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Ogun Aint Colossus

Superheroes having similar powers is nothing new to comic book fans.  For decades we've seen characters with nearly identical powers and designs grace the pages of our favorite comic books.  Sometimes it causes a debate on who would run faster, Quicksilver or the Flash, or who would win an archery contest, Hawkeye or Green Arrow.  It's prompted us to ponder the seriously disturbing results of a fight between Mr.Fantastic and Elastic Man.  If anyone actually cared much about our aquatic heroes we'd have discussed who would rule the seas; Aquaman or Namor (but nobody much did).  Serious geeks noticed the tech, style, and costume similarities between Batman and the Black Panther.  The only visible difference between Ms.Marvel and Power Girl was frequently the amount of cleavage displayed.

But sharing powers isn't really a problem because comic book fans know that the devil is in the details.  Sure, Black Canary and Banshee have similar powers but one is a dude from Ireland and the other is a chick who knows kung-fu.  Deadpool is a jokester.  Deathstroke not so much.

So, does Ogun look like Colossus?  Sure, I guess.  I mean, aside from the fact Ogun is black, has bling,  green pants, and a giant freaking tribal mask on his chest, I guess I could see where you'd think their powers are similar.  So, for sake of clarity, I'll do a little power/persona comparison.

COLOSSUS

• Mutant Human
• Incredibly Strong
• Metal Skin 
• Underneath the "shell" Colossus is a normal human, with normal organs and susceptible to damage.
• Russian
• Artist
• Raised on a rural farm
• Average IQ
• On-again, off-again relationships

OGUN

• Divine Imbued Human
• Metal Manipulation
• Ogun has the ability to shape and reform metal by touching it.
• Solid Metal
• When in metal form Ogun is solid.  He does not need to breathe, eat, or have discernible organs.  He is, literally, an animated statue.
• Raised in urban Detroit
• Incredibly Strong
• Engineer
• Ogun is a tinkerer and inventor, fascinated with all forms of technology. 
• Genius Level IQ
• Has been married for years.

So, if I had to compare Ogun's powers to some existing characters (and I don't, but it's fun to do) I'd have to say it's like someone transported Forge's brain into Colossus's body and gave him Magneto's powers with a limited touch radius.

Which is badass.

And we shouldn't worry too much about Colossus' feelings being hurt for someone having a similar style.  After all, Cable has been running around with his arms for years!  He's got to be used to it by now.

I know Mr.Sinister is.

Image Inspired Mini Story #20

The studio was not what Oliva Anne was expecting.

There were tables with lumps of clay, dirty tools, and half finished sculptures. There were easels with colorful smears, jars of brushes filled with dark liquid, and palette boards with dried gobs of paint. There was a blanket hung on a clothesline concealing a corner of the room. There was yellow newspaper layering the floor. There were curtains on all the windows, and it was gloomy. There was a wooden tripod with brass fittings.

It was to this, and the large collapsing camera, that Mr. Julian Guillaire led her. He kicked rags and empty boxes out of the way as he did so, clearing a path. He did not explain the mess and made no attempt to apologize. She'd heard a great deal about his photography, but was genuinely surprised at the other art mediums in the space. But then, what did she know about artists? They were a strange, unpredictable sort, and she'd intentionally limited her contact with their type. He was the first one she'd ever had dealings with and, since she'd explained what she wanted, he'd barely said two words to her.

She was out of her world.

He pointed to a stool in front of a gray wall. She sat on it. He took off his jacket and his tie and rolled up his sleeves. She waited. He fidgeted with the camera, pulling plates in and out of it, adjusting dials. He dragged over some strange lanterns on poles, with what looked like stick-less umbrellas behind them, and angled the light at her. After a while he stopped, stepped back, and stared at her.

It went on for far too long to be appropriate. She felt uncomfortable, the way he was watching her. She doubted any man had ever looked at her so thoughtfully in her life. Not even her husband. He clicked his tongue and rubbed his chin. She rubbed her palm with her thumb, waiting.

“You know that everything is beautiful, if you can see it the right way,” he said.

“No,” she responded. “I've never heard that.”

He continued to look at her. She sat, agonizing in the attention. He walked over, moved a bit of fabric on her collar, and stepped back. After a while, he came back and returned it to its original position.

“Your make up and powders. You did them yourself?”

“Mr. Guillaire...”

He waved his hands, brushing off her protest. “I am sorry, ma'am, but there is no room for vanity here. I can do what you ask, but you must understand, the things that work for the eye of man do not have the same effect in the eye of machine. The machine is a fool and cannot see subtlety, nuance, or particular detail. While the face you present is undoubtedly suitable, and masterfully applied, for general purposes, for us, today, it will not work.”

