The Third Bear, a Review

Jeff VanderMeer's The Third Bear has been on my TBR pile for quite a while now. I've never read anything by the author, though his highly acclaimed novel Finch has garnered a load of attention. Likewise, his collection of bizarre short stories contained in The Third Bear has collected lauds and nods from nearly every review I've read. The book has a strange type of magic that charms the reader and takes him on a journey like never before.

So I made preparations to read this book, curiosity piqued. The library purchased it on my suggestion, and then when the book arrived, I promptly forgot about it. Too many other things to read. Carl (of Stainless Steel Droppings, check out his fantastic blog) posted a review last week on this book, and his eloquence reminded me about my library request. That very day I went and picked up VanderMeer's work. I was immediately stricken.

There's really no good way to describe this book. It defies genres. It defies expectations and normal thinking, subverting tropes and typical story-telling methodology for something unique and unforgettable. There are some stories that, upon completion, I couldn't bring myself to describe coherently, even if the tale was spectacular. This holds true for many of the stories, the inability to put into words what you just read, but it only serves to make the reading experience all the better.

For this reason, there's no way I could give reviews to each story in this collection. I don't know if I could pick my favorite, as nearly all have their own speciality, but a few of my favorites are below.

The titular tale, "The Third Bear," is a dark and somewhat familiar story. It reads like an old fairy tale, and the growing sense of dread throughout makes for an unsettling read.

"The Situation" is baffling. Part office-life, part post-apocalyptic, part Idon'thaveaclue, this story sealed the deal for me. I read it after reading "The Third Bear" (which I recommend you do as well, even though it doesn't follow the story in the layout of the book) and noticed a few coincidences that I could not ignore. I'm not sure at all how to describe what's going on in this story, but I highly recommend you read it.

"Errata" is possibly the weirdest piece of fiction I've ever read. I daresay fiction because the story is about a writer named Jeff VanderMeer and he's working on a story around Lake Baikal. The thing reads as a letter written by VanderMeer to an editor and seems to be taken as a true story. Suffice it say that this story unfolded beautifully and still lingers in my mind.

"The Surgeon's Tale" is probably the longest piece in this collection, but one of my favorites. It's reminiscent of Frankenstein, but it's also much more. This tale was emotional and beautifully written. I could smell the sea salt on the pages. I could watch the sargassum dance beneath the surface. The protagonist's longing was tragic, but his love was uncanny.

And lastly is "Appoggiatura," a story so twisted and confusing, so different, so essential, that it practically begs to be re-read immediately. Reading this was like catching glimmers of the City out of the corners of my eyes, almost as if I myself were somehow involved in the rich tales collected in the book.

I think one of the main reasons I enjoyed The Third Bear so much is because Jeff VanderMeer knows his craft. It's like taking a Salvador Dalí and transmogrifying it into prose.  His voice is strong; his imagery is top-notch; his creativity is uncapped. I'm tempted to say I've never read a work that evokes more imagery in the mind than this book (see the remarks regarding "The Surgeon's Tale"). His prose is fluid, flowing through the surreal landscapes he's created with ease, making the reader feel both comfortable and lost. He takes little-to-no time explaining himself, but instead leaves what he's told as fact and we're to accept it and go on. There's no reasoning why the rabbit can talk in "The Quickening," it just can. Once these weird truths are accepted, the stories shine like a reappearing sun after an eclipse, bright and glorious.

After finishing "Appoggiatura" and the Author's Note, I felt the desire to return to some earlier tales, though I resisted this urge. Some other day.

Am I gushing? Perhaps, but The Third Bear is worthy of it. The book was so unlike anything I've ever read that it has me wanting to read the rest of VanderMeer's catalog immediately. If you're in a rut and tired of reading the same thing over and over, check this book out. Or, if you're just wanting to experience the thrill of Vandermeer's magical oddity, do yourself a favor and read The Third Bear. I can't recommend it enough.

Oh, and do check out Carl's review (here). Some of these stories are available for free online, and Carl's got all these links collected for your viewing pleasure.

ResAliens #4, a Review

Residential Aliens, a "speculative fiction [magazine] from the Seven Stars," is a bi-monthly publication that caters mostly to an electronic audience.  The niche ResAliens has is that it is a spiritually infused magazine, and its stories have a "moral or spiritual thread that appeals to the broad and varied interests of fans of speculative fiction."  (Note, this doesn't mean that the authors are Christians, as is commonly associated with the word spiritual, but the stories themselves deal with this motif.)

"Fishing the Moons of Jupiter," by Jason Rizos, tells an interesting and entertaining story on a deep-space fishing trip.  Morris, the protagonist, used to be a crab fisherman back on earth, but through various circumstances, wound up getting a job with a space crew to do some fishing work for an elusive worm.  The Hephaestus Worm has a liquid-hot, magma belly, and it is highly sought after because of its ability to produce a clean source of incredible power.  Unfortunately, the worm is also very difficult to catch.

The dialogue between Morris and his team is quick paced and realistic.  In parts, it's like watching an episode of Deadliest Catch (as mentioned in the opening note from Editor John Ottinger III), and the reader gets a great sense of how well these characters like and know each other.

Overall, this short story was intriguing enough to make me wonder about the current state of the world and how advanced it was if it is doing deep-space research now.  The worm was fascinating, and the fishing scenes were tense and enjoyable.  Plus, the ending was great.  This is an excellent quick read, and possibly my favorite from the collection.

"Overgrown," by Stoney Setzer, reads just like a standard, pulp sci-fi story.  Pink goo from outer space and a curious scientist make an unconventional, but deadly, monster.  This story was fun to read, but I found it lacking compared to the excellent first one.

"Immortals," by Leah Darrow, was frustrating to read because I so wanted to know more about what was going on.  The story never reveals why some things are, but then again, in the end, it's not important.  This was a very enjoyable read, focusing on the idea of immortality and a society where death is almost a thing of the past.

"End of Eden," by Shane Collins, is a straightforward post-apocalyptic short story that deals with two survivors trying to eke out their way to safety.  The prose was vivid and tragic, the pace quick, the science ingenious, and the overall gist a gritty ride.  I really enjoyed this piece.

"Salieri," by Marina Julia Neary, could almost be true.  It's a beautiful story with many themes going on, and in some ways it reminded me of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell.  Two young pupils at the University are both at the top of their class, and their relationship is... interesting.  I think this may be my second favorite story from this collection.

"The King of Infinite Space," by Jason Reynolds, seems odd and out of place in this volume.  It was certainly my least favorite read, in part due to the almost contrived ending, surely familiar to anyone with an ear for urban legends.  Also, the speculative aspect of this story fell very flat in respect to the rest of the included stories.  Perhaps if this was in a different collection or first in the table of contents then I wouldn't have been as disappointed, but as it is, I wasn't too impressed with this, even though it was smart and well-written.

The final story, "The Testament," by Michael C. Lea, is another great one.  Through court testaments, we learn of the events that led to the death of a researcher and why her death matters (and to whom).  This piece was fascinating and kept me hooked up through the ending.  This story definitely makes the reader think, and it was a fun tale to read and discover what was going on.

Overall, ResAliens #4 is a highly enjoyable collection of spiritually sci-fi stories.  Most had me thinking about different things after I finished, and that's one thing I look for in fiction, especially short fiction.  While I want to be entertained, I also want to think, and these stories do both very well.  If you're hungry for some good, short fiction, why not try Residential Aliens?  I think it's easily worth the asking price of $2 for the digital download (click here if interested). 

