A Raven’s Lunch and Other Happenings

This is a past bit of short fiction for Warhammer Fantasy written in 2008 and published sometime in 2009. It follows a very unfortunate young wizard who happens upon a pair of Chaos magi somewhere in the frozen North. Enjoy.

An unnatural shriek pierced the frigid air and Enid’s head snapped up. Somewhere something hideous had just been born, something ripped from the Aethyr, born of chaos and black magic, she knew that scream. With a pained expression she pushed herself forward, the frigid air wrapping itself around her. The exposed skin on her arms flared to life, the strange runes glowing brightly as she channeled the red wind, steam poured off the heated skin and as she slogged through the deep snow it trailed after her like a billowing cloak of mist.

It didn’t take long for her to find the source of the the screaming. In the snow the rubbery blue grey flesh of the demon still writhed in the snow, the blood of its unnatural birth trailing from its form. Of the thing’s sorcerous midwife there was no sign. The wind whipped up again, biting at Enid’s cheeks as she surveyed the wreckage of battle, she could feel the pull of the red wind. Another wizard had fought here, possibly died here, as evidenced by the melted slush of snow and ice.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled as Enid stretched out her arm and stirred the remnants of the red wind’s presence back into life. The magical energies flowed down her arms and her hand burst into flame as a crimson ball of fire shot out from her hand to engulf the creature. It screamed again, in pain and turned to look at her. It moved with a strange jerk and then exploded, firey scraps of skin and guts raining down over the battlefield before sinking into the snow with a sizzling hiss.

“Very pretty.” came a voice on the wind and Enid turned, unsurprised to see the man atop the hovering disc, the wind swirling snow amongst his strange blue robes.

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Writing Challenge #4 - Trail

Writing Challenge #4

The challenge word is: trail

My chosen genre: short fiction

“That was the day Mr.Tuna got himself covered in jellyfish. More than he knew what to do with. He wore it like a floppy hat and dragged the rest all the way through town. That was the day he became King Tuna.”

“Do crows have such fashion sense?” I asked.

“Well they apparently do,” Sumi explained.

“Mr. Tuna made certain it sat like a crown and all the neighborhood cats followed like it was some sort of parade.”

“Cawesome.”

“It was! Mr.Tuna - King Tuna - got to the square and perched himself on the edge of the fountain, whipped out a brush and some parchment and made himself a sign that said ‘Succulent Squid and Remarkable Jellies. 100% Natural.’”

“Do you think he did proper market research before setting prices?”

“Of course. King Tuna has a very keen insight to the human mind. An old lawyer used to feed him bits of liver outside the barber shop, but that was before the poor man was crushed by a Coke machine. King Tuna was special , but unfortunately the other crows ostrasized him quite fiercely.”

“Even with his chic style?”

“Even then. They would be all like ‘King Tuna thinks he is so great but he stinks like fish! Stay away!’That big grey one there, he is the worst. He really hated King Tuna.”

“Poor King Tuna.”

“I know. But see, the old guys down at the square would be like, ‘He’s a sharp businessman. That bird knows how to count and talk!’ So King Tuna was kind of disenfranchised.”

“I’m sure he had friends.”

“Not at all. Not really. Birds don’t actually use Twitter, you know, so it is pretty hard for them to make friends outside of their flock, and King Tuna didn’t have a flock.”

“Do you have any friends Sumi?” I brushed a stray hair from her eyes, those deep pools of endless black that just stared at me, gleaming in their heartbreaking innocence.

“You mean besides Art? Biggles is my best friend since I was 2. why would I need more?” The little black and white cat was situated in her lap, bathing itself for the sixth time. The slight whif of tuna was making Sumi’s story palpable.

Just then, Art returned with a cup of coffee. “Sumi is telling me about King Tuna.” I said. “He is the Kingpin Seafood dealer of the Crow Kingdom, but he doesn’t have any friends.”

