropping like anchors. The last infantryman, realizing he was now alone, turned in retreat. He’d only gone a few steps before he was cut down by archers from his own side, the arrows appearing from out of the mist hanging on the far edge of the wetlands. Better to surrender than retreat when a servant of Belydon, but he’d learned that lesson too late. She winced with the cruelty of it.

From her vantage she could easily see the Kausidorian battle lines. Infantrymen and archers settled behind defensive ramparts built up on mud and stone berms. Sharpened wooden shafts pointed outward towards the enemy to prevent any attempts at a cavalry charge. Not that the Belydonian horsemen could rush across the marsh if they wanted to. The muck sucked horses’ hooves downward with sickening speed, all but eliminating their effectiveness on this front.

Kausidor’s riders, on the other hand, had no such limitations, mounted on the great striding spooners. Large, flightless birds, spooners were ideally suited for this environment. Their long legs easily negotiated the boggy terrain. Large, flat bills, from which they derrived their names, were twice the length of a man’s arm and could be turned to great violence in the heat of battle. Without the great beasts the kingdom might surely have fallen many wars ago, a fact that had made the Kausidorian marsh cavalry legendary among her neighbors.

Ophetta saw them gathering now on the northern edge of the defensive fortifications. For three days, Kausidor’s generals had been happy to let the Belydonians flail against their defenses, but it appeared now that they were preparing to go on the offensive. Several units were mounted in groups of twenty, battle standards hanging limp before them in the misty air. Squires and stable hands were bustling about, tightening cinches, adjusting armor and helping to make final preparations. This would be the crushing blow that would surely drive the Belydonians back into their own territory for yet another season.

Just as assuredly it meant Ophetta and her healers would have more wounds to mend, more souls to sooth, and more bodies to send home for burial. She settled into a nearby chair and closed her strained eyes.

Far below in the marsh, a single trumpet sounded the cavalry’s departure.

—

General Algernon Stennis leaned forward in the saddle, his hands loose on the reins. His spooner needed no further instruction and it strode forward into the fen. The dark violet plumage on the back of the bird’s head bounced steadily with the pace of the creature’s footing.

The strategy was simple. A primary Kausidorian contingent would assault the Belydonians head on, while he circled to the north to strike at the command camp, a third cavalry group flanking south to cut off any attempt to retreat across the river. The heavy mists which had clung to the wetlands for weeks prevented his scouts from getting an accurate census of enemy forces, but Stennis was confident his riders could smash any resistance they encountered.

His adjutant, Lieutenant Kettering, pulled up alongside him, his roan spooner tossing its head in agitation.

“Get that beast under control, Lieutenant,” Stennis barked. “Are you a cavalryman or a carnival clown?”

“Sorry, sir,” Kettering apologized. “Sir, we have a problem.”

The general raised an eyebrow. “Well spit it out, Lieutenant! Don’t make me ask for it!”

“It’s the Battle-Mage, sir. He’s missing.”

Gods-be-damned mages. He hated them.

“Missing? And how is that, Lieutenant? He was mustered with the unit not half an hour ago, and I gave you strict orders to keep an eye on him personally.” Stennis spat angrily.

Lieutenant Kettering blanched. “I know you did, sir. I only left him alone for a few minutes, just long enough to double-check provisions with the supply sergeant and he was gone, sir.” The junior officer hung his head, obviously as much or more disappointed in himself than the general was.

Emmeritus The Hermit, as the locals called him, had been a thorn in his side from the moment he’d been assigned to Stennis’ unit. Apparently, he’d not come to defend his countrymen voluntarily and was quite vocal about his desire to be elsewhere. Twice yesterday alone, Algernon had threatened him with imprisonment should the coward decide to abandon his post, but apparently that had not been enough motivation to keep the wizard in line.

Stennis reconsidered the assaut plan in his head. Without a Battle-Mage they’d be without protections from the Belydonian mountain witches. Their curses tended to be weaker than other foes, but magic was never something to be triffled with.

“Okay, Lieutenant, pass the word among the troops. When we engage the enemy I want every man focused on finding and taking out their witches first. And if that traitor Emmeritus shows up, there’s a promotion in it for the the man that brings him to me in chains, do you understand me?”

“Quite clearly, sir!” Kettering threw up a salute and turned his mount back the other direction.

