(I have italics and other small edits to make to this, but this is basically a sequel short.)
The power does it to everyone. It corrupts us all, or at least those of us who embrace it.
Although we dive right in to be swept away by the black waters of necromancy, it's not easy for us to stay afloat. Our humanity is the coastline, the palm trees, the dry land itself. You put your humanity side by side with the fact that you're a wizard of hell, coastline next to infinite expanse of ocean, and you decide being a wizard is more fun. It appeals to you. You can't get away from it, so you dive in and swim out in to the ocean to get a bigger taste. To feel it all over your body, instead of just staring at it and dipping your toes in.
The first time you swim in the ocean of the dead, the waters are electric to your soul. They shock you, show you things that you can't possibly understand but eventually DO come to understand. One day, it just so happens that you might decide you're tired of swimming, so you try to turn around, but the coast is gone. You don't swim back. You keep being swept out. To the sharks and an unknown abyss below you. The only place you can go is down, and that leads to a place that no man has been before.
That is my family's struggle, and they have devised a society and a code over the years. If I have the right person, then the man in front of me has trampled our ideals in to the ground. Our traditions, our laws, our fellowship. In truth, we necromancers are afraid not of the dead, but of each other. We know that one of us might become too potent somewhere down the line because we stumble across the right demon with the right power, or because we sacrifice a particularly powerful spirit to the underworld. We know that one day, one of us might rise up and try to assert a kingdom of the dead on earth.
The Chomhairle believe this is the man who poses that precise threat. They sent me to find him after we found his diary. When my father learned that his own brother had deserted the coven and handed over a bloodstone to a random child due to a disagreement, he put a death sentence on this man's head. We couldn't begin to search for him until he left his bloodstone behind. A trace of his power that we could latch on to, that we could follow.
The man shuffles past me to the urinal with a mumble of "excuse me," and he shies away from looking me in the eye. He seems tired and drained. This is a good start. It could be him.
9/19/2010
9/15/2010
Frozen Sunday
Lan keeps his eyes sealed shut, pinned under the oppressive stillness of judgment. His arms and legs have lost all feeling. This is the fourth creeping hour of his punishment.
The graveled, deceptive warmth of the Dedicate's voice is enough to make him sick.
"Renounce your sins, Lan. Leave them here with the stocks, and walk out of this holy place as a child no longer. Apologize to the commune for your offense!" the Dedicate says.
"I'm sorry her father said no, and I'm sorry that all of you are here, making a spectacle of it. But I'll never renounce my love for her. Crucify me. I don't care." Lan says.
He opens his eyes and glares at the man in the ridiculous purple robe. Then, hunchbacked against a heavy slab of wood with no reasonable expectation of relief in the near future, he spits at the man's feet.
The temple goers erupt, some gasping at his audaciousness, some bowing their heads in prayer to ask God to cleanse him of his blasphemous thoughts, and others appearing as though they've been slapped in the face outright.
The Dedicate frowns at him and nods at the lasher to proceed.
The graveled, deceptive warmth of the Dedicate's voice is enough to make him sick.
"Renounce your sins, Lan. Leave them here with the stocks, and walk out of this holy place as a child no longer. Apologize to the commune for your offense!" the Dedicate says.
"I'm sorry her father said no, and I'm sorry that all of you are here, making a spectacle of it. But I'll never renounce my love for her. Crucify me. I don't care." Lan says.
He opens his eyes and glares at the man in the ridiculous purple robe. Then, hunchbacked against a heavy slab of wood with no reasonable expectation of relief in the near future, he spits at the man's feet.
The temple goers erupt, some gasping at his audaciousness, some bowing their heads in prayer to ask God to cleanse him of his blasphemous thoughts, and others appearing as though they've been slapped in the face outright.
The Dedicate frowns at him and nods at the lasher to proceed.
9/09/2010
Nethergame - A Novel Excerpt
(Here are the first few chapters of my nearly finished novel that I've been working on for a year. I've also attached some accompanied listening if you feel up to it.)
I.
Tonight is the night that Richard prays for the first time in his life.
He doesn’t kneel at the foot of the bed or fold his hands like they teach you in Sunday school. At four fourteen in the morning, he lays on his back, his arms outstretched and his left foot sticking out from the edge of his comforter where the breeze from his ceiling fan makes that small part of his body less comfortable than the rest of him.
