The Littlest Necromancer Rides Again

19 08 2015

I read a story once. 

I won’t bore you with the details but let me just say this: There were three brothers who worshipped a filthy god. One was a warrior of impressive skill, one was a powerful wizard, and the third was a beast; a great hulking thing that bore his siblings into battle atop his mighty shoulders. 

Oh and if the big one ate you alive he would pass you out as a twisted demon. 

Details, I know. 

Anyways the necromancer approached me the other day in her usual manner. Her expression was perplexed and her gaze was far off. Building my courage I asked her what she was thinking about.

“If I were a bug I think I’d be a mosquito.” She said.

“Okay. And why would you be a mosquito?” I asked.

She thought on this a little longer before continuing with a very matter of fact tone. “Because they suck blood and its okay. People don’t hate them because they suck their blood, just because they make you itchy.”

“Well, I guess that’s true. The itching is what people focus on.”

“I wouldn’t be like a regular one though.” she continued.

At this point I think most people would be a little surprised that their child didn’t admit to wanting to be more like a regular animal, say a lion or a pony or a unicorn, something you might see on National Geographic you know? I was expecting there to be more to this story and as always, she didn’t let me down. 

“I would be a really big one so that I could suck all the blood!”

Then she put her arms straight out to her sides flapped her hands at the wrist and rushed off making buzzing noises, stopping every few feet to make awful slurping sounds. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she sounded like a bumblebee. At least I think its because I didn’t have the heart to. I may have said it because I was still in a little bit of shock from the exchange I just had. 

In the end it doesn’t really matter. The weird keeps on keeping on around these parts. 





The Plain Beyond

17 08 2015

The summer months are for demons and devils they say. Hot weather and hellish humidity offer stinging previews for the evily inclined. Its hard to disagree, looking back at those days. June was disastrous, July was no better. Hell found its way into every crack and crease of life those first few months. But as they say, it was a sick preamble to the woes to come. 

There wasn’t much left out in the reaches already. War had laid the once bustling orbitals low. The great rings of iron dock and post no longer hugged the planet close at its waist. Now the greatest constructions in the history of that world hung like rusted halos around the necks of long dead angels. The armistice that followed paled in significance to the fallout. Some of that iron plummeted to the surface, smashing cities and townships alike, scarring the earth and killing its people. 

Doomsday became the official religion, cannibalism became kind of vogue, and coveting was the mildest thing you could do to your neighbors’ ass.

The day to day is a real bitch.

As the great doors to the vault swung ponderously outward on their hinges, the event was heralded by the torturous screech of metal that hadn’t been oiled in decades. Light spilled into the cavern beyond bathing a filthy face in gold. 

Shilo stepped beyond the portal doing his best to cover his eyes. At one time he had worn sunglasses on these rare excursions but they had been smashed to pieces on the last trip out. He was much like the rest of his neighbors; thin and frail wearing a dull gray jumpsuit that had belonged to who knows how many people. His hair was the color of dirt and about as clean. His face was smudged with motor oil and sweat, and a sad canvas pack hung from his back. 

Two others joined him. They weren’t much better off. 

Shilo turned to his companions, “Any idea how many?” He tightened the shoulder straps, eyeing the others. They shook their heads, preoccupied with what might be around them. 

Their complex was cut into a single mountain that dominated the surrounding landcapes. The magistrate likened it to a beacon he learned about in a book from a place on the old world; a city built on a hill that attracted people from miles around. He had never seen it. No one had.

It was just a mountain to Shilo. A mountain that hid his home, much like the rest of the complexes spread around the plain. The three began the trek down the low trails that would lead them amongst great boulders, big as houses, before giving way to the rolling fields of grains and tall grass beyond. There were others out there. 

Today they might finally find one. 





Gender What?

15 09 2014

Kyllan Brindle:

Strangers can be hard to deal with.
So I had a post half written the other day that I wanted to start the week off with but I decided to let it simmer because there is some important stuff I’m going to talk about.
Wait, I take that back. I’m not actually going to do any of the talking.
See, the family witch posted something in her corner of the internet last month that I keep thinking about. Here in the middle of September, I think it’s time I pass it along. So to kick things off.
Read.

Originally posted on Stuff! Also Things!:

I am not a kid-having person.  It has never been on my mental “to-do” list and has actually tended to weird me out to the point of semi-panic attack.  Thankfully, the Green Fox has duplicated and synthesized his DNA and so has fulfilled the Grandparent’s need for something to dote on and also to Carry On the Family Name.  Good for him.