*FTC thingy and a Note:  I received a general email from ResAliens #4 guest editor and acclaimed blogger John Ottinger III, of Grasping for the Wind, if I'd be interested in reviewing the current issue, and I happily agreed, intrigued by the web-zine's premise.  Thus, I paid nothing for this collection of stories.  Also, I was not asked to endorse the magazine or praise the stories, but I felt both were worthy of it.

Writing Wednesdays: The American Dreamer 1.5

This is the concluding post of The American Dreamer: Part One. If you've not read the previous five posts about this series, just click on the American Dreamer label at the bottom of this post and it'll give 'em all to you, or click here. As always, feedback's appreciated.

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Narrator

It was Thursday, December 14, 1882, when Hank Tasla awoke from his coma. No one was in the room with him at the time, so no one knows exactly how long he was awake before he emerged. It was early in the morning when he walked through his bedroom door and into the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Tasla were quietly talking. Their talk ceased when the boy appeared. They tell me their conversation went like this.

“I know you’re not my parents,” he told them.

“Hank? You’re awake. You’re—” said Mrs. Tasla.

“I said that I know you all are not my parents. He told me the truth.”

“Hank, you’ve just had another one of your unusual dreams. We’re your mama and papa. Tell him, dear.”

“You’re mother’s right, Hank. You’ve been asleep for half a year. Your mind’s probably been running some, and you know how you dream.”

“He said that he found you in France, hired you to watch over me and report to him. And don’t tell me that it was a dream.” They told me that his voice grew angrier with each word.

“Who told you, sweetheart?”

“Dr. Tesla.”

I have to give them credit, if what they tell me is true. They kept up the ruse, never crumpling under the boy’s demands. The boy soon grew weary and went back to his room, dissatisfied and disappointed. The Tasla’s penned me a letter and sent it off within a span of a few minutes. Sadly, I was not at my residence when the letter arrived a fortnight later, and thus it went unopened until it was far too late.

Hank

They’re liars. They try to keep it a secret, but I can see it in their eyes. When I mentioned Tesla’s name they slightly winced, and I knew for certain that it was true. If this dream’s been true and revealing, then what does that mean about all the other ones I’ve had? I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet, but I don’t think I can stay here very long. I’ll try to stay through the Dead Season, or as much of it as I can. I have to put down what Tesla told me, or I’ll likely forget it. He told me I was adopted by a family in France. He did some sort of experiment on me to keep me from dying, but then decided to have me watched once he arrived in America. I don’t know why he didn’t just keep me and observe me. I can’t remember the rest of the conversation because I woke up. It sounds strange, but I think I’m seeing parts of the future when I dream. Or maybe parts of different futures? As always, I’m uncertain.

Mr. Jonathon Tasla

I’d like to say that things improved for Hank, but they didn’t. Our relationship was different. We tried to persuade the boy that we were his parents, but he never believed us. I guess you must’ve convinced him. We still treated him like our son, even if he didn’t wish to be treated that way. Throughout the winter we tried to communicate with him, but he largely ignored us. Mostly he just stayed in his room. I think he was afraid to go outside. Afraid of the lies.

Mrs. Elizabeth Tasla

I know we were hired to observe Hank, but we grew to love him as our flesh and blood. I was pregnant when we came to Mt. Easter, but I lost the baby soon after. We were never able to have kids of our own after that, so we poured all our affection into Hank. After he learned the truth, well, it broke my heart. He no longer wanted us. I thought he’d be able to forgive us, but he never did. I don’t know if I can forgive myself. It was as if all our love was a lie to him, and it pained me. I tried to talk to him, to tell him the truth, but he was uninterested. He didn’t care about anything or anyone, not even Ella Thompson, and she was always his closest friend. I think deep down me and John always knew that he’d find out, but neither of us knew how hard we’d take it. Without a word of goodbye, he left in February of 1883.

Ella

I saw Hank twice after he woke up. I spent every day at his bedside until he was moved to his own home, and then my trips grew less frequent. He looked so peaceful while he slept, but I knew that he was probably dreaming, and so he probably wasn’t at peace. Hank would talk with me about his dreams before the attack, always telling me the things he’d see and how they made him feel. I think it was his openness with me that led me to fall in love with him. Sure, we were young, but can the young not love?

The first time I saw him I came to him. I stopped by the Tasla’s around New Year to see how Hank was doing and if he’d made any progress. I was surprised to find that he was awake and in his room. He seemed surprised to see me, but scared and uncertain, too. I didn’t stay too long, as he didn’t seem to want to talk. I didn’t go back to the house, either, though.

The second time was a cold morning near the end of January. Hank was rarely coming out of the house, but he came and found me on my way to school. “Ella, I really need to talk to you,” he told me. I was alone, so we headed off the road and into the woods, near our playing spot. He had a frantic look in his eyes, like he’d been staying up all night.

“I’m going to be leaving Mt. Easter soon. I have some things that I need to do.” Those were his exact words. I asked him what he was talking about, but he didn’t answer. I asked him if this was about his dreams, and he nodded, but continued talking. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you myself. I don’t have the time. When this is over, I’ll find you. I hope that you’ll wait for me.”

It was surprising. I didn’t expect him to be so straightforward, but he was. I promised him that I would wait for him, and then in an act of boldness, I kissed him on his cheek. For a second his eyes softened and he looked pained, but the mania soon returned. “I’ll find you, Ella. I don’t know when, but I will.” Then he ran off, quick as a deer, leaving me bewildered and elated. A few days later, he was gone, and that was the last I saw of Hank Tasla.

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Well, that's the end of Part One, which was actually subtitled "Mt. Easter." Part Two is called "The Wandering Years," and I've started writing on it. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this segment of Writing Wednesdays. Next week will bring a brand new story into the mix, and I promise you that you won't want to miss it. It's probably the most fun I've had writing something in a long time. Heck, as a teaser, I'll give you the title to it: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria. It's a fun one.

Writing Wednesdays: The American Dreamer 1.4

This is Part 5 of 6 of The American Dreamer, Part One. The previous parts are all linked by following the "The American Dreamer" label at the bottom of this post or by clicking the link you just read over. I hope you enjoy. The part of Rooster is probably one of my favorite parts that I've written so far. And, as always, comments are welcome.

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Rooster

I know exactly what he’s going through. I’ve been there, too. Kind of. Back when I was a little boy I would have these peculiar dreams, and everybody told me that I was crazy. Ha! But I kept on telling ‘em anyway. Telling ‘em that the world would come to a stand-still, that there’d be bloodshed like they ain’t never seen before. And I was right, too. In 1871, the Great Civil War started up. I was seventeen. An’ I told ‘em, too. But I went and joined in the war, fighting for my country and all. I took a bullet to the scalp. Yep. The hot lead went right into my head. I kept on a-fightin’, too, with blood just running down my face. Men were running away from me, like I was fightin’ for Satan’s Army. ‘Course, I was seeing more than just blood, it was the lust for battle, too. I killed twenty-nine rebels that day. Some with a musket, some with my saber, and some with my bare hands. Finally I lost enough blood that I collapsed on the battlefield, amongst the corpses. My vision went black and I passed into the Land of the Dead. There I had a dream like I’ve nary had before, but what it was about I swore I wouldn’t tell. No sir. Like John the Revelator, my lips are sealed. But I woke up. I guess several days had passed. I was in a hospital, with all those poor sods that were missing arms or legs or both. I had a bandage o’er this eye here and an awful headache, but at least I woke up. Just like that boy did, too.

