Celie leaned against the chimney, surveying the decrepit city. The Kark was establishing a perimeter, and she watched has the constant thundercloud of tobacco smoke drifted above him. There was no telling what he'd meant by "establishing a perimeter" but she suspected the flimsy platforms that had once raised new parts of the city above everything else were worse for the wear afterward; the Kark had a very terminal approach to home defense. Kingsley was being useful in his own way, getting the lay of the land. He was a remarkably proactive coward and believed that an intimate knowledge of escape routes was the best possible method of warding off the briefest possible futures. She agreed with him but admiration didn't suit the slender valet.
Eb rose around them in all directions, shambling dumbly off into the distance like a zombie, she thought. The city looked well preserved in spite of its emptiness; a few buildings had charred looks around the windows that suggested they had been gutted by fire, but every exterior was just a little grubby. Even where planks had been ripped from the wall or windows broken, it looked almost orderly. It looked less dead and more like the home of a league of extremely ambitious gardeners and somehow that made the entire place just a little bit more off. Back home, there were scholarly debates about the nature of the continent. When explorers had arrived, they had found towns, she remembered, much like this one, but it was widely held by scholars that they had been abandoned for two hundred years at least. This place looked as though the milkman had only stopped coming around the week before.
Her eyes rested on a stout tower in the middle distance that defied the trope. Its roof was gone, leaving bare and damaged supports and the wooden siding had been stripped off in places. Looking through one of the windows, was a person. Celie stared. A man. Mind racing, she pointed at him. "Hey!"
The Kark looked up from an improvised booby trap as Celie dashed along the railway, gesticulating wildly. "There was a man! A person!" She was pointing, and the Kark followed her finger. Then he shaded his eyes and looked towards the sun. He patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. Celie wheeled back towards the damaged building. There was no one there.
"I saw someone!" They both stopped as Kingsley arrived, waving his broken opera-glasses frantically and pointing. "A guy! He was sitting in a tower." He paused dramatically, then, impatient for his friends to draw the correct conclusion, offered it: "There might be more! We ought to do something."
The Kark shifted from Celie's motherly concern for a lost stranger to Kingsley's healthy xenophobia. Kingsley's eye narrowed and his arms crossed. "I meant we ought to batten hatches, leave the rake in the lawn, and man the spider holes."
Soon he crossed his arms and leaned against a rooftop shed as the other two assessed the tower, deliberately ignorant of his muttering. The buildings nearest it had been razed (the Kark approved) and in the murky water far, far below, the sunken-ship skeletons could be seen twisted nearly beyond recognition. The pipes that seemed omnipresent in Eb, large enough the Kark suspected they could allow him to walk in unbent, appeared in full force here; they represented the only connection between the tower and the surrounding architecture. Creeping tendrils disguised each, and they might have been disguised as the trunks of massive trees had the occasional valve not risen above the greenery. The Kark looked appraisingly at the building. "It's the perfect hiding spot. Already defended, practically, no way in except a few easily-controlled locations. If that guy doesn't want us in, we're not getting in."
There was a soft noise, which five eyes followed to its source. A round-faced man with a broken nose was visible over the the fence that divided the flat roof from the next building. Celie broke into a smile, one hand preventing Kingsley from breaking into a run. "Rickman, I knew that was you! King, Kark, remember? He was our radio operator back at the camp! Rickman! How did you get here? We've been wandering for weeks! You must be exhausted, wearing all that radio equipment still! Look here you've got..."
Celie stopped. Pickman had not smiled in recognition. Not so much as blinked; his entire body shifted to allow his eyes to follow her as she'd approached. She stiffened and began to back up. Pickman's chest was almost perfectly still. "Pickman?"
He rose bodily over the fence atop a massive quadrupedal machine. Oily metal hands scrabbled for purchase on the wooden roof, levering its steel frame clumsily upward. The hindquarters jerked forward, and it lurched sideways, inserting itself between the Kark and Celie. The machine came to a hissing stop and noisily settled into a sitting position.
Pickman watched Celie dispassionately, his head cocked at an impossible angle. The Kark twitched his right hand, deciding to feign a punch to see what happened. There was an imperceptible blur of activity from Rickman's hands. The metal beast's neck snaked around and its flat, painted face regarded the Kark threateningly, daring him to move.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sand Painting
The dark room contained nothing but windows and three weary people. The window looked out into some manner of courtyard, ringed with other dark windows. Through the higher windows came telescoping arms, chains, and sluices. Where windows were not large enough to accommodate the passage of ramshackle devices, they had been roughly modified (in the impatient fashion of people who by rights shouldn't be tinkering with anything) and were really just gaping holes. The miscellaneous industrial facets supported a sort of vast column that looked entirely too complex. Claustrophobic Kingsley naturally regarded the sky with interest, and the haphazard machine rose invitingly upwards like towards the open yellowing sky. His feet had long ago mastered the concept of "floor" and he had always deferred to their expertise, while his eyes (eye, he thought bitterly) became familiar with higher ground. This floor, however, was singular in his experience in that it was comprised entirely of colored sand, swirling in a mad tableau beneath the bunched arms of the mechanism.