Her heart sank. She should have known better than to get her hopes up.

“So it is hopeless.”

He shook his head. “Oh, no. That is not what I meant. This is a problem I can fix. Quite easily in fact. It is just a simple matter of you closing your eyes and allowing me to touch you.”

Her breath caught in her chest. Could she really let this strange man, this artist, touch her? To run his hands on her face? Did she really want what he offered so badly? She knew she did.

“If you must.”

He watched her face, as if he didn't trust her decision, or was considering denying her assent. To show him she was serious, she closed her eyes.

There was no audible response for nearly a minute. Then she heard shuffling, a clatter, and footsteps approaching. He gave her no warning as he touched her forehead. There was some sort of cream on his fingertips, an oily residue. He rubbed it in, working around her temples, across her cheekbones, along the ridge of her nose. He grew more aggressive as he continued, pushing and prodding the skin of her face, working the slippery substance in. He tugged her eyebrows, pulled her lips into odd shapes, and cupped her jaw.

Then he stopped. “Don't move.” he said. “Don't move a muscle.”

She heard him back away. There were clicking noises from the camera. It was happening. Just like she'd always hoped. It was an effort not to smile, but she didn't want to anger him. He'd said not to move.

“Wonderful.” he muttered. “Absolutely wonderful.”

Most of her believed him.

The Spring Synopsis

So, my computer died a few days after the last post that I made here.  As far as I can tell it's a motherboard failure, so my hard drive is intact, and I didn't loose much stuff.  All in all, not nearly as terrible as it could have been.  But, as a result I'm working on a laptop.  I'm glad I've got a backup but it's hardly a convenient or reliable machine.  Keyboard is fried so I've got to plug an extension board in to type and it will occasionally turn off with no warning or justification.  Not the most ideal thing for writing.  So, there's the reason for the lack of updates.  New computer is probably a couple months away so I figured it was past time to let everyone know what was up and why stuff had stopped appearing.

Now, just because I haven't been posting doesn't mean I haven't been busy writing.  Here's a bit of what I've been up to:

• The Horsemen: Mark of the Cloven - This is my upcoming super-hero novel I'm working on set in The Horsemen world by Jiba Molei Anderson.  I've finished up chapter one, Cripples Deluge, and am into chapter two, Plagues Ransom.  Ogun is up against The Eleventh, a dangerous member of the Cloven with an arsenal of diseases at her disposal.  Circumstances force their cooperation in a remote secret facility in China.  I've also been outlining ahead and have worked out details for chapters three, four, and five.  I've fleshed out my baddies a bit more and I can't wait to show off the leader of the Cloven.  His powers are pretty devastating and not like anything I've ever seen in comics.  Issue One of the nine part series drops November 2nd and I'm well on track.
• An author friend of mine Alexei Collier is setting up a fiction website called The Dream Quarry.  His first issue is centered around eldrich horrors and I'll be contributing my story, Little Star, to it.  It needs a bit of a polish.  The current draft feels a bit rushed at the end and I need to pace it out a bit more, beef out the length, but I know what it needs and it shouldn't be difficult.  I'll keep you posted on when it's finished and when The Dream Quarry opens.
• Another friend of mine, Dave Michalak, is doing a fun little collaboration called the Collingwood Project, where different authors take different units of an imaginary apartment building and all write stories set within. Communal areas are shared.  I picked unit 4A and have a pretty solid idea of my story.  Something to do with a gay couple  living in a space with a locked panic room and the possibility that something might still be inside it.  I want it to be pretty short and all my ideas keep outgrowing my goal.  I'm hoping in the next month I can hack off the excess, keep it trim but still manage enough creepy.
• I'm halfway through another entry to WildClaw theater's DeathScribe horror radio play this year.  They do a blind selection, and since I'm friends with a good number of them, the chances they might see this are fairly high, so I can't tell you anything about it without giving away who I am.  And that would be bad form.  They usually pick the entries by early October so whether it makes the cut for the show or not, I'll let you know about it then.

Okay, so there's one more big project I'm working on.  By "working" I mean daydreaming feverishly.   It's a a bit abstract, and I should probably hold off on talking about it, but I'm far too excited not to offer a glimpse.

First, a little background. After I finish 'The Mark of the Cloven' I'd planned on starting the first book in a horror series called 'The Shudder Beyond Breath'.  I love the idea and want to write it, but it's heavy horror with a lot of drama, and takes place in a modern setting.  I don't feel like that's what I want to follow a super-hero book with.  As much as I like straight, hard edged, horror, I often miss my fantasy writing roots.  As many of you know, sword and sorcery fiction is one of my first loves.  I adore New Weird writing.  The strange fusion of fantasy, horror, and surrealism appeals to me like nothing else.  While the 'The Shudder Beyond Breath' is a wonderful story idea, it's rooted deeply in horror.  It is slightly fantasy, of course, with supernatural elements, but it only wades in those waters.  I've come to realize that I want do delve deeper into the strange.