Hank

I still don’t even know who this man is. He’s been talking to me for a while, but I have no clue what his name is or what he wants with me. Fix his mistakes? What mistakes? He talks so fast that I find it hard to keep up and grasp what he’s saying. I hate to interrupt him, but I have to. “Excuse me,” I hear myself say. My voice is deeper than I remember.

The man stops speaking and looks at me with surprised eyes. “What is it, Hank?”

“You seem to know all about me, but I have no idea who you are. And,” I add hastily, “would you mind talking a bit slower? It’s hard for me to focus.”

He smiles a broad grin, his mustache spreading thin over his lips. His teeth are slightly yellow. “I apologize. I must have assumed that you would remember me, but I don’t know why I thought that. Ahem. My name is Dr. Nikola Tesla, but you can call me Nik.”

My mind snaps to attention at the mention of his name. Tesla? That’s the name I keep seeing in my dreams. Suddenly I’m not sure whether or not I should trust this man. He seems amiable and friendly enough, but I’m uncertain.

“What’s the matter, Hank? You’ve paled.”

“Your name. It’s familiar. I’m not sure why.”

“Maybe you’re remembering me. Let me give you something to help you with your memory and your attention. I developed this as an alternative to caffeine.” He rummages through his desk and pulls out a small metal bead. It begins to glow, faint orange like the corridor’s lights. “You simply swallow it as you would any common tincture.” He slides the bead across the table.

“How does it work?” I ask, picking it up. It’s slightly warm, but not hot.

“It is like a magnet but for energy. It will attract electrodes all around you, drawing them to the bead. When the electrodes pass through your body they will charge your blood, which in turn will charge the brain. Eventually the bead will dissolve, but that one should last for a while.”

I swallow the ball. What can it hurt? I’m already lost as it is. Immediately I can tell the change. As soon as the bead is down my throat I can feel an addition of pressure all around me, like everything is pushing on me. Tesla can see my distress.

“Don’t worry, Hank. You’ll get used to it pretty fast. I have one inside me, too. It really helps you stay alert and fresh, so much so that sleep is all but impossible.” Is there a slight wink in his eye, or am I imagining that?

My skin tingles everywhere. Even my hair feels it. It’s almost as if I’m connected to everything in this room. Glimpses of my life flash through my mind. A small boy in a growing town. A scared boy on the run. A soldier in a strange future. An incredibly old man, telling stories to children. A man sitting in a stadium, watching innocent people die. A secret wedding with a beautiful woman.

It’s overwhelming what all I see and process. I did not expect this. It’s still disorienting and confusing, but things begin to make sense. But why? Why is it like this? I imagine I am like a baby bursting from the womb, alive and anew. “What have you done to me?” I roar, no longer content and complacent.

Tesla shirks back, startled by my outburst. “I did not expect that to work that quickly,” he mouths, pulling at his collar. His eyes look suddenly very tired. He sags into his chair. “I suppose I should have given you that earlier. Perhaps I should restart, eh?” It’s a rhetorical question, but I nod anyway.

“I was traveling through Budapest when I found you. You were young, hungry and dying. I had an idea that I had been working on, but I’d never tried it out on anyone. Then, seeing that you were doomed anyway, I decided to test my experiment on you. So, I took you. At first, it seemed that it was not going to work, but I did not give up on my ambitions.

“I finally succeeded shortly after we arrived in France. Honestly, I felt a bit like my childhood hero, Dr. Victor Frankenstein. I could see his errors and I knew that I could be above them. But, as you were not dead, I did not have the guilt he must have felt. Instead, I had the hope of sparing a life.

“You began to recover quickly, and within a week you were completely whole. You were very young, and would not remember any of this, so I decided to conduct my grand experiment. I hired a family to adopt you and keep watch over you, as if they were your own flesh and blood. Then, we went to America.”

Mrs. Imogene Epperson

Hank was always a great student. He participated in the classroom, and always finished his homework. He endured hardships when he first started his schooling here, mainly over his skin coloring, but also from his strange choice of words. It was almost like he had a touch of insanity, but he was too smart for that. I just attributed it to an overly imaginative brain. But after he woke up from his coma, things changed for him. He acted differently, towards me, towards his peers, even towards his studies. I’m sad to say it, but he never returned to school after his recovery. Shortly after that, he left Mt. Easter.

Writing Wednesdays: The American Dreamer 1.3

Part 4 of "The American Dreamer." The previous parts are linked appropriately, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3. Also, I'm trying to keep these posts around 1200 words for the story sections. Do you all think that is too much or not enough? (My typical non-Wednesday posts are around 600-900 words, usually in the low end unless I'm musing...) Thanks for any feedback or criticism.

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Jimmy McNayre

I went to check on Hank a few times while he was out. Dr. Stovaugh said that he didn’t appear to be making any progress, but he also said that he didn’t appear to be getting worse, either. Ten days passed and Hank still had not recovered. Understandably, his parents were devastated. Mt. Easter was in an uproar over the incident, but there was no proof leading to who had attacked Hank. Anyone with a pair of eyes and a beating heart could tell who had attacked him, but what could we do about it? One day I approached Jesse Stevens during our lunch hour. I told him flat out that I knew it was him and that he was gonna pay for what he did. I intended to punch him in the face or kick him in the knee, but instead I just leered at him for a long, silent moment. I let all of my animosity out in that stare, daring him to do something about it. He soon was shamed and looked away, like a dog does when it knows it’s done something wrong. I whispered it into Hank’s ear that afternoon when I went to see him. It would be our little secret. We weren’t best friends, but we were friends, and friends stick up for each other.

Narrator

I started collecting these statements about Hank at an early age, back when we were both much younger. At the time I was simply curious. In the early years I would pose as a Government Worker, asking my questions. When I could, I’d get updates from my informants, but that didn’t happen as much as I’d wanted. First I would start out broad, getting general information about the Tasla family, and then I would hone in and ask about Hank. After he left Mt. Easter this became much more difficult to accomplish.

Hank

The whole thing is strangely familiar to me. I appear to be in a holding cell, likely deep beneath the earth, judging by the musty smell and the cool walls. While it is cold and dark, it’s not from the lack of light and warmth. There are glowing orange wires of some sort, running all along the cracks of where the stone walls meet the ceiling. They are my soul companion. I am thankful for the light, but the heat just leaves me desiring more. I can hear nothing outside the door but for the occasional sounds of shooting sparks.

I have no idea how long I’ve been down here, nor do I know what they want with me. So I sit here and think on my life. It could be summed up in three words: Loss. Pain. Empty. All I have are these scraps of a life, half-filled memories of different people, different times, different worlds.

The door swings open and in walks the small man with the mustache. “Hello, Hank. I’m glad you’ve woken up.” He waits for me to respond, so I grunt. “If you would come with me I would like to try and help you.” I have nothing to lose.

The corridor is mostly an extension of the cell. Instead of wires lining just the top of the wall, there are wires also along the middle and bottom. Apparently three lines of wires produces much more heat than one set. I can hear water flowing somewhere.

The man leads me down a flight of stone stairs and into another room. “Watch your eyes,” he says as he opens the door. This room is completely different than the last. Bright orbs of light hang from the ceiling, showering the room in complete white. The sudden transition causes me to stagger for a moment. When my vision returns I notice several sets of wires along the walls, floors, and ceiling, all glowing dull orange. The heat in the room is nearly unbearable.

Near the back of the room are a desk and two chairs. He leads me there, offering me a seat. “Hank Tasla,” he states simply. What am I supposed to say? I nod. He picks up a large manila folder. I can see many sheets of neat, lined paper inside. I see the name HANK TASLA printed neatly as he holds up the folder.