The sand stacked design over design, and here and there the designs had shattered in disarray. A falling cog had disturbed the design and was sunk, now, halfway under what appeared to be a turquoise hand, or a very stylized head with an elaborate headdress. Celie marveled at the designs, silently noting the shapes in the paint. The Kark stood with arms crossed, waiting for his friends to notice the systematic sinks in the sand where it flowed through windows below the surface.
The machine whirred to life with a sawing grind. A column of metal arms jerked against one another, each trying to drag its own direction. They were arranged at cross purposes, and from the look of it by contractors who either didn't know or didn't like the other, and each one positive that it was in the right; the whole machine shook helplessly as higher, more delicate mechanisms began to accrue force the lower limbs were refusing to expend. Finally, there was a pop and one of the arms began to fold on itself, the other arms juddering and stretching behind it. The fine rush of sand followed, forming a red line that dashed across a rampant blue griffin (or malformed cactus, perhaps?). As the line progressed, the color changed, red to black.
Suddenly, a sluice slipped from a high window and jammed into the side of the column, the rushing of sand louder. For a moment it overflowed and dribbled white sand over the edges. A coiled spring near the edge ground in protest, then popped from the body of the sand-pouring column and into an empty window.
There was a cough for attention behind them, which erupted into a notably more violent fit. "Kark! Let him down." Celie emphatically pointed, and the huge man shoved an unfamiliar face forward. Bald and dusty, the short figure looked from smiling Celie to Kingsley's scarred grimace. His head turned slightly, and through one eye he watched the Kark become a silhouette pointedly illuminated by the exit.
"You cannot be here, trespassers!" He stammered at Celie. "This place is a sacred site! You must not tarnish the--" the bent man paused, then peered out at the rushing sand. "The Sand Oracle." He whispered, as though afraid to upset the flow.
"Sacred? Sacred how?" Celie held up a finger to prevent Kingsley rhyming.
"The Oracle precords the entirety of the known world! So it shall be, so it is, in the sand!" He gesticulated grandly through the window. When none of the audience looked, he gesticulated again.
"The machine was installed by the Giants, and began to record the events of everything that will ever happen! Starting with the end of the Universe, and working backwards. We fearfully await the day when it begins to record the present, for truly that shall mark the halfway point of Existence! The coming of middle times draws ever nearer! Harken unto the sand!" Weakly, he pointed again. It was difficult to impress people when your prophecies prophesied the noon of man.
The Kark nodded slowly. "Good story, dome polish. Anyway, what're the chances of you letting us leave quietly if I were to decide against adding you to your divine magilla? Answer fast." His brow flattened over his eyes, and the weight of them shrank the little monk.
There was a blood-curdling shriek and the clanking paces of ghouls in the corridor, and the Kark spun around to seize the door and slam it shut. At the same time, the monk lunged forward, grabbing Celie's arm and twisting it behind her back. An impractically curvy ceremonial dagger pressed against her throat. "Threaten Durk, will you?" He shrieked. The Kark looked at him, then tilted his head at the closing sound of metal on metal.
Moments later Durk hurtled out the window, his knife forgotten, with the Kark and Celie above him. They landed heavily on the sand; Celie and the Kark scrambled up quickly through the loosely flowing sand, but Durk remained absolutely still, his eyes staring widely. Kingsley stood gingerly on the window, then dropped gently to the sand. Above them, the machine ground to a halt, the sand flowing from the funnel came hushed, and Kingsley heard, from somewhere near the darkening sky above, the familiar sounds of someone shouting "Kill them! Quickly!" while wearing pointy shoes. He was sure there were pointy shoes involved.
Kingsley waded through a drawing of a dragon or party of eels to the middle of the arena, and began urgently leaping for one of the arms grasping the funnel. It retracted, rising up the pit and out of his grasp. He glared at it for a moment, then turned to his friends. The Kark was already waist deep in the sand and Celie was tugging on his wrist. A chain became taut above, and the central column swung suddenly toward them. Kingsley grabbed the side and held tight, dragging his body furiously in front of a deepening gash. The machine hauled as hard as it could against him, the metal arms rattling as they reached for Celie. The Kark was now neck deep in sand. Kingsley watched in disbelief as the Kark's hand shifted, and tugged Celie under. The sands parted.
The sand stacked design over design, and here and there the designs had shattered in disarray. A falling cog had disturbed the design and was sunk, now, halfway under what appeared to be a turquoise hand, or a very stylized head with an elaborate headdress. Celie marveled at the designs, silently noting the shapes in the paint. The Kark stood with arms crossed, waiting for his friends to notice the systematic sinks in the sand where it flowed through windows below the surface.