So, I've been working on a new book.

Something horrific, of course (this is me after all), but with a much more abstract fantastic setting.  My inspirations are things like Zelazny's Shadows in the Amber series, Barkers Dominions in Imajica, Moorcock's Planes in the eternal champion series, and even some Jonathan Carrol, Bones of the Moon, style stuff.  All stories that start out normal but bring you to someplace so alien that 3/4 of the way through the book you look back and realize you're off the map, into undiscovered country, and you have no idea what might lie ahead.  Right now it's a patchwork of entirely new and strange locations where I can let my strengths in visual imagery and creativity run without the restrictions stories set in the real world impose.  It's horror, and it's a very dark place, but it's also sort of wondrous.  It's strange cults, abandoned toys, addictions, demons, tattoos, mandibles, heavy metal and, mostly, madness.

It's in daydream phase.  It won't be until after 'Mark of the Cloven' is finished before I write a single scene.  But it's being written nevertheless, every day.

Image Inspired Mini Story #19

Somehow, impossibly, the sound of the blast drowned out the sirens.  There was a staccato shearing of metal as shrapnel dug into the back of the police car.  Rick and Cathy felt a wave of hot air.  Mendel fell to the ground with a scream and and clutched his leg.

Then the sirens continued their howling.

Rick pushed Cathy down, crawled to where the officer was holding his wound.  A black patch was already appearing on the grass beneath Mendel.

"Give me your belt!" shouted Rick, reaching for his waist.

Mendel's face was contorted in agony.  "No.  Fuck that.  They're on the ridge by the highway, firing down.  That's where you've got to bring her."

Rick nodded.  Another shell exploded and both men winced.

"Don't come at them straight on.  They'll be firing blind at everything near here.  Get to the edge, circle around, try to come up on their side.  Take this."  He reached out and retrieved his dropped M-16.

Rick shook his head.  "You need that."

Mendel pushed it into his hands.  "I don't need anything anymore.  Get the hell out of here.  Now!"

A dim figure rose up on the other side of the smashed car.  Rick raised the gun and fired, holding the trigger down as the thing bucked and jumped in his hand.  Some hit, some had to have hit, but it hardly mattered.

"Cathy, move!"

She sprung from her spot as the thing pounced onto the roof of the vehicle.  She passed him at a full sprint and he followed.  They heard the sound of handgun fire as Mendel shot at it from the ground.  An inhumanly long arm reached out and, with two fingers, pinched his torso.  There was a crunchy gurgle and, despite the bulletproof vest, the man was effectively split in two.  They rounded a corner as another tank shell exploded in the spot they'd been moments before.  It blasted the thing onto it's back and peppered them with rubble.  They didn't stop.

Neither spoke as they bolted for the treeline.  Cathy outpaced him quickly.  She was light on her feet, scared, and he if he didn't hustle he'd loose her.  Rick dropped the assault rifle.  The damn thing was heavy and did no good anyway.  It was like shooting clay.  Cathy didn't slow down when she hit the bramble and vanished into the bushes.  Rick grit his teeth, increased his speed as best he could, and followed her in.

"Cathy!  Wait!"

Here, in the trees, the sound of sirens was muffled somewhat.  He looked around and didn't see her.  Damn it!  That woman was the only one with answers.  If he lost her...

Something that felt like a rock wrapped in a wet towel struck him between the shoulder blades.  Rick spiraled onto the ground, rolling in the leaves.  His ribs were in agony.

It stood there, shoulders brushing up against the higher tree branches, looking down at him with a flat, vacant face.  It trundled forward, hand extended, fingers ready.  Rick was done.  He was certain.

"Stop it!"

Her voice came from behind him.  He heard her approach, she stepped past him, and placed herself between him and the thing.  She held the collar of her lab coat and shook it.

"You see this?  I know you know what this is.  Go on!  Get out of here!"

The monstrous bulk hesitated, pulling back its arm.  It considered the woman, debating something in it's lump of brain.  Cathy didn't give it the time.  She stomped toward it, close enough to touch.

The reaction was instant.  The creature pulled back, seemingly terrified of coming into contact with her.

"I said go!  Now!"

It made its decision, turning and crashing back toward town.  In anger it lashed out an arm and splintered a tree as it went.

Cathy returned to Rick and helped him up.

"How the hell?" he asked.