He could rearrange, but the old frame of his bed creaks too much and if he wakes the cat sleeping by his knee, he’s getting up to feed it dry food because he can’t afford the Fancy Feast anymore. Richard hasn’t shaved in six days because you don’t have to shave when you don’t have a wife or a job or responsibilities in the outside world. The only job he’s performing well is keeping his stubble frisky.
Tonight is the night that Richard prays for the first time because he’s suddenly very desperate, and very alone. He doesn’t know why he’s alive, or where he came from, or how he’s going to get out of the giant gaping hole that he’s dug inside his own life. He’s down to a pink slip, a check for five hundred twenty six dollars and thirty four cents, and a growing stack of bills on his kitchen table. He’s running on financial fumes.
His eyes are blank and motionless, following thin licks of moonlight on the corners of the ceiling where the drywall is peeling away. Droplets creep down the wall from the busted hot water heater in the attic. They form a puddle at the base of the hardwood under his only bedroom window, and the slight hints of mold are most obvious when the sun streams through, first thing in the morning. He gives it ten days before the ceiling buckles and he has to go to Home Depot to tell them that he didn’t buy the extended warranty on the Whirlpool but it’s only been nine months past the normal expiration and if they don’t replace it then he’s never doing business with them again, except that he can’t afford a new hot water heater in the first place, much less a new duplex.
Richard paws at the bedside table until he finds the little plastic lid that they give you to shoot the Nyquil with. To the left of that, there are three beer cans and a bottle of that cheap water you can get at his old employer, by the Zingers and the Twinkies, for fifty nine cents. His fingertips skim the table surface until he finds the actual bottle itself, and then at four seventeen in the morning, he’s gulping it in waves to make himself pass out. Too much, and he’s left laying there for another two hours, his eyes twitching behind the lids and buzzing back and forth like a hundred wasps in a mason jar. Too little, and his dream world becomes just a little too real, a little too horrifying to function when he wakes up. He has to step in to it with a certain degree of numbness. He knows the dream is coming because it’s always the same. The one aspect of his life that’s a sure thing.
I.
Tonight is the night that Richard prays for the first time in his life.
He doesn’t kneel at the foot of the bed or fold his hands like they teach you in Sunday school. At four fourteen in the morning, he lays on his back, his arms outstretched and his left foot sticking out from the edge of his comforter where the breeze from his ceiling fan makes that small part of his body less comfortable than the rest of him.
He could rearrange, but the old frame of his bed creaks too much and if he wakes the cat sleeping by his knee, he’s getting up to feed it dry food because he can’t afford the Fancy Feast anymore. Richard hasn’t shaved in six days because you don’t have to shave when you don’t have a wife or a job or responsibilities in the outside world. The only job he’s performing well is keeping his stubble frisky.
Tonight is the night that Richard prays for the first time because he’s suddenly very desperate, and very alone. He doesn’t know why he’s alive, or where he came from, or how he’s going to get out of the giant gaping hole that he’s dug inside his own life. He’s down to a pink slip, a check for five hundred twenty six dollars and thirty four cents, and a growing stack of bills on his kitchen table. He’s running on financial fumes.
His eyes are blank and motionless, following thin licks of moonlight on the corners of the ceiling where the drywall is peeling away. Droplets creep down the wall from the busted hot water heater in the attic. They form a puddle at the base of the hardwood under his only bedroom window, and the slight hints of mold are most obvious when the sun streams through, first thing in the morning. He gives it ten days before the ceiling buckles and he has to go to Home Depot to tell them that he didn’t buy the extended warranty on the Whirlpool but it’s only been nine months past the normal expiration and if they don’t replace it then he’s never doing business with them again, except that he can’t afford a new hot water heater in the first place, much less a new duplex.
Richard paws at the bedside table until he finds the little plastic lid that they give you to shoot the Nyquil with. To the left of that, there are three beer cans and a bottle of that cheap water you can get at his old employer, by the Zingers and the Twinkies, for fifty nine cents. His fingertips skim the table surface until he finds the actual bottle itself, and then at four seventeen in the morning, he’s gulping it in waves to make himself pass out. Too much, and he’s left laying there for another two hours, his eyes twitching behind the lids and buzzing back and forth like a hundred wasps in a mason jar. Too little, and his dream world becomes just a little too real, a little too horrifying to function when he wakes up. He has to step in to it with a certain degree of numbness. He knows the dream is coming because it’s always the same. The one aspect of his life that’s a sure thing.
