Priest

(Nothing much to say.)
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I dreamed I was a Mayan priest, sequestered away in the royal chamber atop the second-grandest of our pyramids, second only to our Great God-Emperor. Draped in the finest silk and gold fashions and adorned with sparkling jewels of all kinds, glinting in the golden glow of the torch sconces in the night. Tailor's and artisan's own empires rose and fell depending on my choice of their product or their competitors. My dozen concubine harem splayed across my bed pouting and moaning, catering to my every base desire. Servants cooked my food, drew my baths, entertained me with song and with poetry. If I was wrathful, they were scorned, if I was magnanimous, they were praised.

My only duty was to the people. I was to take the wisdom granted me by the Gods and bestow it on our subjects. I was very fortunate to have such a connection. None of us, save our Great God-Emperor, could claim to have the ear of a God, or to hear the voice of one. Our Great God-Emperor had once told me the holiest path was from the Gods' lips to my ears. Therefore the holiest of duties was mine to perform.

Such was the occasion that night. It was a festival, and we had been hard at work. My servants had heard the woes of hundreds of our villagers, and selected a dozen of the most difficult problems for me. They ascended the great pyramid, hearts and souls heavy with great trouble. One by one the knelt before me and poured out their troubles. They came with problems difficult and varied, complex and trying. Paradoxes and cosmic questions and horrid moral dilemmas by the handful. 

I had no answers for them. 

I opened my mouth to apologize for lacking the wisdom my station suggested. From deep within me came an incredible sound. Holy music, a divine reverberation. The rumble of thunder, the blast of cannon fire, the roar of colossal engines and ancient beasts. The keen of whale song, air-raid sirens, funeral mourners and shearing metals. Children laughing, stars burning, hearts beating and chains clinking. All these things and more spilled from my mouth in that moment; simultaneous, blurring, layered. 

I closed my mouth suddenly, in surprise. The troubled peasants making prostrations at my feet had tears welling in their eyes. Looks of profound gratitude stained their faces, as if this sound could carry away all their woes.
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There you have it, post number fifteen. (approach with trepidation)

Nebula quickwrite

This is just a few words I wrote from the point of view of a deep-space explorer seeing a star system out the window of his ship. I've been playing around with sections of prose awash in decadent detail. I'm not sure I succeeded, but it's a start.


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Even a dead star can light up your sky. This one did so with vision; little white dwarf. The tendrils of purple gas clouds curled tenderly around their mother. From one angle they wrapped her remains in the folds of a burial shroud, thankful. From another angle, horrid tentacles gripped to drag her to an unmarked grave. And she hummed her nebulous children to sleep. What a song! The low rumble like an earthquake under lilting cries and warbles. It reminded me of whale song. Had I heard whale song? Perhaps in my childhood, but those creatures paled, anemic, in the face of this violet sepulcher in front of me. There were times in my journey when I was faced with such majesty that I thought of finally stopping. My eyes would flick to the airlock. It wouldn’t take much to just open the windows on my little ship. I could float out without regret and make this system my home. Space is funny like that. Nothing ever really dies. This system was both dying and just being born. From different angles, you could say. My own heart is just an engine made from the remnants of a dying star. I’d just be going home. Home...


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There you have it, post number fourteen. (approach with trepidation)

TBP#1: Broadripple is Burning

This first selection from The Basilisk project was composed to the song "Broadripple is Burning" By Margot and the Nuclear So and So's. I encourage you to listen to the song as well as enjoy the story I've written below. There are a few different versions of the song, the one I listened to was from the Daytripper sessions. You can find the song on youtube, and their own website is here.
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When Tyler arrived at the farm house, Markus was occupying a few stairs in the yard. Dust caked his face, save for two symmetrical trails from the corners of his eyes to his chin. He was camouflaged against the dirt-colored, unharvested grain waving in the field behind him. The stairs he occupied had been put up two summers back, and his father had planned a shed to attach to them, but caught a bullet before he could start on it.

A dozen yards from Markus was an idling armored car. Men with guns and masks marched purposefully from the house to the car and back again. Each man carried an armful of goods to be stowed in the back of the intimidating vehicle. One of them raised a rifle when he noticed Tyler’s approach.

“Don’t fuckin’ move.” He more suggested than ordered in a gravelly, sleep-deprived voice.

Tyler’s hands went up. “No trouble, just talkin’ to my friend here.” He explained, motioning to Markus.

The gunman kept the rifle trained but took a few steps back, leaning back on the grill of the armored car.

“We heard they hit your family, so I came over quick as I could. What happened?” Tyler said, planting himself on the stairs next to Markus.

“Everything I thought I had has gone to shit.” Markus slurred. He reached down next to his leg and grabbed a paper bag wrapped bottle, took a swig without a wince, and continued.

“They’re the gang that shot m’dad, too. They jus’ drove up this mornin’ and told me to give ‘em the keys and stay out of the way, or they’d shoot me down and take everything anyway.”

“What’s that?” Tyler motioned at the bottle.

“It’s not important.” Markus took another swig and passed the bottle over. Judging by his tone, Tyler wasn’t even sure he’d heard the question.

“Where’s your Mom?” Tyler questioned

“Prob’ly sick off huffin’ glue somewhere in town. Since dad died she ain’t been of any use, you know that.”

“Sister?”

“Katie lit outta town last week, hitchhiking. Got picked up by some truck headed north. Might be dead now for all I know. With any luck she’s somewhere better’n here.”

Tyler took a tug on the bottle and choked on the rancid liquor inside. He passed the bottle back and asked:

“So what’re you gonna do?”

Markus stood and smiled.

“Doesn’t matter. Anything I get, they’ll just take from me. Think I’ll just wander a while, see the sights.”

He shuffled unsteadily to the dilapidated fence, swung one leg over and looked back across his shoulder at his friend.

“Hell, I’m a free man now.”

With that he finished crossing into that dirty wheat field and disappeared into their swaying stalks, singing a wandering song.

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There you have it, post number ten. (approach with trepidation)