"Nevermind.  I'll explain later.  Just tell me where we need to go.  They won't all listen to me."

Rick pointed into the woods, a trail leading uphill.  They went.

What Terrors Made Me a Horror Writer? #1: The Earwig Story

Back when I worked in the "real world" and had a lot more contact with different types of people and I'd often get asked why I write horror.  Whenever I explained my reasons they'd always leave dubious.  Clearly, I was lying to cover up some nightmare trauma.  So, today, I'll come clean.  It's true.  I've been afflicted by several horrors that would have broken the mind of most!  Of course, who's to say that my mind is actually unbroken?  I do, after all, write the darkest of fictions.

There was no simple single event that traumatized me.  There were several and today I'll share one of the worst with you; The Earwig Story.

As many of you know I spent a chunk of my youth in Guadalajara, Mexico.  My step-dad worked for Motorola and we spent nearly three years there.  Guadalajara is fairly different from the average impression of Mexico.  It's in the mountains and is very rocky, hilly, and green most of the year.  I don't know how it is now, but at the time there was pretty small middle class.  Medium sized houses were rare.  Also, any house of significance had walls.  The house next door to ours took up half a block, had a nine foot wall, and broken glass shards cemented to the top of it.  They had three dobermans that patrolled the grounds and when you walked past they'd reach their heads out of the only spot with bars and try and bite you.  Our house, the nearest equivalent to a standard suburban home in the US, had five bedrooms, maid's quarters, a party/guest building out back, fireplace, library, indoor garden area, and marble floors.  I came to this from living in a two bedroom apartment in Elk Grove.  It was massive.  We went from sharing one bathroom to having seven.  Seven.  My bedroom had its own bathroom and shower at the end of a large walk in closet.  The walk in closet was half the size of the room I'd previously shared with my sister.

Buildings in Mexico are generally box-like and this place was no exception.  The front yard had a series of walls with built in planters and iron fencing.  All of the windows and doorways facing the street had bars on them.  I once got into a fight with my sister and said I was going to run away.  While I was packing gear she left to tell my mom and locked me in the house, trapped by all the bars.  After several attempts to fabricate a rope from tied blankets and climb down from the roof, I surrendered to my captivity (oh how different my life would have been...).  The back yard was eight feet of wall with six feet of chain link after that, and three rows of barbed wire on top.  If it all sounds oppressive keep in mind that it's covered in beautiful flowing bougainvillea flowers and all sorts of other plants.  It was very pretty.

My favorite part of the house was up on the roof.  There was an iron spiral staircase that wound up to the top floor where the maids quarters were (we didn't have a maid and my parents didn't let me live up there).  It was like a little third floor with the bedroom, bathroom, and washer and dryer.  It had a door to the roof and an area for hanging clothes.  There was a ladder that reached up to the roof of the maids quarters and on top of that was a big water tank.  Drinking water had to come out of a purifier.  All the other house water was stored in the tank.  I used to like to sit out on top of the tank, not quite four stories up, and look out.

Thankfully, my mother was a let-children-run-free sort as long as my chores were done.  As such, I got to do a lot of roaming around the mountain forests.  People would let cows and horses roam loose and I spent a fair amount of time tormenting the former and riding bareback on the latter (not from lack of trying to ride a cow, stupid cows).  My friends would pick teams and we would see who could count more; lizards or chipmunks.  You had to keep an eye out for snakes and dog packs.  It was a fantastic place to be eleven years old. 

The biggest difference was the bugs.

I'll never forget opening a kitchen drawer the first day we were in the new house.  Dozens of roaches poured out, all over the counter, even onto my hand.  Some Mexican lady was there, a realtor perhaps, and she just shrugged.  "Even el Presidente has cucarachas in his palace." she said.  "Fumigator is coming."  Thankfully, the fumigator did come and solved most of the problem.  But it didn't solve them all.  Giant wasps, wandering roaches, the occasional scorpion, and various spiders.  It's a lot more than your standard mid-Western honeybee.

We had these enormous geraniums in the planters outside of the house, over three feet high, and one of my chores was so pull dead leaves from them.  They were full of spiderwebs.  I remember pulling one and finding a black widow on the backside of a leaf and freaking out.  My mom, salt of the earth that she is, told me I wasn't getting out of my chores that easy.  "Hit 'em with a stick and stomp 'em."  Every moment of that chore was like the tree-stump scene in Flash Gordon, but I did it.  I also sent many spiders to the great gossamer beyond.

I'd gotten used to the bugs.  Some still freaked me out, but I was dealing with them.  Until the earwigs. 

