Last year I wrote “The Abomination of Corvintown” as backstory for a D&D character, but held it in the hope that I’d get to tell the story in-game. That didn’t happen, so now I’m making it public. It’s pulpy and grim, and I think it came out very close to how I intended it. Go read it.
I was in the Duke’s army for a year, didn’t like it. Shitty food, pay was only a promise, and the officers were all stuck-up bastards. I had to see out my year, and a little more from the stockade. Then I went looking for my brother in the Greymark.
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Bethany couldn’t believe they would actually kill her. For what? In some kind of insane ritual? They looked like cheap horror extras, with a cramped basement for their stage and an altar that was despite its appearance certainly not solid stone.
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Caroline gestured, and the two acolytes came forward, hustling Bethany between them. She was gagged and her arms bound behind her, but she tried to struggle anyway, her eyes wide and wild. While they tied her to the slab, Caroline began lighting the candles in sequence, waiting for them to finish and step outside the circle before she lit the final one.
Yikoon did not announce his presence, and his skill was sufficient to evade the wards set by the Temple Elders. He hid himself in disused spaces, and waited patiently before moving from one to another. For weeks he used his sorceries to blunt his hunger, and watched. Dedication to his goal kept him silent, observant, and still. Finally he had knowledge and confidence enough, and he made his way into the compound of the Temple’s child sorcerers.
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I died a while ago. I’m not sure how long, but it can’t be more than a few years. I don’t keep track of time too well.
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I found myself outside a large building, a building that looked familiar. After a few moments, I realized that it looked like many buildings I had encountered in my life, especially in childhood.
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She didn’t like waiting. She knew it was better for her to be in the car, but it still irked her.
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Grey. Grey, somehow flat, but fully three-dimensional. Grey, with no horizon, no ground or floor, no ceiling, no sky. And no I. Just thoughts.
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My headache was getting worse. I ignored it and walked down the corridor, into the main chamber.
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I was barely halfway down the ladder when the first ones hit. A series of deep, bass booms. I could feel the vibration in my fingers. And just like that, I had a headache.
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The fourth and last (to date) finished story in the same series that began with ‘TTCS’, this one is a little different from the others, but the impact of that difference is for you to decide: ‘A City Tale’.
Curious Eddy was dead. At least that’s what Mrs. Curious Eddy said to me. She seemed sincere, but I’d learned to never take anything for granted. I told her I’d ask some questions, see where some things stood, and get back to her on whether I’d take the case.
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About 16 years ago I wrote (the first version of) the first short story that felt significant to me. I’d written stories before, but this one was really mine somehow, and achieved its purpose more fully than any I’d done previously. It’s part of a series, an unfinished series that I’ve written several stories from. I’ve shown them to people, read them at workshops, distributed them in magazines, but for some reason I never put them online. Until now. Childish juvenilia or important early work, your call: ‘TTCS’ (this is the third and last version, from early 1993).
The horseman rode slowly along the path, evidently not in any hurry. Two swords stuck out from under his cloak. He wore a plain helm with no visor.
“What brings you, noble sir, to our lady’s lands?”. Pulling to a halt, the rider regarded the small man who had issued the question.
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Stretched out ahead of her, the land was red and orange, scattered with yellow grass and rocks. Hard country, hot and dusty and lean, but she had plenty of water.
She didn’t look behind her. She knew what was back there.
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“… so anyway, eventually I got it off the fucker. Some fuckin’ nerve, though, enh? Uh-huh. Three fuckin’ weeks! Ahhhh. Whac’n ya do?”
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The sound of the subway was loud. The rhythm of the wheels passing over breaks in the track was uneven, jarring. I hated going into the South Bronx. Especially on the subway. Especially at night. There were a lot of weirdoes around. They made me jumpy. My gun was kinda showing under my leather, though, and it should stop any trouble. The party had better be a good one. Find some girl with some talents, yeah, some skill and enthusiasm, yeah.
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The bus pulled into the terminus. I took my bag from the overhead rack and walked off the bus out into the city. My watch read 22:24. Light from glaring neon signs bathed my face as I walked to my hotel. The city was dying, but in this part of it I could feel its life. I was glad to be back, and happy that the city and I had both survived our time apart.
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Muriel Weatherspoon: “…The teenage cultural scene, ladies and gentlemen, is dominated by illegal drug use, underage drinking and illicit sex. Teenagers seem drawn to these like a fish to water, and the immorality of today’s ‘hip’ (to use a currently ‘in’ word) lifestyle is a terrible influence. We, those who care, must…”
The fish tank wasn’t a real fish tank. It seemed like one, but if you looked closely you see it was a screen displaying computer generated fish in computer generated water swimming around computer generated rocks and plants. Someone called my name, so I looked away to reply.
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