I could seriously write out a huge long treatise on my not reproducing habits, but I will save that and focus on an odd series of events that has happened to friends/acquaintances around my internet world.

Thing the first:  Semi-good acquaintance has a son who has all the “I don’t give a fuck” and then some.  He has a ton of elder sisters and is totally happy playing with their gear and really digs owls.  Apparently, the boys section of the shops do not contain enough groovy owl…

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TOTALLY RANDOM FICTION

8 09 2014

Hey it’s Monday!

Have a random story snippet!

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The tune started like so many others. It was drunk and melancholy, drifting through back alleys and dark places, wrong turns, and dead ends. Notes, creeping like a serpent searching for a meal, hung on the coat tails and cloak hoods of any poor soul they could find. It was a heavy and oppressive music, a wonder that it could float at all from the twisted, hateful pipes that hung from the top of the old lighthouse, deep in the bay. Every night it would yawn over the harbor enrapturing sailors and drunkards and anyone else that would listen.

“It calls to me.” The meek would say.

“Rubbish.” The drunk would declare.

Repent, repent!” The pious would scream.

Garabaldi kicked a can off the edge of the pier, a sharp metallic sound echoing a short way out over the water before being drowned out by the dirge from across the harbor. The waves crashed against the old stone dock so high as to breach the top, soaking his black trousers and boots with salty splashes. He ran his hand down his shoulder wiping away an ever-present slick of water from his leather jacket. It was long and embroidered on the back was an iron nail on a field of red, the symbol of justice in what passed for a place like Bergen’s Bay.

Across his back was an old rifle, fitted for an army of an age long gone. At his side was a pistol of an entirely different era and a machete made from salvage metal. A wide brimmed hat, brown and beaten kept the rain off his face. He thumbed the machete handle, watching the light house torch spin about illuminating dark clouds in the sky. It was mesmerizing when paired with the droning of the pipes.

“And what brings the Bay’s youngest law man down to the pier?” the voice was deep and crackly; a smothered tone that hinted at ages of smoke. “I don’t imagine you’re just down for a visit, eh Garabaldi?”

“It’s too early. The house ain’t piped up at this hour in forty years. We got any traffic so far Bob?” the raspy sounding man cracked his knuckles and started to button his jacket. It was long and grey and torn; a family heirloom that once meant a whole hell of a lot more.

Things take on whole new meanings in Bergen’s Bay, usually empty ones.

“Actually no, nothing in the harbor near as I can tell.” He said, pulling a fat moleskin notebook from an inside pocket. He thumbed through the pages and said, “Looks like this may be the first time in a long time. According to the old records, hey look at that – forty years.”

Garabaldi plucked a cigar from a little belt pouch and lit it.

“What’s it mean?”

“Don’t know, Bob.” Garabaldi said. “You better see if you can call over to the light house. See if Bo knows something.”

“Me? Why do I have to call?” Bob choked.

“You’re the only one with a phone that works, now call him you damn fool.”

Before either could move the pipes stopped. Calm settled over the water in the bay. Only the lapping of water against the old pier could be heard. Not even the usual sobbing that accompanied the night was heard, no sign that the usual thugs and no good cancerous people of Bergen’s Bay were out.

But it was not to last and no sooner had Garabaldi resumed prodding the old bay master than the pipes let out another unexpected blast of sound. The noise wasn’t the usual droning, it was deep and angry and violent. The dock shuttered beneath them, the vibrations rumbled deep in their chests, numbing their bodies. The stone began to splinter and crack, the furthest reaches of the pier crumbling to dust, spilling into the water.

Deep in the harbor, beneath the surface, something stirred.





The Vixen and the Terror of Cirith Ungol

5 09 2014

Our house has a mailbox.

It isn’t so uncommon a thing, particularly in rural areas to have one. If we lived in a city I could see a PO box but since we live far from the jungles of glass and concrete and cement we have an actual, honest-to-goodness metal box sitting on a wooden post stuck in the dirt.

We have one of those rural mail carriers too. That’s a person that actually drives a car around to deliver your mail. This isn’t like a normal mail man though. They don’t have a fancy set of USPS shorts/pants/shirt/mailbag/poncho (for when it rains and snows.) He doesn’t drive a little white mail van with the blue stripes or anything. Nope. It’s a dude in a jeep of some sort that he owns. And sometimes when he isn’t around it’s a lady.