As I mentioned, I had my own shower.  It was all marble with a sliding door, no tub.  I was eleven.  A pretty awkward body age for anybody.  I stripped, headed for the shower, and got in.  At that age I enjoyed turning the water on myself, not turning it on and stepping in.  I liked the rush and shock of it.  Not anymore.  I turned on the water and... nothing.  A dribble.  It was like someone had twisted the faceplate and shut it down.  So I reached up and twisted it to get the water going.  The faceplate came off in my hand.

The mass of earwigs, that had evidently filled the shower-head, shot out and hit me directly in the chest.  The faucet continued to pour a sloppy stream of both living/dead earwigs and waterlogged insect guts onto me.  I am not ashamed to say I screamed.  A lot.  Reflexively jumping back out of the water didn't turn out to be a good idea.  The lump of bugs that had struck my very heart was mostly sliding down my chest.  The majority of it was parts of bugs, legs, abdomens, antenna.  But lots of them were still alive and crawling up my neck and shoulders.  The bug 'slurry' was splashing all over my feet and legs.  They were crawling all over the floor of the shower. I started wiping myself off with my hands, doing that freakout dance, trying not to slip.  Now, you have to keep in mind, it's a big house, nobody heard me.  There would be no rescue.  Secondly, these aren't normal earwigs.  Each of them is well over an inch long.  They're jet black and yellow.  They have wings.  I only know this because I was covered in their bloated little corpses and had their wings sticking to me.

It only took a few seconds for the 'bug blockage' to subside.  Clear water came out of the tap, but lacking the head, it was like a lazy hose.  I stood under it, guiding the water as best I could, sluicing the juice and live bugs off of me.  I turned the heat up and scalded myself, and them.  They curled up in the heat, gyrating.  I stomped and kicked them down the drain.  Eventually, after hunting them all down and soaping myself multiple times, I got out.

It seems earwigs enjoy congregating in dark, cool places.  Like the water tank on the roof.  There's a reason it wasn't water for drinking. 

To this day I do not particularly enjoy a delicate touch on my chest.  I have been brushed there by a wet, squirming, insectoid god and I don't think I'll ever forget its caress'.

Oh, incidentally, the picture is exactly what they looked like.  Happy showering!

Chapter 1: The Sands of SorrowPart 4

The energy maelstrom continued to spin like a drunken tornado around the room. Through the howl of sound Dhalryk heard several loud snaps and the room brightened suddenly. A great chunk of ceiling fell crashing to the ground to his left and burst into large pieces. One of these fragments crashed into his hip and sent him sprawling onto his back. All around the room stone descended with ground-shaking impacts until the top of the Citadel of Keeping was no more. Shielding his eyes from the wind Dhalryk could see what appeared to be rivulets and waves of a transparent purple liquid, or perhaps a super dense fog, coursing and flowing out of the vanished ceiling into the vibrant blue desert sky. It began to slow as he watched, the steady course narrowing down to what appeared to be sticky strands, like colored trails of honey, and then these too were gone. The fragments of the stone seemed to cool, stop glowing, and returned to their former dead ashen color.

The stinging wind left with the departure of the released magic, but not the pain in his side. Dhalryk stood shakily and surveyed the rubble under the brightness of the desert sun. Batoda’s body had been completely crushed by the falling masonry, and many of his followers were also partially concealed, their dying crimson turning a dark brown as it was absorbed by the drifting sands. On the far side of the room the floor had given out and a dark pit gave passage to the level below.

Dhalryk turned back to the doorway he had entered through and gasped in surprise. There, amidst the broken stones, sat Jekka DuRell. She turned and looked at him with a distant look in her eyes.

“I am back.” She stated flatly.

Dhal scrambled over the rubble to her side. “My God! Jekka! The poisons didn’t kill you! I saw you fall and thought you were dead.”

The raven hair girl stared at him as if comprehending nothing. Dhalryk suddenly felt uneasy. Her eyes were different. They had seemed duller, as if they were veiled in clouds or a strange milky pallor. “Jekka? Are you all right?”

Her face twitched and she squinted in the sunlight, trying to look around the room. She caught sight of the smashed stone and stood up to get a better look at it. Dhalryk watched her with concern. “These are ruins. Old ruins.” She stated.

“Yes. Don’t you remember? I don’t think you’re well.” Dhal pulled his water-skin out and opened it. “Here, have a drink and rest.”

Jekka stopped, looked at his offering, and then looked back to Dhalryk.

“My name is not Jekka.”

“What do you mean? Of course you’re Jekka. Jekka DuRell. Don’t you remember?” He reached out to touch her shoulder and she flinched back from him. Raising a slender hand she pointed to the broken stone.