“This is my greatest achievement, Hank, but also my biggest blunder. When I first met you, you were malnourished and gravely ill, barely a weaned babe. I was in Budapest, preparing to travel to France when I found you.” He paused, sitting the folder down and flipping it open. “Things are not easy for me to explain, and my tale is not one with glory, but I shall do my best to make sense to you. I owe it to you.”

I nod, once again confused. What is this man talking about? “Hank, I imagine you must feel lost and broken, like your mind’s been thrown into a centrifuge and mixed about. Sadly, that is one of the side effects of my test. But I have found ways to counterbalance the memory loss. Memory, it turns out, is just another type of energy, one that I’m particularly interested in.”

The man leaned across the desk and looked into my eyes. “Hank, if you’ll give me the chance to help you, I believe that I can make you better.” I take him at his word.

Narrator

The boy lay in his coma for a total of one hundred and seventy-two days. The remarkable thing was that it actually lasted that long. Initially he was swollen and dark blue. Several of his ribs were likely bruised, but he had no broken bones. His cuts and gashes were sewn up and stitched, and the swelling dwindled. Still the boy did not wake up. His body was eventually moved back to his home where Mr. & Mrs. Tasla could see to him. Ella still came by and visited, fiercely loyal to her dear friend. Pastor Andrew stopped by several times a month to check on the family and to pray with them.

The Tasla’s were grieved over their son’s dead-but-alive state. They couldn’t understand why someone would do something to their little angel. They considered uprooting and moving the family from Mt. Easter, but discarded the idea pretty quickly. Instead they chose to write letters to friends and family, encouraging them to move to the town, to settle and help the place grow.

As it happened, many of their friends and relatives decided to take the Tasla’s up on their offer and moved to the growing town. New shops and businesses opened up during the course of that summer and fall, and soon Mt. Easter began attracting more folks. By November of 1882 the population in Mt. Easter had risen by thirty-five per cent, and the Tasla’s were no longer the only family of color in the town.

As the town grew, so did my list of spies, each ignorant of the other’s existence. Life in the town continued on. Well, for everyone except for Hank Tasla, who was with me at the time.

Writing Wednesdays: The American Dreamer 1.2

This is a continuation of the previous two Writing Wednesdays. Part One is here and Part Two is here. This is a long post here, but I didn’t feel like cutting it off at the third section. Once again, feedback is appreciated.

Jesse Stevens

Of course I know Hank Tasla. He’s the darkie that lives in that poor house near the church. His whole family is one big joke around here. People act like they care about ‘em, but nobody does. They ain’t nothing but coons, and I tell him that every chance I get. I got kicked out of school for a week after I told Mrs. Epperson not teach him. I said he didn’t need to learn the stuff we learn, that he’d never amount to more than a black piece of coal. If I ever catch him alone I’ll make him wish he never moved here.

Hank

It’s terrifying. I wish that there was some way for me to convey how real my dreams are. I dreamt that I was walking along a road, paved and wide. All around me were buildings that reached up into the sky, taller than anything I could imagine. Automobiles, which I can only describe as a transportation machine that’s like a smaller carriage but much faster, crowded the streets. People like I’ve never seen before walked all around me. I found myself moving with the crowd, and eventually I ended up inside of a large arena, similar to the ancient Coliseum. My wrist was inspected as I entered, and some sort of red light was moved across my arm. Every seat was full. The attitude was a mixture of excitement and dread. The people around me talked in fear, like they were waiting for something to attack them, but were uncertain whether or not they would actually be victims. Then a flat voice rang throughout the arena, calling out a series of numbers. A man near me let out a wail, moaning like a dying dog, and was taken. Soon a group of men and women were standing in the field below me, stripped of their clothing and trying unsuccessfully to cover their nakedness. Then a group of nine masked men surrounded the naked people. The flat voice spoke again, instructing the masked people to kill the others. At once they began screaming and begging for mercy, but their sounds were silenced as a brilliant burst of light erupted from the nine’s outstretched arms. When the light cleared there was nothing left of the people within the circle of the masked men. We were then prompted to leave, and as I was walking out the door I spied a familiar word, one that I recently read in another dream. TESLA. I’m not sure what this means. It’s remarkably similar to my last name. I’m not sure what it was that I witnessed, but I hope to not see anything like it again.

Narrator

It was the week before Charles Guiteau was to be executed. The national trial for the assassin of President Chance Garfield made newspapers everywhere, even in the far off places like Mt. Easter. The town was keenly interested in the outcome of the trial, as the Guiteau family had traveled through Mt. Easter a few years before the assassination. At the time, Charles was offering his legal services to anyone interested in them, but no one took him up on his claims. Much of the town’s population was gathered around Aberthon’s Mercantile, waiting for the regional newspaper to arrive, when Hank found himself the victim of a terrible crime. The boy was curious to get a glimpse of Mr. Guiteau, and he decided he was going to go to the Mercantile and buy a newspaper for himself. On his way to the store he was attacked. Hank was hit in the back of the head with a shovel and the boy dropped to the ground, writhing in agony. His assailants took turns hitting him with the weapon, spitting on him, and kicking him until he blacked out. They left him unconscious on the street, his small body broken and swollen. As the citizens filed out of the Mercantile, full of gossip and news of Charles Guiteau, a group of folks spied Hank’s body. He was taken to the Apothecary, where Doctor Stovaugh treated him the best he could. Days passed and Hank Tasla remained comatose and no one knew for sure if he’d ever wake up.

Hank

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, shaking my head in disgust and worry. Ella and the kids are at her mother’s house and they’ve been gone for two days now. I can’t remember why, or it’s quite possible that I never knew why. There’s a note scrawled on a scrap of paper in front of me, penned in her sweet hand.

I can’t take this anymore, Hank. It’s too hard on me and on the kids. You either devote yourself to us or to your work, but not to both. It’s not fair to us. Once you make up your mind, you’ll know where to find me.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, wondering how things got this way. Wondering why it feels so real. Wondering why I keep having dreams of being a young, poor boy in a small-but-growing town. Ever since I started working for the T&E Foundation things have grown weird. I wonder if it’s coincidence.

I pour myself a glass of wine and sit out on the back porch, staring up at the stars above. Millions of tiny white pinpricks on the black canvas of space, winking softly down on me. The bitterness of the wine is somehow sweet to me.

A soft breeze blows and I see the faint outlines of some of the kid’s toys tumbling through the yard. Half a mile down the road I can see the next house, illuminated by a brilliant white nightlight. My own yard’s dark. Concealing. I take comfort in the anonymity the shadows give.

I hear the light footsteps on the deck behind me the second before the blinding lights fill my vision. Pain racks through my head. The scent of spilled wine fills my nostrils. My hands dig into broken glass and I wince. I’m hit a few more times while I’m down, and soon I find my hands are tied behind my back and my head is covered.

I’m marched back into the unfamiliar house. Kind voices tell me to keep calm. What do they expect me to do? I’m as calm as I’ve ever been. Apparently my wife and children have left me, but for the life of me I can’t recall the kid’s names. I’m aloof as to why. The only picture of Ella that I can think of is of a small, white girl with brown curls, walking down a dirty road hand-in-hand with a poor, brown boy. Her eyes are the same color as a November sky, impressive grey. I don’t know who I am. Confusion, when completely accepted, is a type of calm.