Story : “A Dream of Fishes” Part III

by Pappy April 29th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


He knew he was dreaming now, and with that realization the scene around him gained clarity, losing the ethereal dreamlike quality and taking on a life-like state. He could see other kinds of fish; swimmers with dazzling colors, small schools drifting in and among the stones and coral, larger predatory hunters lurking darkly just outside the courtyard walls, waiting for the opportunity to quell their hunger, but somehow prevented from entering this place.

Off to his left were the remnants of a guard tower, the doorway collapsed and buried in rubble. To his right, an iron blacksmith’s anvil lay on it’s side, half burried in sand, coppery rust collecting on it’s surface. Opposite the courtyard, he saw the doorway into the palace proper. This had been someplace once. Someplace where people had carried out their lives, never knowing the fate that would one day leave it abandoned and lost to the ocean depths. Baylen shivered at the thought. Would they all come to this one day, crumbled stone and rust?

A faint sound jerked him from his revere. There was Tilly’s voice again, calling laughingly from somewhere deeper within the ruins. He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. What was Tilly doing here, and what was with the unreal fish? Might as well follow the dream and find out, he decided.

Baylen pushed onward through the palace doorway into a grand hall. Here, the roof remained relatively intact and he could see once ornate chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. The remnants of an occasional picture frame or decorative ornament lay scattered across the floor, but paintings, carpets and tapestries had long since rotted away. Again, the strange glow from luminescent coral clumped here and there bathed the place in soft rainbow light.

“Baylen,” the whispery voice called from the far end of the hall. Instead of Tilly, however, he spied the golden ilmet floating just inside the door, staring at him intently.

“Baylen, come to me,” it mouthed.

“Tilly?” He moved closer and the fish made no attempt to dart away this time. “What’s going on?”

A twinge of fear grasp Baylen’s insides. Dream or no, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were losing control of his own will, compelled as he was to obey the fish. Almost without knowing it he’d closed the distance in half and could see it lucidly for the first time. It’s scales appeared like handcrafted gold, each with a different, unknown symbol inscribed into the surface. It’s dorsal fin spread along it’s back like a delicate fan, translucent between the spiny bones that held it erect. And the eyes. Those were not a fish’s eyes. They were bright and focussed, the iris shades of emerald green interwoven with striations of gold, flecked with crystals of orange.

He knew those eyes from many nights of dreaming. They were Tilly’s eyes, peering directly into his own.

Then, just as he came close enough to touch the creature, it darted back into the recesses of the next room and vanished from sight. Baylen called out in surprise, and realized that the sudden panic he felt was driven not by fear, but by the yearning to hold the being, to touch it, to possess it. The feeling of those eyes, so knowingly looking directly into his heart, was so overpowering that the desire to recover his connection with them filled his mind.

He plunged headlong into the room where it had gone. Where she had gone.

And stopped.

The room before him was gleaming. Every corner, every alcove, was filled with radiant piles of treasure. Gold coins and bars, gemstones the size of his fist, and dangling chains of platinum littered the floor. There were ornate lamps, vases, and candelabras stacked atop one another. The entire room was a trove that surely would make even the Kausidorian kings envious.

Baylen’s heart pumped furiously as he took it all in. With only a handful of these valuables his family’s troubles would be over. He imagined the worry lines fading from his mother’s face, his uncle’s creased brow relaxing. He would save them. Eyeing a pile of gold coins near his feet, he stretched out his hand to begin filling his pockets.

The gold vanished. The room evaporated. Darkness rushed in to replace the garrish light and he saw almost nothing. Baylen’s lungs seared with pain as if he’d held his breath for days, threatening to explode at any moment. He felt his own heartbeat pounding a beat of terror in his ears. Worst was the immediate knowledge that he was not alone. The hunters, no longer held in check by the magical residence were circling, closing in around him. Certainly they would strike at any moment.

All thoughts of the Tilly-fish were gone. Hysteria was taking over. Which way was up? It was so dark he couldn’t be sure. The water was cold enough his joints ached and muscles became sluggish. He pushed frantically towards the surface, desparate to escape the sea’s numbing grip. Each stroke upwards was more difficult than the last.

Baylen thought of his father. Is this how he’d died? Drowning, desperate for one single breath of air? What would Amalea do if he died here? He struggled harder and began to make out dim light above penetrating the darkness. He could do this, he could escape, he thought. He had to.