The machine whirred to life with a sawing grind. A column of metal arms jerked against one another, each trying to drag its own direction. They were arranged at cross purposes, and from the look of it by contractors who either didn't know or didn't like the other, and each one positive that it was in the right; the whole machine shook helplessly as higher, more delicate mechanisms began to accrue force the lower limbs were refusing to expend. Finally, there was a pop and one of the arms began to fold on itself, the other arms juddering and stretching behind it. The fine rush of sand followed, forming a red line that dashed across a rampant blue griffin (or malformed cactus, perhaps?). As the line progressed, the color changed, red to black.
Suddenly, a sluice slipped from a high window and jammed into the side of the column, the rushing of sand louder. For a moment it overflowed and dribbled white sand over the edges. A coiled spring near the edge ground in protest, then popped from the body of the sand-pouring column and into an empty window.
There was a cough for attention behind them, which erupted into a notably more violent fit. "Kark! Let him down." Celie emphatically pointed, and the huge man shoved an unfamiliar face forward. Bald and dusty, the short figure looked from smiling Celie to Kingsley's scarred grimace. His head turned slightly, and through one eye he watched the Kark become a silhouette pointedly illuminated by the exit.
"You cannot be here, trespassers!" He stammered at Celie. "This place is a sacred site! You must not tarnish the--" the bent man paused, then peered out at the rushing sand. "The Sand Oracle." He whispered, as though afraid to upset the flow.
"Sacred? Sacred how?" Celie held up a finger to prevent Kingsley rhyming.
"The Oracle precords the entirety of the known world! So it shall be, so it is, in the sand!" He gesticulated grandly through the window. When none of the audience looked, he gesticulated again.
"The machine was installed by the Giants, and began to record the events of everything that will ever happen! Starting with the end of the Universe, and working backwards. We fearfully await the day when it begins to record the present, for truly that shall mark the halfway point of Existence! The coming of middle times draws ever nearer! Harken unto the sand!" Weakly, he pointed again. It was difficult to impress people when your prophecies prophesied the noon of man.
The Kark nodded slowly. "Good story, dome polish. Anyway, what're the chances of you letting us leave quietly if I were to decide against adding you to your divine magilla? Answer fast." His brow flattened over his eyes, and the weight of them shrank the little monk.
There was a blood-curdling shriek and the clanking paces of ghouls in the corridor, and the Kark spun around to seize the door and slam it shut. At the same time, the monk lunged forward, grabbing Celie's arm and twisting it behind her back. An impractically curvy ceremonial dagger pressed against her throat. "Threaten Durk, will you?" He shrieked. The Kark looked at him, then tilted his head at the closing sound of metal on metal.
Moments later Durk hurtled out the window, his knife forgotten, with the Kark and Celie above him. They landed heavily on the sand; Celie and the Kark scrambled up quickly through the loosely flowing sand, but Durk remained absolutely still, his eyes staring widely. Kingsley stood gingerly on the window, then dropped gently to the sand. Above them, the machine ground to a halt, the sand flowing from the funnel came hushed, and Kingsley heard, from somewhere near the darkening sky above, the familiar sounds of someone shouting "Kill them! Quickly!" while wearing pointy shoes. He was sure there were pointy shoes involved.
Kingsley waded through a drawing of a dragon or party of eels to the middle of the arena, and began urgently leaping for one of the arms grasping the funnel. It retracted, rising up the pit and out of his grasp. He glared at it for a moment, then turned to his friends. The Kark was already waist deep in the sand and Celie was tugging on his wrist. A chain became taut above, and the central column swung suddenly toward them. Kingsley grabbed the side and held tight, dragging his body furiously in front of a deepening gash. The machine hauled as hard as it could against him, the metal arms rattling as they reached for Celie. The Kark was now neck deep in sand. Kingsley watched in disbelief as the Kark's hand shifted, and tugged Celie under. The sands parted.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
idea for a story: 1
An archeological dig examining a culture where magic was used exclusively for enhancing appearance.
1) Clothes that are bigger inside than out, to disguise unsightly guts
2) Men so interested in "male enhancement" that the species died out
--from overexpansion?
--bloodloss?
--narcissism?
3) Women so obsessed with youth that the young women don ugly shawls, high buns, and makeup fashioned to look like wrinkles
Story ends with observer sneaking off with spellbook and suspicious pants bulge.
1) Clothes that are bigger inside than out, to disguise unsightly guts
2) Men so interested in "male enhancement" that the species died out
--from overexpansion?
--bloodloss?
--narcissism?
3) Women so obsessed with youth that the young women don ugly shawls, high buns, and makeup fashioned to look like wrinkles
Story ends with observer sneaking off with spellbook and suspicious pants bulge.
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