The bag is removed from my head after I’m seated into one of the kitchen chairs. I’m completely bound to the seatback. My captors all stare at me with hate or curiosity. One is a middle aged woman who looks vaguely familiar. Her blond hair is in a pony-tail, and her eyes greet me with disdain. Another is a nondescript man, full of muscle and strength. He stares at me with blank eyes. The final is a handsome man, his black hair parted and mustache groomed. He looks at me with intent and a smile. He, too, looks slightly familiar.

“Do you know why we are here?” asks the small man. I shake my head, determined to remain compliant. “Hmm. I thought as much.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, “Do you know who you are?” I blink and shake my head. “Hank, I am here to set things right in the natural order of things. Long, long ago I began my work. I worked side by side with Dr. Edison, creating many of these glorious machines we have and use today. Together we were pioneers in the bioelectric and mechelectric fields. Unfortunately, our interests were not always aligned, and so we parted ways.

“I remained dedicated to my calling, progressing leaps and bounds in my work. I found a way to harness and cultivate electrodes in the air, and I knew that this was the way of the future. Countless hours later…” I find myself losing focus. It seems like it’s been ages since I’ve heard so many words. I can’t help myself when I yawn. The man stops talking immediately.

He glares at me for a brief moment and then his smile returns. “Of course, you must be exhausted. A night with no rest will do that to you, eh, and after this many years you’re bound to be worn thin. How is your mind?”

It takes me a second to realize that he’s asked me a question. How do I respond? I don’t know enough to lie, so I’m stuck with the confusing truth. “I’m not sure,” I croak out. My voice is only slightly louder than a whisper. It sounds strange to my ears. “Everything is uncertain.”

The woman is growing bored, it seems, though she still looks at me with hate-filled eyes. “Yes, I imagine it is Hank.” He speaks my name with confidence, like he knows me. My name is one of the only things of which I am certain. “And I am sorry for the way this was handled, but we’ve been trying to locate you for a very long time, and were quite unsure as to how you would react. Thus, we felt that care should be taken to avoid any chance of escape.”

Escape? Why would I run? I don’t understand anything, so I simply nod. “Good. Dr. Hatley, would you mind prepping the serum? Hank,” he says, turning back to me. “I’m going to have Dr. Hatley give you a shot. It will help you relax. When you wake up you’ll feel much better. Is that okay?”

I don’t like the way the woman stares at me, the way she’s holding the syringe, but I remain compliant. I nod again. She steps close to me and I feel a pinch in my arm. My eyes, already heavy, grow suddenly more burdensome to keep open. I blink a few times, seeing my captors watching me with the same mix of eyes: anger, apathy, and curiosity. Within a span of seconds, I keep my eyes closed and fall gently into the realm of Dream.

Writing Wednesday's: The American Dreamer 1.1

This is a continuation of last Wednesday's post titled The American Dreamer. If you missed Post 1, click here to read it first. This chunk of story doesn't seem too exciting, but there are glimpses and character insights. Next week should get interesting. Feedback in the comments is greatly appreciated.

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Pastor Andrew

Most of the folks here in Mt. Easter treated the Tasla’s with the same kind of attitude that they’d give a white family. There were a few families that didn’t take too well to a black family moving in up here, like the Stevenses and the Hatleys, but the majority of folks didn’t care one way or another. The Bible tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves, and I reckon that applies to people of any color. But I imagine they had it pretty hard those first few years, harder than most. Hank, yeah, he was always a pretty good boy.

Hank

Today, after school ended, Ella and I took our time walking home. We both had chores to do, but neither of us really wanted to go home. We wanted to spend time together. I’m not sure why she is my friend, but I’m glad that she is. And while most of my classmates are kind to me, only two of them are really friendly: Ella and Jimmy McNayre. The rest of them either tolerate me or openly dislike me. But we walked leisurely, talking and laughing and enjoying each other’s company. I can tell by the way she looks at me that she likes me, but for the life of me I can’t fathom why. People look down on that sort of thing, and I don’t want her to be looked down on by no one. Even though we got in trouble when we got home, it was worth it to spend some extra time with her.

Hank

There was a man and a woman, both older than me, both dressed in white coats. I was in a room filled with all sorts of strange devices. I was strapped to a bed and held against my will. The woman was harsh and ruthless, speaking to the man with contempt in her voice, and in turn to me like I was an animal that could not comprehend her words. Indeed, what she said I did not understand. The man padded my arm gently and spoke to me soothingly, but he did not attempt to free me from my restraints. Some sort of loud beeping put the room in a frenzy and they began running about to different machines, trying to stop the shrill noise. I struggled to rise but could not. All I could do was move my head about slightly and look around, curious but confused. It seems that more often than not now I dream of these machines. The word for them is on the tip of my tongue, but lost in the fog of my weary mind. I cannot recall. Already the dream is fading and I am forgetting it. I remember the word TESLA embossed on the side of one of the machines. I remember smelling smoke near the end. I remember a woman’s scream and an incredibly loud bang, louder than a rifle shot. Everything was chaos, and I was unable to move.

Narrator

The Tasla family came to Mt. Easter in the Fall of 1880. It was suspected that the family won its freedom after the War ended, but no one knew for sure. Some said that the family was indeed slaves, but their owners treated them with kind hearts and compassion. Others said that the family had never been in servitude and actually immigrated to America in pursuit of the American Dream. Mr. Tasla was an educated and skilled man who had worked in construction, engineering, and manufacturing. In Mt. Easter his considerable talents were limited to mining. Mrs. Tasla was several years younger than her husband, still in the prime of her thirties, and her occupation in Mt. Easter was namely taking care of the house. She was also with child when she arrived in Mt. Easter, much to Hank and Mr. Tasla’s excitement. The family lived in a spare room of Pastor Andrew’s home until they could build their own house, which was completed within two years of their arrival. During that time, the Tasla’s and the Andrew’s became dear friends.

Essie Pearson

I’ve known the Thompson family since I was a young girl. Me and Lynne grew up together and have always been around each other. Johnny was a little older than us, but not by much. Near the end of our schooling Lynne got married to Johnny and a few months later they had their first child, John Jr. A couple of years later came the twins, Richard and James, and eventually Ella. She was brought up in a house full of boys, and it’s no wonder that she’s a tough girl. I’ve watched all the Thompson children grow up, partially with a jealous eye, as I always hoped that Johnny would choose me over Lynne. But the Lord saw fit to bless me with a wonderful husband of my own, and I know that He knows what’s best for me.

Hank

I’ve had these vivid dreams for as long as I can remember, but the idea of writing them down only started a year or so ago. And since I dream every night, I’ve gone through several journals. Back when I first started talking about my dreams to folks they looked at me like I was soft in the head, or like I was spewing childish babble. Sure, I was young, but it was amazing. The dreaming has been an integral part of my life, and as such, it is part of who I am. How can I not talk about it? It didn’t take long for me to stop talking about them in public, to pretend like they didn’t happen. Even Mother and Father frown when I mention them. Ella is the only one I can go to. She’s the only one who will listen to me, but I can’t tell her everything.

Writing Wednesday's: The American Dreamer 1

Hank

I read that the world is going to end with a bang. One day the tractor will run again. My left wrist is hurting, but that’s not unusual. Most of these sentences have been relatively simple; I should complex it up a bit. I’m already stalling. My mind wants to focus on something—anything—but it can’t. I want this stuff to stop. I think I’m losing myself. Where did I put that vase? Mother’s going to kill me. I keep hearing this ringing, but I don’t know what it is. And I’m so tired…

Narrator

The first time Ella saw Hank, she didn’t think he was anything special. Sure, he looked different, with his skin that milky brown color and his eyes so black, but mostly he just looked normal. Not like the person she was going to fall in love with and marry. But first impressions are often so wrong. Hank proved to be unlike anything she’d ever imagined. Sometimes she thought his brilliance was too much, that he really was “off his rocker,” like her Mama would say, like when he would ramble and say things that made no true sense to anyone, not even the dogs. Other times he would just stare and say nothing at all. Always, though, he was sweet and loving, especially to Ella.