But the boy’s lungs could hold out not more and refused to obey, the fierce need for oxygen took over any voluntary control and they released his dying breath into the current. Saltwater rushed in to meet his gasp and Baylen thrashed uncontrollably. His body was no longer his own. His bowels released in the final throws of death.

The last thing he saw were the dark shapes rushing up from below to claim their prize.

Story : “A Dream of Fishes” Part II

by Pappy April 29th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Chapter 1 (continued)

Baylen looked to his mother for explaination, but she only shrugged. “He was a strange one alright, but what do I care? If he wants raw fish that’s that much less work we have to do for more money.”

Baylen watched as she emptied the tote into one of the nearby barrels of seawater and disappeared inside, leaving the men alone.

“She’s a might worked up today,” remarked Dagmire.

“I noticed that. I think she worries too much, Uncle. We aren’t that bad off are we?” It was a question in hopes of an answer different from the one he knew he would receive. Uncle Dagmire was showing the uncharacteristic signs of worry as well, his forehead was furrowed and eyes less bright than their normal green.

There was a long delay filled with much puffing on the pipe and picking at fingernails. Dagmire looked up the hill towards the Millenium Tree, now small in the distance and sillohetted by the near dark of twilight. A few small stars were beginning to become visible high above it’s branches.

“You’re like a son to me, Baylen, you know that, so I won’t lie to you. Prospects aren’t so good. We’re running out of the very things we need to make a living and without the money to buy more we’re likely to be sitting here completely empty come fall. We’ve got one small bucket of salt left, barely enough wheat grain for a few loaves of bread, I’m almost out of twine for repairing the nets, and summer taxes are nearly come due.

“No, Baylen, things are worse than I think we’ve let you know before now.” Uncle Dagmire never stopped looking of to the West while he spoke, as if intentionally avoiding Baylen’s gaze in order to be able to speak with such candor.

Baylen just sat and listened, thinking heavily on his uncle’s words. If things had truly gotten this bad he would have to try something different and dangerous.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” he said, slowly rising from his seat. “I have one more request for you, Uncle. Can you prepare me a long rope, one at least 400 hands long, and four shorter length, say twelve hands in length? I’ll need them tomorrow if you can.”

Dagmire tugged at his silver white beard and cast a suspicious look at Baylen. “What is it you have in mind, son?”

“A solution,” the young man said with resolve, and with that pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

Evenings around the home were typically short and sunrise came early, so Baylen had little time to discuss his ideas with Amalea and Dagmire, nor did he have the inclination to do so. If things were truly as dire as his uncle described, he didn’t have much choice and would not worry his family over his safety.

After a short meal he was in bed, going over the plan in his mind. He’d heard that merchants from the capital were paying well for pearls harvested from these waters. Something about the area differed from other regions, giving the pearls here a rare, violet shade. He’d also heard the stories of more than a few desperate young men drowning while attempting to acquire the milky gems. Still, if he could only find two or three of the opaline spheres they would be saved. He could easily sell them for enough gold to pay the summer’s-end taxes and still have more than enough to carry the family through the winter into the next fishing season. Maybe things would be better by then.

Baylen’s mind drifted in and out of consciousness, and with it his thoughts also turned to the girl Tilly. She had smooth, pale skin, flaming red hair, and emerald eyes that sparkled like crystals. In his mind’s eye he dreamed of her smiling face, dimples turned up at the corners of her mouth, making her all the more beautiful. Her voice was surreal, like birds welcoming a new spring day.

He’d had this dream of her many nights before, and much of his daydreaming on the boat was spent reenacting different interactions with her. But something was different tonight. Her hair slowly drifted up and away from her face in waves, as if she were submerged. Baylen caught a glimpse of something gold darting away just out of sight behind Tilly’s floating vision, and she began to fade.

He was defintely underwater now, deep enough that the sun’s rays were barely visible high above, penetrating the cool blue waters with turqois shafts. The dark shapes of coral reefs surrounded him. Again, a brilliant golden blur disappeared just outside of clear vision, engulfed by the shadows of the reef. What was it? Whatever it was he seemed strangely drawn to it.

Seeing no reason not to, Baylen swam after it, hoping to resolve the curious mystery. He was holding his breath, but couldn’t feel any pressure in his chest and there didn’t appear to be any need to panic over air yet. As he came round the patch of coral he saw it more clearly. A small, brilliantly gold colored fish, darting in and out of the shoals further towards the open ocean and heading deeper still. But for the coloring, it looked all the world like an ilmet, the very fish his livelihood depended on and was dying because of.