“Within that stone slept my essence, my soul, and my memories. But now, somehow, I am here.” The girl looked down at her body in confusion and then back at Dhalryk.

“My name is Ithagar.”

Dhalryk stepped back and away from her, his eyes landing on his discarded sword by the dais steps. She raised her hands and shook her head. “Please! Do not take up your blade! I mean no harm, and I’m as confused as you.”

“Where do you come from?” Snapped Dhalryk. Watching her closely, he moved over toward his blade.

“From Garachok, I was apprentice to Elethir Devin.” The thing wearing Jekka’s body sat down on a stone and looked at him mournfully. Dhalryk shook his head.

“I’ve never heard of Garachok, or your master either.” He bent down and retrieved his sword.

“Where am I?” She asked.

“You are in the Cheytagaroth dunes, in one of the thousand ruins that they sometimes see fit to reveal.” His figure relaxed some, but he did not sit or lower the weapon.

“Ruins? I come from the nation of Cheytagaroth! Garachok the Azure is one of our great cities.” Dharlyk tensed at her words.

“You're talking about the time of the dark kingdom and their wizard kings.” She nodded.

“Yes, our rulers, the Sorcerates, are all wizards.” She stands and looks at the ancient room around her. “What has happened?”

“Centuries ago your kings almost destroyed everything, their empire vanished and they left the world in madness. Beasts and creatures walk the earth as a result, but the Cheytagar do not have to deal with the trouble they caused, because there are none left. Your nation is rightfully dead.” Ithagar shifted uneasily under his intense glare and evident hatred of the long gone Cheytagar.

“I had nothing to do with all that. I was simply a servant, an apprentice...” Her milky eyes began to tear up. “I don’t understand what’s happened...”

Dhalryk stood in thought, weighing his options. After a time, he sighed and sheathed his sword. “Perhaps you don’t, but either way, I’m not the one to figure it out. We should bring you to men wiser than me. I intended to travel to Rogmara, but perhaps I’ll take you a bit further to Iridian Doorstep, the Caldignartian city of scholars.”

Jekka, turned Ithagar, looked at him in surprise. “Do you think they will be able to explain what has occurred?”

Dhalryk walked over to the smashed stone and retrieved a fragment the length of his forearm. “I don’t know, but with a bit of this stone, and you there to explain, perhaps.”

She stood and smiled at him. Dhalryk’s mind raced at the sight of her smile. It was not Jekka, but he wanted to smile back regardless. He clamped down on his emotions and scowled at her instead.

“We should be going. There is nothing left here for us but the dead.”

To the eye, the two departed in very much the same way as they entered, but the eye was deceived, and as they headed off across the blistering sands, Dhalryk knew, that nothing was the same.


________________

Next week we start in on Chapter Two: The Road to Boughs Shadow! 

Catch up up on the series or read more mini-stories HERE!

Image Inspired Mini Story #18

It was metal and rivets and magic.

And it was leaving.

The great sloppy thing shuddered and wobbled its way up into the night sky, headed for who-knows-where.  Someplace better.  Julia didn't feel sad not to be going with them.  She knew she'd get on one eventually.  She'd been working hard on her imagination.  Her older brother, Trevor, said it was almost there.  No, Julia was a little sad because it was Becky rising up there into the speckled darkness.  Her good, big sister-style, always there when she needed her, Becky.  She'd miss her terribly.

"C'mon, Dinger, she's gone.  Lets go home."  The black cat simply blinked and didn't move.

Julia gathered up her sketchbooks, filled with pictures of strange creatures, silly poems, and colors she'd mixed, named, and cataloged.  Trusting that Dinger would follow at his own pace she headed across the roof to the ladder to the bridge-way.  She needed to get back.  If she hurried, Trevor might not notice she'd gone out to see Becky's departure.  Trevor never wanted her to leave.  He said it was "spirit crushing" to go out.  He said it had happened to him.

"I was just like you Julia," he'd say.  "I was my daydreams that were going to guide one of those ships up, to help people, to take them into new amazing places.  But I spent too much time looking around here, around Earth.  It's not good for you.  Earth is a cage and it'll trap you.  Try to ignore it."

And Julia did try to ignore it.  Even now, she kept her eyes on the ground, only occasionally peeking at the crowds of people in lines, the cracked domino stacks of buildings, the serpentine florescent streets.  Dinger watched all of it, of course.  When they got home, he'd tell her what they were.  Dinger was an expert.  Just last week, when she snuck out, she'd smelled something that made her stomach growl and resisted the urge to look.  Dinger had told her that it was, in fact, the aroma produced by a fish in a robotic suit.  It normally lived on the bottom of of a lake near a strange factory.  All the industrial runoff settled to the bottom and, by amazing coincidence, made the fish smell wonderful!  It had come out of the water on holiday, so it could sight-see the Vast, and everyone was glad it had.  The squealing she'd heard nearby had been excitement.