Hank

Sometimes I get the distinct impression that I’m more than just Hank Tasla, that I’m really more than one person, living more than just one life. This is the main one, the most important one, the one that I’m pretty sure is the real one, but sometimes I have my doubts. When I lay down at night, my dreams are so surreal and vivid that I’m sure they are actually happening. I dreamt last night that I was a little boy of five or six, playing on the floor with colorful, soft things and small, plastic men, beneath the glow of a wide moving picture-box. The box was mesmerizing, but so were the toys. I don’t even know how to describe the things I was seeing or doing, but it felt just like I was really there, doing it. Of course, when I woke up this morning I was here again, in my own bed. This is the way it always happens, but sometimes I wonder if I’ll stop waking up here and stay where I’m dreaming.

Irene

Ella and Hank walked to school together every morning. She was a head-and-a-half taller than him, but that is not unusual among adolescent children. They would go off down the dirt road toward the little one room school in Mt. Easter, always side by side. The walk would take their little legs about half an hour to make, all the while picking up other students on their trip. I’d sit here on this porch and watch ‘em make that trip almost every morning, curious to see how the situation would turn out. The Tasla’s were the first colored family to move to this region, so I had an interest in seeing how the young boy would be treated by his peers. Ella seemed to take to him all right.

Hank

I did well on my spelling words Mrs. Epperson assigned to us, but I’ve always thought that I had a good grasp on vocabulary. Perhaps it’s from the dreams. Sometimes I am an older man, with a job and a family, a house and a car, a large television and a small cell phone. I’m experienced and educated, so I already know these words. But whenever I bring up these strange things to anybody around here, nobody knows what I’m talking about. ‘Hank,’ they say, ‘you’ve got such a wild imagination.’ Maybe I do. And some days I can’t even remember what these devices are called. It’s all so confusing. That’s why I’ve started writing all of my waking thoughts down.

A New Story, A New Song, A Bad Post

As many of you are aware, I have been working on a new story, which is currently and tentatively titled 21 Deaths and Grim, A Portrait of Life. I'm not sure how much I like the working title, but that's where I'm at now. The story is really many different brief tales, all interwoven and connected with the protagonist, Grim. Grim, essentially, is a deity that we know as Death. I'm writing Grim's part as journal entries (or at least that's what it is now) for what he's done through the day, and interjecting prose on the Task itself.

Now let me take a minute and say yuck. It seems so much easier to write a synopsis or blurb about someone else's work. Possibly because I'm not finished, but probably because it's my own self describing my own work. How do I sound objective and self-pleasing both without coming off as proud and cocky? Blah. Let's move on.

I'm writing because the story came to me and I enjoy writing (especially short story fiction). If you like it, then I am twice pleased. If you don't, then I still am pleased, as the process alone is fun and entertaining, even if I'm writing about death.

This sentence serves as a transition, conditional upon you convincing yourself that there is a nice transition here.

Some of you are aware that I am an engineer, and a few of you may know that I also am an artist. (Well, sort of.) I truly think that I'm a Jack of All Trades but Master of None. I can draw and paint, but not with amazing beauty like many others. I can play guitar, mandolin, dulcimer, harmonica, and the piano, but again not with the amazing talents like others. I can do some Differential Equations or solve a triple integral if you'd like me to, but I'm not a genius astrophysicist mad scientist. Heck, I can solve crossword puzzles from time to time, but I'm nothing compared to all those other crazy crossword solvers out there. I think my problem is that I enjoy doing so many things that I don't take time to hone in on one skill. Sure, I could devote all my time to painting, improving my artistic skill in that area, but I think I would miss the other things I do with my time.

I've been teaching myself to play the piano for the past year or so off-and-on, basically the same way I taught myself guitar and mandolin. Learn the chords, learn how to put your fingers there, throw in whatever you can and hope it sounds okay. So I'm going to now put this video here. You don't have to like it. It's okay. But doing this helps me get over some sort of mental-block. It's like throwing myself out there in hopes that I'll callous.

This was another post in a string of pointless and mundane posts, brought to you by logankstewart. I should have a book review for you tomorrow, if all goes according to plan. Take care folks.

Song Lyric: "Well there's a punk in the alley and he's looking for a fight, there's an Arab on the corner buying everything in sight, there's a mother in the ghetto with another mouth to feed, it seems that everyway we look today there's misery and greed. I guess you know the earth is gonna crash into the sun, but that's no reason why we shouldn't have a little fun, so if you think it's scary, if it's more than you can take, just blow out the candles and have a piece of cake. Happy Birthday!"--Weird Al Yankovic, Happy Birthday

1927: Steven Gray

He came out wailing, his barren gums bared for all the world to see. “Mr. and Mrs. Gray, you’ve got a beautiful son,” the doctor said. The woman’s face beamed bright enough to light the hospital room, and her husband’s face matched.

“His name is Steven,” said Mrs. Gray. The father nodded his approval.

In the corner of the room, where the shadows were darkest, two figures stood and watched the scene before them. One was tall, pale, robed in dark grays and blacks. He had a set of magnificent silver eyes. The other, a woman, was beautiful in every way, from her shining white hair to the complexion of her skin. Her eyes shone a brilliant blue, like the sky on a warm Autumn day. “It’s always so wonderful,” the woman said.

“Hmm,” responded her dark companion.

“Come on, Grim, lighten up a little. You of all people should appreciate this.”

“I do appreciate it, Eose, but I have work to do here.”

The woman paled suddenly, all the light of her eyes going out and darkening. “You have work to do here? Which one is it?”

The man pointed at the elated mother. “I wanted to give her a moment with the child before I take her. I—”

“How dare you! Why didn’t you tell me?”

The baby’s crying was coming to an end, his mother’s soft voice comforting the child. “There, there, Steven. Don’t cry. Listen to mommy…”

“Don’t get mad at me, Eose.” His eyes were shining bright and silvery white, and he barely kept the full fury of his voice under control. “It is written and it must be followed. I cannot disobey.”

“You dare not disobey, brother.” She glared at him with a dark expression. He stared back. Finally, she broke the silence. “I’ve done my Task, you do yours. I’m leaving.” With that, she vanished into the shadows, leaving Grim alone with his Task in a room overflowing with joy. His shoulders sagged, as if he was pressed upon by a terrible burden.

He stepped out of the shadow and next to the woman on the bed. Her eyes looked into his silver eyes and realization dawned across her face. “No…please. Don’t.” The woman cried out suddenly in pain and the doctor rushed up to her. Her eyes were staring blankly off beside her bed. She began convulsing.

“What’s happening?” demanded Mr. Gray.

“I’m not sure. She didn’t appear to have any problems from the delivery.”

The baby began crying again, his eyes wide with fear. A nurse patted him gently.

“Don’t worry, child. I am not here for you,” Grim said reassuringly.

“Don’t. No. Please.”

“Get me the paddles now. She’s going into cardiac arrest.”

“Helen! Helen!”

Steven continued to cry as the doctor worked fruitlessly on the lifeless body of his mother.