He swam harder, straining against the water to catch up with the little fish. He crossed a threshold that marked the beginning of deep water below him and watched it disappear yet again, this time into what looked to be some kind of ruins. Large, limestone blocks, encrusted with barnacles and overgrown with algea, lay crumbling in what was left of a once great fortress or palace. Baylen propelled himself deeper still, passing through the former entryway into gardens of bright living coral that cast ambient light across the white sands of the courtyard to replace the now vanished sun overhead.

Story : “A Dream of Fishes” Part I

by Pappy April 29th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Chapter One

Sunlight reflected magnificently off the surf boiling at the base of the cliff up onto its sheer white rock face. From his vantage point several hundred yards offshore young Baylen watched the early evening festival of light along the coastline, the gentle rocking of his small boat, the soft sounds of waves lapping against its wooden hull, and the sun’s warmth on his back making him wholly content.

He saw the towering old Millennium Tree, with its roots burrowed eternally into the highest shelf of the cliff, branches reaching out over the water, basking in the orange glow of the waning sun. That tree looked the same now as it had when his father was a boy drifting on these seas decades earlier. Just beyond the tree, down the opposite side of the cliff-top hill, lay the family’s hovel. For Baylen, as with his father and grandfather before him, the tree was a symbol of home, the love of which continually drove the men of their family away from its shores and out onto the open ocean.

The call of a nearby seabird nudged his focus away from his daydreams. Amalea, his mother, was leaning against the old tree with one hand, waving a red kerchief with the other to get his attention. He raised one of the boats oars in recognition and then, after raising his nets, began rowing toward the small boat dock nestled at the base of the cliff.

It was a short trip and in minutes he was hiking up the stone steps hewn into a massive crevasse, hauling along his rather weak catch in a canvas tote strung over his shoulder. The ilmet catch had grown consistently smaller over the last few seasons, which worried him a great deal. Their family had come to depend entirely on the little silvery fishes for their livelihood, and as their numbers declined, so did the folks’ prosperity.

The bounty of the sea was no longer reliable, causing fishermen all up and down the seaboard to abandon their former lives and seek their fortunes further inland. Some had become farmers, others plied various trades in the bustling cities of Kausidor, but regardless of where their new lives led them the end result was what appeared to be a slow and agonizing death for the vibrant culture of the kingdom’s coastal towns.

Baylen hardly remembered those more prosperous times. His father disappeared at sea when he was barely nine years old, and Uncle Dagmire lost an arm in the nets the following year, leaving Baylen the sole provider for the family these five years since. Amalea nearly moved into the city to work there in the bakeries several times, but neither Baylen nor Dagmire would budge. They were men of the sea and had no intentions of leaving, even if it meant they were the last family living on this part of the coast.

As he reached the top of the climb, Baylen turned for one last look out at the ocean. The sun’s edge now blended into an orange line marking the horizon, making it appear to melt like wax along the ocean’s surface.

“Thinking of your father?” Amalea spoke quietly from behind, trying not to startle him.

“Every day, mother,” he said, smiling as he turned to place an arm over her shoulder. “Do you ever think about what happened to him?”

She reached up to pat the hand resting on her shoulder. “There are days when I consider it, but to be honest, Baylen, thinking about it only makes me worry more each time you take that dingy out. The sea took your father from us. It stole your uncle’s arm, and I fear it will someday break what is left of my heart and carry you away from me as well.”

“The sea didn’t take Dagmire’s arm, mother. Carelessness with the nets did that.” The young man pulled his mother into a tighter hug. “As for me, I wish you wouldn’t worry so. Out there is where I’m comfortable. I can work an honest day’s labor with plenty of time to contemplate anything my mind takes fancy to. It’s a good life.”

Amalea bristled slightly and stepped back, point an accusing finger at the tote Baylen carried. “A good life? Look at yourself, Baylen. You’re wet, tired, and stink of sea salt and fish. What have you got to show for it? Barely enough to bother preparing, much less making a trip into town to sell.

“Look, I know how much you love doing what you father did and what that means to you, but don’t you want more from life than a struggle just to make ends meet? You speak of contemplation; well then tell me, son, what is it you think on that makes you satisfied with fish guts and broken nets?” At this, Baylen blushed slightly and avoided looking her in the eyes, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

“I think of lots of things, Mom. It doesn’t have to be anything certain. I just like to ponder things in general.” It was a lame answer and he knew it, but he hoped it would be enough to convince her to shift the tide of the conversation. Of course, it wasn’t.