I don’t like the lady much; she waits to deliver the mail until waaaay later than the normal mail person.

But that’s all backstory. None of that is truly what is important. I don’t want to talk to you about the mail carriers or the box really. Those things aren’t that interesting. I want to talk about what’s inside the box.

One of Shelob’s distant cousins.

You remember Shelob don’t you? Well for those of you who may not remember/know what the hell is I’m talking about; it’s the giant spider that tries to make a lunch of a couple of hobbits in middle earth. That’s right, that thing guarded the pass Frodo and Samwise used to sneak deeper into Mordor. I’d take a picture of this mailbox dwelling beast but I’m afraid that if I tried the flash would send it into a seething rage and it might leap from its mailbox sanctuary to attack me.

Spiders never used to be something that I was incredibly cognizant of. Sure I would notice webs from time to time forming in out of the way places, strands of cob that you don’t ever see until they are thousands of tiny strands thick, clogging up a corner of the ceiling. I would also catch the occasional spider poking around the pool stairs when it was time to drag the things back to the pool so I could get in it again.

Now that the Vixen is in my life there seems to be a hell of a lot more. She has this weird sense. She is drawn to spider activity like shai-halud to a harvester. (Two uber nerdy references in one post, how do you like that?) Many a night I’ve spent responding to the horrified calls that yet another arachnid had been discovered and needed assistance in moving swiftly to the afterlife. (Which for spiders I’m told is hell given that it is their point of origin.)

No longer are these eight legged eaters of annoying insects allowed in my life. They have taken a different place all together. They are intruders and they are legion. A cobweb is no longer simply that. It is an indication that our perimeter has been breached and our defenses overcome, the only thing remaining that stands between happiness and the utter annihilation of my family is me and sometimes a long dowel or shoe or something for those times they are too high up for me to squash without additional reach.

That giant arachnid in the mailbox, easily shadowing a quarter with its size, is one that I have battle for my wife in the past. While she deals with turtles and turkeys and all other manner of other creature; she like any good superhero has a weakness. Arachnids are her kryptonite and being the loyal sidekick that I am in this crazy partnership called marriage, I step in to help.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The sun was high in the sky, it was hot, humid and the night couldn’t come fast enough. The mailman had recently been through so I volunteered to go get the mail. I opened the box and there it was, sitting on the lid, staring at me with all of its creepy little eyes which were actually big enough to make out fairly easily.

I moved to get the mail and it followed my hand, scurrying across the lid like a lion ready to pounce. I withdrew and eyed it for a bit. It returned to the forefront of the lid as if it were daring me to invade its newly acquired cardboard treasure horde. I told it to piss off. It didn’t.

So I got a stick.

When I returned to the box I found it had retreated down into the lip of the lid interior so that I could still see it but I’d have a hell of a time getting at it. The bastard knew. IT knew what I was doing. I thrashed and jabbed but either my stick kept hitting the lip or it was deflecting my blows. To this day I don’t know which it was.

Finally after I crossed the road and waited a bit it came out and actually started expanding a web on the exterior of the box. I waited until it rappelled down a bit, rushed over, hooked the line with my stick and pitched it into the hayfield. It flew a long ways and fell hard in the grass. And the box was safe.

Or so I thought. My work as a sidekick wasn’t over yet.

The spider is back.

It’s built a new web, inside.

It watches.

And it waits.





The Vixen and the Utica Pea Fowl

3 09 2014

Did you know pea fowl was even a thing? I saw it on a sign. Really.

The kids are big fans of the zoo. We’ve taken them on more than one occasion. We’ve even gone to more than one zoo.

Accidentally.

So far the one we favor is the Rosamond Gifford zoo in Syracuse, NY. (Which I like to pronounce wrong. If you tweak the ending just a little bit it sounds kind of like Arrakis! Two Dune reference in a week, BOOM!) It’s a lovely place; lots of animals, well maintained, inexpensive. The kids love it to death and the Vixen and I get a kick out of it ourselves, especially around the eagles with which the Vixen seems to have a special connection.

I’m pretty sure that she would take one home with her given the opportunity.

So what other zoos have we been to? I’m glad you asked.