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This is a work of fiction tentatively titled 21 Deaths and Grim, A Portrait of Life. The first post is available here, and the follow up is here, if you're interested.

A Portrait of Death: Death

I’m not sure how long I’ve been doing this. Everything back then was so hazy. But we’re all created for a purpose, and it so happens that my purpose is to end life. At first I relished my task, back when the world was wicked, back when things weren’t so complicated. No one is innocent, that is true, and everyone must perish. That is the way of things. The way it was Ordained. And I can’t refuse. How can I say no? The song that burns within me compels me to do it, as does my devotion to the cause. Everyone must perish. It is the Law. It is the Curse. Still, sometimes I can’t help but feel a little sorrow where my heart would be.

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Edit: This is a work of fiction, a short story interweaving journal articles from Death (like this post) and his many exploits.

A Portrait of Death: Gabriel

Gabriel picked up his coffee mug, frowning as a bit of the tan liquid poured over the rim. As he brought the cup to his lips, he scalded himself on the burning hot drink. He wrinkled his nose and took a quick sip. He looked up and saw a man standing in front of his office door. “Hello, Gabriel. I’ve been waiting for you.” The man appeared young, his handsome face smooth and ageless. His silver eyes looked ancient, if that was possible. He was holding a katana in his left hand, a tall staff in his right. “Who are you?” he asked the stranger. “I am your destiny, Gabriel. I’m here to offer you a choice. Eternal Peace or Eternal Life?” Gabriel carefully placed his mug back on his desk. The two stared hard at each other for a while, Gabriel frowning and the stranger smiling with sincere joy. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. As you can see, I’m really quite busy and don’t have time for this.” The stranger remained motionless, but his face hardened. “You know, Gabriel, you’re right. You, nor I, have time for this. Let me introduce myself. I am Grim the Almighty and Thanatos the Terrible. I am Azrael and Izanami, Lord of the Black and Father of Night. All men come to me, Gabriel, and now you are here. Now take your pick.” The stranger thrust out his hands, offering the sword and staff to Gabriel. The room grew suddenly cold, and Gabriel could feel his skin chill and harden. It seems, he thought, that in death we truly understand what cold is. “I will not choose,” he heard himself say defiantly. No! That’s not what I wanted to say. “Very well. I will choose for you.” Everything happened in a supernatural quickness. The man stepped forward. The katana was unsheathed. The cold, hard steel pierced through Gabriel’s chest, biting deep into his soul, spreading its destructive cold through his body. The blade was withdrawn, wiped clean, and sheathed in a matter of seconds. Gabriel stared in shock, unable to move, unable to speak, eyes wide and mouth open. As he felt the cold take him over, his dying thoughts were of the steaming cup of hot coffee sitting on his desk and the silver eyes of his killer.

Part IX--Rol (The End for Now)

----------Part IX------------

I believe in yesterday.

Rol flew through the Heavens, faster than he thought possible. Even as a god, it takes time to travel, and the universe is a large place. Small debris occasionally hit him, but he ignored the pain. He had to get to Astaran.

He passed by large chunks of rock, some bigger than planets. He passed by stars of every age, from small white balls to massive red spheres. He passed through collapsed stars, their lives ending in an implosion of mass and gravity, spewing metallic colors of blue, green, and red onto the black palette of space. Normally Rol would look on the beauties of the Heavens and Astaran’s Creation, praising God for the beauty He made.

Instead, Rol barely glimpsed the wonders of creation as he traveled, his mind intent on reaching God.

It is difficult to judge time when traveling through the Heavens. It is difficult to judge time when dealing with Immortals. Rol did not know how quickly Golian’s plan would affect the planet, but he knew that the Earth would be in trouble if he did not intervene and act quickly. He could still hear the planet’s cry in his mind…

At one point the Caretaker had to slow and skirt around a Black Pit, a prison Astaran created to punish those that transgressed His will. From Earth, the route to Astaran was direct, but very lengthy. The Heavens are enormous, and Earth is positioned near the Outer Black Territories. It is strange, thought Rol as he circumvented the prison, careful not to get within its gravitational sphere of influence, that Earth is so close to the Outer Black. A planet so far from Astaran somehow rises above the expectations. Perhaps the Steward has been tainted, being so close to the Territories, and that is why he insists on destroying the planet. But what could be influencing Golian from within the pull?

Eventually the Caretaker made his way through the Black Pit region. He flashed on through the Heavens, stars and planets streaking by him as he continued inward, his mind troubled.

-------------------------->+<-------------------------

Well folks, I hope you've enjoyed my little short story. Part IX is the end of "Working Title TBD" Volume 1. Perhaps I've piqued your interest, perhaps I've bored you to tears. Either way, it's been fun writing. Everyone loves a little zombie story, and I think a zombie-fantasy-scifi work should be a different genre in its own right. I've already written more past this part, but I'll post no more here (at least not for now). Maybe I'll do like Cap'n Joe's and post on Authonomy (which, by the way Cap'n, I've not managed to finish your work, but I've liked what I've read so far) sometime in the future. I'm up to around 13,000 words or so. Not high quality words, mind you, but words that make some sort of sense. Anyway, thanks for reading everybody. Truly. And, as always, thanks for stopping by Rememorandom.

[A note for the Facebook readers: Until yesterday, I forgot that every post I make is simultaneously posted on Facebook. So, if you've been reading along, know that you're most likely missing out on all the perks of reading the posts on my blog, namely fancier formatting, embedded hyperlinks (with usefull/useless info!), colors, and a few other things I can't think of. Plus, your comments only show up on Facebook instead of also on my blog, which I tend to access more often and therefore see more often. You can follow the link (or copy and paste www.logankstewart.blogspot.com into your browser) to get to my blog, Rememorandom. Once there, you can become a public Follower of me, or you can RSS me. But I'd rather have the followers. It's a bit vain, I know, but hey, I bet I think this song is about me. Or you can just read from Facebook, though you'll be sorry to know all the totally-radical and awesome things you've missed.]

[[A note to the random reader: And if you've just stopped by by pure random happenstance, then I welcome and apologize to you simultaneously. A "Hello, I'm so sorry" from the bottom of my heart.]]

Part VIII--Janosh

Today I've posted two different pieces of the story, Part VII and Part VIII. If you've not read VII, just scroll down or click here.

-----------------Part VIII-----------------

Now I need a place to hide away...

“Brothers and Sisters,” Pralis announced to the congregation. The group consisted of two men and two women, not including Janosh and Pralis. They were all robed in black and green, though their chests were bare and bloody. They all stopped what they were doing and turned to the speaker. “This is Apostle Janosh.”

The group stared at the new comer, studying him, and Janosh grew uncomfortable. They’re staring at my missing arm, he thought.

“Is he the last,” one of them finally asked.

“Yes, he is the last, Arnothe,” Pralis answered. “Lord Golian was specific in picking Janosh to be the final Apostle. He has feasted once and has been Earthing since early morning.”

“When will it start, then,” a woman asked.

“Very soon, Taneil. When night falls, Lord Golian will come and give us our final assignments.” The crowd seemed to grow restless at this, and Janosh reacted with them, uncertain what to expect with the assignments. “Now, I imagine Janosh has many questions, and we will give him the answers we can until Lord Golian appears. He has just Awoken as of last night, after all. But first,” he said smiling, “let us feast.”

At this, the congregation let out a bestial growl, their stomachs rumbling with their voices. Pralis led them to a locked basement door. He regarded everyone for a moment and then proceeded to the lower levels. They walked down a long corridor, the working white fluorescents making them appear ghostly. Janosh noticed bloodstains on the floor and walls, and occasionally there would be a pile of bones. They stopped outside a large, heavy door.