Art took a seat next to Sumi and widened his eyes. “Is King Tuna that little black bird that sings outside the window?”

“He’s not that little. He’s actually quite big, and he doesn’t sing, he talks. When he listens to music, he prefers stuff without voices. Like Miles Davis.”

“He listens to Miles Davis?” I asked. ”Does he have a vinyl collection like Art?”

“Yeah. He found a record player in a dumpster and brought it back home, but that was before the Jellyfish Incident.”

“Who would throw away a record player?”

“Well the dumpster is in the Kero district and they always throw away stuff they don’t want anymore.” Sumi rolled her eyes dramatically.

“They’re like,’Ohhh this is sooo last week!’ and then they just throw it out the window.”

“I wish I could throw everything I own away and get something new.” Art said.

“Not me.” I said.

“That’s because everything you have is so cool.” Sumi said.

It was almost 3 in the morning by the time Sumi’s eyes began to flutter and her words began to run together. I pried Biggles from her lap while Art carried her to the couch, then wandered into the kitchen to find a beer. I was peeling back the tab when Art crept in and gave me a squeeze from behind.

“I’m sorry for waking you in the middle of the night and making you come all the way out here,” he said, “but I had no idea what I should do. She just showed up like that with Biggles and an empty backpack.”

I nodded and took a long swig of beer, wondering if this time I should stay.

“It’s not a problem. I even got a crazy photo of this guy on the train on the way over.”

“Show me.”

As we entered the studio, a queer sensation ran up the back of my neck. My foot hit something soft and wet just as Art said, “what the fuck?”

From an ink-black stain on Art’s couch led a trail of jellyfish around the table and through the cat-flap in the screen door…

Contributor stories:

Almeta Dellagnolo

Matt Gantner

David Butler

Sleepwalking

there is a warm and languid rain tonight
spreading a blanket of mist upon my gardens
it comes as a relief to me
a soothing medicine
to wash down the sickness of all the words I cannot speak
I walk in a slow trance like pace
my fingers trace
an uneven path over the leaves
wet and glistening//my bare feet
touch upon each stone
I walk upon the clouds in the wake of you
my thumb and forefinger pause to caress
a rose petal’s pearlescent softness
its aroma crisp and intoxicating
my mind swims and pools around your voice
nonetheless
with clarity
echoing the very epitome
my love
the breeze off the beach gently reaching
trying to wake me from my reality
without a sound I step again upon the way
why must you torment me so?
you, like the sweetest wine//seduces my soul
why are we both the same//my dearest friend
and the rain
like you are my very sky
becomes my tears
there is a path to be walked
but it is not this year’s
not this evening wandering
not these sharp pebbles like every thought
the grip of my rain soaked dress
your embrace
not the trees and the wind
whispering to my heart
your words
I turn to the moon with a request
Show me the way to the sand
a softer step
Show me the sun
a warmer touch
fill me with your wisdom to enlighten
so words at once become meaningless
for all time cherish me or release me
enchant me or forever more leave me
look at me and see the mystery
or eternally
we are but remnants within my garden
torn pieces of my dress
fluttering among the roses

©1999

3: Bridge

This week’s challenge word is: Bridge

There is no special vernacular for this week.

My chosen genre: Pop Fiction

“No matter how many Zen mentors or books or phases I experience, nothing has ever seemed to change my sentiment towards life in general. I still view it as an experience, and if it consistently sucks and you can’t seem to change it, you can choose to end it just like you can choose to let pink t-shirts and cell phone bling amuse you and keep you content,” I said, poking a piece of sushi with my chopsticks. Jeffrey blinked and slowly chewed a mouthful of tempura.

“I have done several things throughout my life to attempt to affect change for the better,” I continued, “usually concerning things I can control. That is, after all, the realistic approach. I have taken risks, followed my heart, had faith, been skeptical instead, tried therapy, tried drugs, tried the power of positive thinking, and even tried being happy with cell phone bling, you know? But it all lands me at the same place feeling like I will really only obtain happiness the day I die, or the day I find an island where no other human beings exist.