9/02/2010
Castles in the Air
Grant straightens his tie and walks downstairs with his briefcase at eight forty a.m. sharp. There's a slight hint of cinnamon in the air, as well as the scent of griddled pancakes.
"Good morning Grant." she says flatly.
"Morning, honey." He says.
Christina keeps her back to him, slicing the crust off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and placing them in brown lunch sacks.
"Breakfast?" She asks.
"No thanks, I need to get going soon. Christina, why are you making sack lunches again?"
Her green eyes are two maelstroms in a storming tempest when she turns on her heel to face him, kitchen knife in hand. She feels anger --- instantly enraged by his poorly chosen timing to bring up their hot button issue.
The stare is one of hate and loathing. Her voice is acid, popping more violently than the fat of the thick sliced bacon in the iron skillet.
"Is this really how you want to start the day, Grant? This is how you want to kick things off, after you haven't said five words to me and this whole sad debacle is your fault?" Christina asks.
"I can't apologize for that. I can't control it, either. It's not my fault. I'm doing my best." Grant says.
"It sure as hell isn't my body, Grant. Seven years of marriage without a child. I'm starting to think your little soldiers are riding the short bus." She says, and she laughs at him.
His wife is standing in front of him, insulting the integrity of his sperm, and she finds it hilarious. His hands start shaking, and the smell of her excellent cooking now infects him with a wave of nausea. He grits his teeth as hard as possible, grinding them together like two sets of granite boulders.
"Please, Christina. You start ovulating soon. We've been trying every single night. We're bound to hit sometime. Can we at least try to be optimistic?" Grant asks.
She slams the business end of the kitchen knife in to the cutting board, where it wedges with the force of impact.
"You need to leave. Go to work." She says.
"Christina, please."
"Go to work, Grant."
"Fine. I fucking tried, for the record." He slams the front door in the foyer, starts his Volvo, and then he's gone with an unnecessary squeal of rubber in the middle of the suburbs at eight fifty a.m.
She places the two bagged lunches on the window sill above the sink and leaves it wide open to a morning breeze.
***
"Good morning Grant." she says flatly.
"Morning, honey." He says.
Christina keeps her back to him, slicing the crust off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and placing them in brown lunch sacks.
"Breakfast?" She asks.
"No thanks, I need to get going soon. Christina, why are you making sack lunches again?"
Her green eyes are two maelstroms in a storming tempest when she turns on her heel to face him, kitchen knife in hand. She feels anger --- instantly enraged by his poorly chosen timing to bring up their hot button issue.
The stare is one of hate and loathing. Her voice is acid, popping more violently than the fat of the thick sliced bacon in the iron skillet.
"Is this really how you want to start the day, Grant? This is how you want to kick things off, after you haven't said five words to me and this whole sad debacle is your fault?" Christina asks.
"I can't apologize for that. I can't control it, either. It's not my fault. I'm doing my best." Grant says.
"It sure as hell isn't my body, Grant. Seven years of marriage without a child. I'm starting to think your little soldiers are riding the short bus." She says, and she laughs at him.
His wife is standing in front of him, insulting the integrity of his sperm, and she finds it hilarious. His hands start shaking, and the smell of her excellent cooking now infects him with a wave of nausea. He grits his teeth as hard as possible, grinding them together like two sets of granite boulders.
"Please, Christina. You start ovulating soon. We've been trying every single night. We're bound to hit sometime. Can we at least try to be optimistic?" Grant asks.
She slams the business end of the kitchen knife in to the cutting board, where it wedges with the force of impact.
"You need to leave. Go to work." She says.
"Christina, please."
"Go to work, Grant."
"Fine. I fucking tried, for the record." He slams the front door in the foyer, starts his Volvo, and then he's gone with an unnecessary squeal of rubber in the middle of the suburbs at eight fifty a.m.
She places the two bagged lunches on the window sill above the sink and leaves it wide open to a morning breeze.
***
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