She always had the most interesting conversations with her cat.

She crowded into an elevator with about forty other people and went up three levels.  She had to shove to get off with all the new passengers trying to get on.  She tried to imagine they had good reason for pushing a little girl and almost trampling a cat, but couldn't.  Maybe Dinger could explain it to her later.  She was only three blocks and a nexus point away from the Insparium when she smelled it.  That smell.  The fish.

She knew she shouldn't.  She wasn't supposed to look around.  She was only out because she'd wanted to see Becky off.  To watch her ship float up on fire and daydreams.  And those other times, to visit her.  And... well, it couldn't hurt to peek.

The smell came from a stall, not a fish in a robotic suit.  It was equipped with a grill and deep frier and manned by an overweight fellow in a stained apron.  The area was piled high with cages containing live rats.  Squealing rats.  He took one out, held it by the tail, and swung it so its neck snapped on the counter.  He quickly removed the head, limbs, and guts, skinned it, and dropped it into the deep frier.  Several already cooked rats, impaled on sticks, hung from a clothesline. 

Julia gawped.  It was nothing like what she'd imagined.  It was brutal and horrible and...

"Dinger, why did you lie to me?"

The cat sat there and gazed at her silently.

If this had been a lie, then what about the rest?  She turned to look.  Before she could make any sense of things a figure burst in front of her, blocking off the spectacle.

"Julia!  You shouldn't be out here.  You know this!"  Trevor took her by the arm.  "Come on.  We've got to get you inside."

Caught in the act she immediately dropped her eyes to the ground and let him lead her.  "I'm sorry Trevor, I just wanted to say goodbye to Becky."

Trevor sighed heavily.  "I know.  I've been looking for you for an hour."

She felt the tension in her sibling and had an idea of what was at stake.  It was only dreams, random imagination, and unfiltered creativity that completed the inter-planetary drive calculations.  It was only her that could get them on a ship, up, out, and away.  He'd failed.  Becky hadn't.  She wished more than ever she was still here to tell her what to do.

"You didn't see much did you?"

"No." she lied.

"Good." he said.

Dinger, the no longer trust-worthy, followed them home.

Chapter One: The Sands of Sorrow -Part Three-

Dhalryk's stupor was shattered by the lunging blade of Batoda. There was hardly a moment after Jekka fell before his enemy was off the floor and upon him. Dhalryk parried the rapid stabbings of the Nillian knowing full well that even the tiniest nick would kill him in an instant. Batoda’s body was turned sideways and he held the blade in his right hand, his left trickled blood from the arrow in his shoulder. The attacks were a series of forward thrusts that changed target each time, trying for Dhal's shoulder, belly, leg, and head. Suddenly, he slashed horizontally at neck level. The blade severed the cord of Dhal's white desert cloak, but didn't graze his skin.

Batoda eased up his attack for a moment to see if his strike had found its mark, and Dhalryk seized his opportunity. With the same speed he used to parry the lighter dagger, he slashed viciously and connected with Batoda's right calf muscle. The wizard screamed and dropped to the floor, bringing the dagger down in a stabbing motion as he did. Dhalryk sprang under the blade and to his right. The weapon pierced the fallen cloak where he'd been standing.

Batoda was hobbled. He tried to stand but slipped back to the ground heavily, a look of hatred as he watched Dhal circle him from a safe distance. His breathing was ragged as he spoke.

"You'll join her! Mark me, you will!"

Dhalryk shook his head. “Not today.”

Batoda's eyes were wells of darkness beneath his bushy eyebrows. With tremendous effort he pulled his injured leg in front of him and assumed a lotus position, cross legged on the floor, fingertips from each hand spread and touching. Dhal moved in to strike the sitting man but as he approached the fallen dagger rose from the floor near Batoda and began to float in the air directly in front of him, as if wielded by an invisible assailant. It only hovered for a moment before it lunged.

Dhalryk was back to where he was before, blocking and parrying the fatal red blade, only now, he lacked the ability to read the body language of his attacker. The task was much more difficult and over and over the blade came within centimeters of his skin. A loud hum was beginning to permeate the room. Dhal couldn't spare a full glance, but out of the corners of his eyes he could see violet colored energies starting to flow in fog-like rivulets out of the great ashen stone and towards Batoda.

Dhalryk knew what he had to do. He parried the next attack as hard as he could and turned his back on the floating death. He took the steps of the dais at a run and as he passed the vibrating monolith he smashed into one of the three copper legs holding it up with all his strength. He was almost certain that the dagger would land in his back before he had a chance to wheel around and parry; but he needed to destroy that stone, even at the cost of his life.