Amalea smiled, her mood softened and she jabbed playfully at Baylen’s ribs. “Ah, it’s that girl, isn’t it? What’s her name again?”

“Tilly,’ the boy embarassingly responded.

“I’m sorry, Baylen, forgive your mother for an old woman’s worries. Sometimes I forget your age. You have plenty of time to come up with worries of your own and I shouldn’t scold you so. So when do I get to finally meet this Tilly? Tell me more about the girl that keeps my son’s head swimming in daydreams!”

With this she took the fish tote from Baylen and turned to start walking down the hill, away from the Millenium Tree and the ocean it overlooked. Baylen fell in beside her and the two continued their talk on the way to the small house nestled in the edge of the woods at the base of the hill.

“There’s not a lot to tell, Mother. I’ve only talked to her a couple times. She works at the tavern in town.”

“The tavern, eh? And what were you doing there?”

Baylen’s grin split his face and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Now remember what you said about ‘old woman’s worries’, Mom. I swear I only go in there to talk with the other fishermen and compare catches, that sort of thing.”

“And to see Tilly,” Amalea said.

“Well, there is that,” Baylen raised an eyebrow slyly and winked at her.

As they neared the house, Baylen saw Uncle Dagmire sitting on the porch, deftly working a needle and sinew repairing nets with his one remaining hand. A large, curled pipe dangled from his lips. Dagmire spent his days working diligently from his workshop here on the stoop, doing anything to support Baylen’s fishing efforts or Amalea with the house chores. He was surrounded by the tools of his trade, a variety of hooks gauged into the porch’s vertical supports while nets of all shapes and sizes draped over the railings. Dagmire dropped the mending, grabbed at his pipe and waved hearitly, weaving a cloud of blue smoke over his head.

Baylen ran the remaining distance and up the steps to give the old man a hug. He lifted the net from Dagmire’s lap and inspected his uncle’s craftsmanship.

“I don’t know how you do it, Uncle. You still make the best nets in Kausidor!”

Dagmire guffawed, “Bah, Baylen, if you weren’t such a good fisherman I’d say you should be a politician, doling out such a load of dung like it was so much sugar! How was the catch?”

Baylen grimaced. “It’s near worse every day, Uncle. I barely filled a single tote today.”

The old mad drew heavily on the pipe and exhaled slowly. “At least it’s as good as twice that many now.”

Baylen looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you tell him?” Uncle Dagmire looked to Amalea.

“I was just getting to that,” she answered. “We had a visitor while you were out, Baylen. A new buyer from town came by with an offer. He’s willing to pay almost twice the going rate for any ilmet you catch.”

Baylen puzzled over this for a minute. Despite the apparent good fortune of such a proposition something didn’t seem quite right. “What about the other fish? There aren’t that many ilmet around anymore.”

Dagmire shook his head. “Dangdest thing, that. He isn’t interested in any other fish, only ilmet. On top of that he doesn’t want them scaled, salted, dried, pickled or prepared in any other way. He was an odd fellow, but appeared quite determined to get his hands on as much as we can sell him.”

Story Architecture

by Pappy May 11th, 2005, Posted in: Writing


I’m a bit of an obesessive-compulsive. When I get into something, I tend to tackle it from numerous angles, map it out, plot pertinent information, and re-examine and refine ideas over and over again. I have reams of blueprints and whitepapers from every job, crazy business idea, and scheme. I even do it with computer games that I play.

As a systems architect by day, this is an invaluable character trait that’s led to a great deal of success. As a writer by night, it has a tendancey to stifle the creative process. I find it very hard to be sponteneous and to simply write.

So lately I’ve decided to take a new bent with my writing. Instead of swimming upstream and fighting it, I’ve been looking for ways to take the tools and techniques of system design and find ways apply them to my stories.

This blog is the centerpiece of that effort. Here I hope to “flesh out” the pieces and ideas for my stories. By doing this I’ll have a framework to write within that should open the creative side and THEN I can write the way I THINK.

I’m not sharing this with many people, it’s primarily a workspace for myself. But I welcome any questions, comments, and critiques you few readers may have to offer. Both on my stories themselves, and the writing process I’m mapping out here.