Humans cause suffering to others. Immense amounts of it, and they cause some to themselves, but nothing like they do to other people. Even the ones that think they are doing nice things, they are fucking up as well. Or blowing up. Or inciting riots.” I nudged the sushi around my plate, as if it would somehow sprout legs and gallop off, squealing in its new-found freedom.

“I got into a conversation the other day about winning the lottery. How awesome would that be?” Jeffrey swallowed.

“It wouldn’t be.” He dipped his head at my answer and I went on, “It wouldn’t change anything for the better. It would add responsibility, attract more people to make you suffer, change your priorities to include more material gain than internal gain. It might make you an EBay addict that fills your house with meaningless crap in boxes 8 feet high to the point where you can no longer see your furniture.”

“What would you do with it?” he asked.

“I would give almost all of it away, or else just use it to shelter and feed myself while traveling aimlessly looking for something to change my mind about all this,” I replied.

Being in a situation with seemingly no positive outcome surely makes a person pessimistic. I am also deeply depressed, which I won’t waste time denying. It makes it very difficult to concentrate, to articulate, to communicate. I haven’t felt like this for about 3 years. Sitting there watching Jeffrey’s face contort as he tried to digest my melancholy made me lose my appetite.

When I had talked to Anne about it, she assured me none of it is permanent and none of it should be shouldered like it’s a part of me that is flawed. Depression, she assured me, along with anxiety will cause all sorts of mental breakdowns beginning with standard processing of information.

I liked her explanation better than being told I am simply stupid. If I could meet myself as the men in my life saw me…and I am thinking of coworkers, boyfriends, and my father (especially lately), and not just Jeffrey… I see this insignificantly plain, blank, uninspiring, colorless, and frustratingly disappointing lump of flesh with one nice feature not worth insulting. It is the kind of person that works in a bar as a stripper, or cleans hotel rooms, or jumps off of bridges.

It’s not someone I want to be, but I am not in control of what they see.

“Let’s order some sake,” I said.

Stories from the circle:

Almeta Dellagnolo

David Butler

Matt Gantner

2: Plane

This week’s challenge topic is: Plane

This word has several meanings. Your story should embody this word using your unique perspective. You are not required to actually use the word, but if you don’t it should be clear to the reader what the topic was about.

Additional challenge word is: Dystopian

[dĭs-tō’pē-ən] (or dystopic) is the adjective form of dystopia, a place in which people live in misery. It derives from the literary invention of Utopia, an imaginary place in which human misery has been eliminated. The terms are common in film criticism.

You should try to use the challenge word at least once in your story as a vernacular exercise.

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1: Air

This week’s challenge topic is: Air and the challenge word is oblivion

Oblivion comes from the Latin oblivio (to forget). It means the state of being completely forgotten. If something is in oblivion, people forgot about it, or are totally unaware of it.

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50 Words Challenge

I am going to start a weekly project for keeping my writing skills sharp and would like to invite those of you with an interest for writing to join me! This project is organized via Google+ here.

The 50 Words project is not a new concept, but it is quite effective. The objective is to write a short post or story (1 page or less, but at least 200 words) using the weekly word as your inspiration. The challenge is that the work cannot focus directly on the word of the week - you must find new and unique ways of understanding the topic and presenting it to the reader in order to give them a new perspective.

Your genre can be whatever you want - use this as a copywriting, fiction or blogging exercise. You are only limited by your time and imagination, and you don’t have to be a pro to participate, and there will be no grading system.

If you would like to join in, simply post your work from your own profile (I recommend posting it to the public, but at least post it to a circle where I can read it) and link to it in the comments of my weekly challenge post. To help grow the challenge, feel free to re-share each week’s challenge with friends you think would be interested.