The old leg, tarnished green, and worn from the ages of sand, broke easily under the impact. Dhal fell down the steps of the dais and rolled onto his back ready to defend himself. As the ancient stone fell it intersected with the blade that was a hairs breadth behind him and brought it crashing to the ground with it. As the gray monolith crumbled and shattered down the grooved onyx steps it released a bright purple light. The wild energy surged out of its cracked remains uncontrollably. Fierce winds spun around the room, surging to be free of the tower's confines. Sand stung his eyes and the gale carried small stones and sparks within it. Dhalryk struggled to his feet against the dervish and raised his sword.

Batoda was still sitting, being buffeted by the tempest of sand, wind, and color. His murderous hands left red streaks as he clutched his bald head and wailed at Dhalryk.

"Do you even know what it is you've done? Do you? You have no idea what you've released!" His eyes, often hidden, were wide with terror as Dhal approached his with a raised sword.

"I know you've killed Jekka. That's all I need to know." The blade descended and Batoda was no more.

_____________________________________

The conclusion of Chapter One arrives next Thursday!  Missed the beginning?  Check out the Writing tab for earlier parts.

The What and Why of Me and The Horsemen

A lot of you know me as a horror writer.  Oh sure, I've mentioned that I do sci-fi and fantasy as well, but it's not what people generally associate me with.  I'm also fairly close to finishing up my collection of short horror stories, Nest of Scars.  So finding out that I'm writing for an afro-centric comic book might come as a bit of surprise.  Here's why.

Horsemen hits a whole bunch of my biggest buttons.  Button one, comic book settings are often an awesome hybrid of pseudo sci-fi worlds with iconic, somewhat mythological, archetype characters.  I like that blend of fantasy and futurism.  Horsemen is heavy on the mythos part of things so it lands squarely in my comfort zone.  These aren't normal heroes, they're normal people imbued with the powers of literal gods.  Very fantasy. 

The world setting is a technologically advanced near-future where Africa has gotten its act together and has become the "New Frontier" and people are fleeing the dying American superpower.  For a long time the world saw America as the last frontier; the place you went to for hope and opportunity.  In the world of the Horsemen, this dynamic has been upset.  From an authors point of view it's a fantastic platform for looking at globalization, post affluence American identity, and the direction and purpose of governance.

I've had several "raised eyebrows" that I'm writing for Griot.  Sort of a "shouldn't you be black?" undertone.  I mean, what could I possibly know about writing a series of all black characters?  My response, generally, to this sort of thinking it as follows;: that's a load of crap.  It's insulting to my creativity, empathy, and makes gross assumptions about my life experiences.  Black characters are fun to write.  There's a degree of complexity in empowered black characters that is engaging and interesting.  It's part of the appeal of writing Horsemen, another button.  Thankfully, the "wtf" response has been limited so I haven't had to slap anyone.  Yet.

So that's why I'm writing.  Here's what I'm writing.

Those are the Deitis.  They're gods who represent things like War, Religion, Lust, etc... Ages ago, there were tons of them and they were bad news for everyone.  The Orisha, humans transcended to a god-like equivalent,  whooped their asses, defeated them, thought they were dead, and then left the world godless so it could choose its own fate.  But these Deitis weren't dead.  These ones survived, hid long enough to see the coast was clear, and have been messing with humanity ever since.  Now the the spirits of the Orisha have returned and empowered a normal human family to combat them.  These are The Horsemen.  That's the general shape of the comic.

Here's where I come in.

In the centuries that the Deitis have been around they've managed to accumulate a fair number of bastard children.  Born of the gods they're fairly powerful but are usually unaware of each other, causing them to be no real threat.  Not anymore.  These bastard children are tired of living in their parents shadows in the slow rotting American empire.  They've set their sights on the new horizon.  They're going to the African Union and only the Horsemen stand in their way.  Ready or not, the Cloven are coming!

Eight stories, released monthly, one for each of the seven Horsemen all leading up to a climactic eighth part finale.  Here's the schedule.

• Yemaya's Chapter - November 1st, 2013
• Ogun's Chapter - December 6th
• Oshun's Chapter - January 3rd, 2014
• Eshu's Chapter -  February 7th
• Oya's Chapter - March 7th
• Shango's Chapter - April 4th
• Obatala's Chapter - May 2nd
• Grand Finale - June 6th

November is a way off but I'll keep you filled in on details as they go and Jiba will tease us with character sketches and tid-bits.  I'm also planning on doing live pre-release readings over the summer.  It's going to be a hell of a lot of fun!