Janosh thought he could hear moaning coming from inside.

Behind him, the other Apostles were growing restless. Pralis ordered everyone out of their clothes. They stripped down, and Janosh marveled at the bodies. The flesh was a mixture of milky white and dark splotches, as if large bruises were under the skin. His own was not as foreign as the others, as he had only recent been transformed. “It’s so we don’t soil the robes,” one of the Apostles whispered to him, clearly seeing the confusion in his eyes.

Janosh noticed that some Apostles looked mostly like skeletons, with a loose layer of flesh and muscle covering the bones. Others, like himself, still had most of their fat and muscle mass.

Pralis turned back to the door and placed his hands flat on it. After a few seconds, the door began to open. It slid sideways, slowly, and as it opened the Apostles grew even more restless. The smell of flesh intoxicated him, and he could feel his mouth watering. “Droe. Reial. Leave two alive,” Pralis commanded as the door finished sliding open.

The people inside began screaming for mercy.

-----+-----

In the second before Janosh rushed into the room, he observed his surroundings. Huddled together in the semi-lit room were nine people. Some were old, some were young. Some were fat, some were thin. All of them were terrified.

Then the six Apostles were on them, consuming flesh and blood. They screamed as their bodies were torn to shreds by the hungry Apostles. Two random victims were thrown against the far wall, their bones crunching loudly as they hit. Janosh lost control of himself to the strong commands from his stomach. It’s almost like there’s something deeper inside me that is telling me to feast, he thought as he cast a bone aside.


It didn’t take long to finish their meal. Pralis stopped them, reminding them that they had to keep two alive. They were all bloodied and dirty. Pieces of flesh stuck to their skin. They were all smiling, temporarily appeased. The thin ones even were slightly bloated, their stomachs bulging a little.

The two survivors were left in the room, along with what was left of the corpses. As the door closed, they began moaning again. Pralis led the group to a shower room, where they washed the filth and blood from them. Once finished, they re-dressed. Pralis gave Janosh a matching black and green robe. Then they returned to the main floor, sitting in chairs and on the floor.

“Now,” Pralis said, taking a seat, “let us help you to understand what is happening, Janosh.”

Part VII--Marle

-------------Part VII----------------

Yesterday. Love was such an easy game to play...

The man staggered as he tripped over something low to the ground. Touching it, he thought it was a stone of some type. He felt the grooves in the rock’s flat face. They were letters and numbers. A tombstone? he thought. He could not see anything but black. A thick, impermeable black. Something was tied around his face, blocking his vision. He reached up, tearing the cloth free and opened his eyes.

And still there was only black. Frantic fingers found only empty sockets. He began to run and tripped again.

Yes, that’s what it is. A tombstone. I’m in a cemetery. I climbed out of a casket and through all the dirt. The man gave me a special task. He saved me. I hunger. What’s happened to me? Why can I not see? He continued on his way, tripping frequently. Although he was blind, his sense of smell was amazing. He could smell the flowers that spotted many markers and the butterflies that nestled in them. He could smell smoke in the air, probably from an industrial section of the city. And, ever so faintly, he could smell food wafting through the air.

Following his nose, he stumbled out of the cemetery proper. It was dark, and no one noticed him. His mind wandered as he made his way to the gates. I died. I saw the Dark Man and the dark things everywhere. I remember now. I tore my eyes out to stop seeing them. I died! And now I live. The man promised me food, plenty of food, and that I should never be hungry again, once I make it out of here. He called me to shed my former identity and gave me my new name: Marle. A name of power, he said. A name of importance.

He walked along the perimeter of the fence, searching for an exit. As he did, he picked up a strong scent of flesh. He took off running in the direction of the odor, tripping and falling like a drunk. In a few seconds, he knew he was close. It was almost as if the black he saw was tainted in red.

Someone was laughing. Marle ran at the noise, colliding with his prey. His victim was a young man who happened to be thrill seeking inside the cemetery after hours. Marle’s hands tore at the man, his fingernails cutting bloody marks into his soft flesh. He pulled the arm to his mouth and bit into the wrist.

Around him, the boy’s friends came to help out their assaulted mate. Apparently they’re some sort of gang or something, Marle thought. His other senses began to bloom as the flesh and blood made its way into his system. He heard a swooshing in the air, but did not connect it with the baseball bat that hit him in the head until it was too late. The first victim was screaming in agony as Marle dropped him from his dazed hands. The bat slammed into his right knee cap, and Marle fell to the ground.

“Let’s get outta here,” one boy yelled. Marle came back up, slowly, and the scent of flesh overtook him. He lost himself in his mind. Deep instincts took over, and Marle pounced on the fallen, injured boy. Marle bit deep into the tender flesh on the neck, blood spewing out. Such sweet food! his mind rejoiced. The blood seemed to fuel him, and he tore free more flesh.

-----+-----

Most of the gang had fled after seeing the monster bite into Robbie. Jason, however, was his best friend, and he would not let that thing get away with it. He pulled his dad’s 9mm out of his backpack and approached the thing. It was crouched over Robbie, ravenously eating his friend. He noticed Robbie’s head lying slightly away from the body. In less that two minutes, the thing had tore the boy to pieces, gorging itself on his flesh.

Jason stepped nearer, aiming the gun at its back. The thing was too preoccupied to hear him approach.

“This is for Robbie,” he whispered, emptying the magazine into the creature. The thing slumped over Robbie, letting out a startling scream as it did. Jason stood still, watching for any signs of movement. He dialed the police on his cell. “My friend has just been attacked and killed. I killed the thing that did it to him. We’re near the mausoleums of Willow Hill Cemetery.” He hung up.

The creature had not moved, but Jason wasn’t taking any chances. He put his last bullet in the gun and walked over to the bodies.

-----+-----

Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Marle’s mind was screaming. He had been feasting, enjoying the delicious flesh, when he felt the bullets plow into him. Even though he was dead, the pain still persisted, and it was intense enough to render him momentarily unconscious. His mind was swimming and spinning from the pain, and his whetted stomach was fighting to wake him up and finish his meal.

In the end, however, it was anger that woke him. The shooter was close; Marle could smell his blood. He could also hear the quick beating of his heart. In a flash, he was off the dead body and leaping through the air. He plowed into his attacker, and the two wrestled for a moment. Marle found a reservoir of strength deep inside, and he forced the boy to the ground.

Another gunshot rang out, putting another bullet in Marle, this time his side. The blind man’s mind snapped, and his humanity left him. He was no longer Marle, he was a beast. Furious at being shot, and furious that his meal was interrupted, Marle’s instincts controlled him. He bit into the boy’s face, tearing free his nose. Blood erupted, and Marle stuck his tongue out to taste. He bashed the boy down into the ground, ripping flesh free.

He finished feasting on his second victim, ignoring his pleas for help. After both bodies were consumed, Marle belched, like a small dog that’s overstuffed itself. He stood cautiously, aware of the nausea poring through his body and the pain in his knee. His mind was still in the wild. In the distance he heard a shrilling siren, and part of his brain connected it with danger.

I have to accomplish what he sent me to do, he thought reasonably. But I could stay and have more to eat… He decided to flee, leaving his prey out in the open for someone else to find. The bones are too tough, anyway.

Like an animal, he ran, this time not tripping over stones as he had before. The food gives me power. I am not as clumsy. My body is stronger, too. I need to finish this business, then find more to eat.