The answer is the Utica zoo in the city of the same name. When we went there we went by accident even. Somehow the Vixen and I were both convinced that the zoo in Utica was the zoo from Syracuse and apparently forgot that we had even been to Syracuse in the first place. It’s like we had strokes.

So here we are stumbling around this zoo wondering why the hell everything looks so much different. We tried to reason that we came in a different gate than last time. We theorized that perhaps the renovations the zoo had been talking about on our last trip were just really quite extreme. When we had reached the end of the grounds and by using some quick google-fu we realized that we made a hysterical error and went to the wrong city.

These two places aren’t even close to being on the same level, I don’t know what the hell was wrong with us. Anyways, this is where the formal battle against nature first began.

We had just finished scoping out the monkeys which stood at the top of a hill where the gate was and decided that we would start heading downward toward whatever awaited us there. We had never been so we had no idea. Turns out the answer was a mouthy damn bird.

There was a point at which several paths intersected, several cages coming to a sort of crossroads clustered around a shed. Now it was my understanding that normally the animals are supposed to be inside some sort of fenced area or cage or something. Well, on top of the roof of that shed was a peacock. Soon as he saw us he started in with that ridiculous noise they make. It’s hard to reproduce but I think I have a decent impression down.

It goes something like this: Ur RuuuUUUUURRR!

Normally I wouldn’t think much of it but this bird was different. We had encountered peacocks at the Rosamond Gifford zoo and they were relaxed. This bird was all full or rage and angst man and he was telling the Vixen all about it.

Not wanting to perform a Pearl Harbor reenactment with this damn bird playing the role of the Japanese we took off for other parts of the zoo. Every time we started heading back that way though, even remotely close to toward the bird, it would go off. It was almost as if the peacock could sense my wife. Like he was seeing the chi of his enemy travel about the part, letting out braying war cries as the aura drew nearer.

That was the wake-up call. The moment of truth. The day the Vixen knew she would have to rise to the occasion and meet these animals head on.





My Wife the Superhero

1 09 2014

I always thought I’d grow up to marry someone special and I did. Clearly I had no idea how special.

Until now.

No one really expects that they’ll ever meet a superhero what with that being something you only see in fiction. Or at least that’s what I used to think. The Vixen changed my mind and the more that I think about it, the way I refer to her does sound a bit like a superhero moniker.

So she has a catchy name, that’s cool but it takes a lot more than a snazzy title to qualify as super powered. So what else is there? What is it about her that makes her so super?

I’ve seen her battle evil my friends. I’ve been the singular witness during several encounters with what I’ve come to refer to as “Nature’s Ugly Side.” Let me tell you about the most recent encounter.

The Vixen and I were on our way home from town (we live in a rural area so “going to town” means traveling fifteen minutes to the closest settlement that offers something more than a gas station.) by way of a set of heavily wooded roads that pass by a reservoir which supplies water to the before mentioned “town.”

I would have never seen it, for my eyes are the mundane optic nerves of a commoner. The Vixen’s finely tune sight detected her next opponent, even traveling at a speed of 45 MPH, there was no way she could have missed it. She grabbed me by the shoulder and I asked me if I had seen the evil. I of course was oblivious and had to admit my ignorance. She bade me stop and I pulled the car over to the side of the road.

We had passed her prey so I, feeling a lot like Shia Labeouf, turned the car around and brought her closer to the foul beast.

The sun was setting. The air was warm. The trees rustled gently as a hint of wind whispered through their evergreen limbs. The Vixen got out of the car and walked slowly (after checking both ways) across the street coming to stand silently, like an awesome stone tower before her opponent.

On the ground before her a massive turtle lumbered to face her. Clearly it was on its way to poison the reservoir in an attempt to ransom the “Town” for an astronomical sum! She picked up a stick from nearby.

What followed was a kind of adorable Gamera/Ultraman mash-up featuring a big ass turtle and a cute girl in khaki shorts. The special effects weren’t very good though. They even included a bit of humor in the many surprised expressions the Vixen had in response to the turtle snapping her stick to pieces.

In the end the day was won as the Vixen finally managed to push the stupid thing out of the road and back into the grass. There is even video. I know because I shot it using my phone. I didn’t even think about asking the Vixen if I could include it here since I already know her answer would be a super-powered “Hell no.”

This wasn’t her first encounter with vicious wildlife though. And you should consider yourself lucky she’s out there keeping the roads safe for you and me.