I finally have a working title for the book, Alien Fields. This may not be the final title, however it’s working for me at the moment.
This whole project has become much more ambitious than originally intended as the world around the story grew, my notes have gone from a few scribblings to no less than a large appendices with its own six hundred sixty-eight day calendar and custom zodiac.
My progress is slow, but the primary text is complete. Currently I’m working on the second draft and playing with some style details.
I no longer see having a finished product by the end of January as feasible, however if you’re interested in being a beta-reader, when we reach that stage, please let me know.
January 16, 2011 | Categories: About, Creative Endeavors, fiction, Prose, sci-fi, scifi, Stories | Tags: About, alien, Book Writing, fiction, Novel, Prose, sci-fi, science fiction, scifi, Story, Writing | Leave A Comment »
Well I didn’t make it to 50,000 words my the end of November, so I failed at #NaNoWriMo this year. However it’s not a complete loss. The reasons for my failure were:
1. I got distracted by life. Seriously, who decided national novel-writing month would be November? Though that’s just me making excuses. I realize that #NaNoWriMo is a world event and should not be hindered by American holidays. I can still bitch though.
2. This is the biggie. My novel actually concluded itself at around 40,000 words. The natural progression of the words I had written led to an early ending.
Now, this does not mean I will abandon the novel. I believe a lot that was written has potential and the story entertains me. So I will continue to work at it and I’m glad to say progress is being made; currently I’m working on the second draft using yWriter5. I hope to have a finished product by the end of January.
I plan to post a plot and cultural synopsis soon, but for now I will tell you that it’s a sci-fi coming of age story that borders on the slipstream genre with many fantasy elements throughout.
Cheers
-Hunter
December 2, 2010 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fantacy, fiction, Prose, sci-fi, scifi, Slipstream, Stories | Leave A Comment »
The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #1 can be found here.
What does your soul sing when the sparrows fly west?
What hope does the desert eagle bring?
What sleeps in the nest?
What songs do the coyote sing?
A dread mist fills the streets and alleys. A fog of sloth brought by wrath; the dark man brings vengeance to the town that defiles a muse. And the rolling thunder would come again and again; Only Ximena new it was that dark man whom dwelt in the storm.
By the next performance the fog lingered; people are forgetful & apathetic . . . They will never forget again after this evening. A big night was planned. More than one performer and Ximena was to be the star, the one to close the night.
The dark man walks down allys unseen; hat hung low, collar turned high. One in each hand hangs the steaming colts. Though many saw him, none would remember the man who walks in the fog. The only remembrance comes in the form of dark terror and rolling thunder.
Crime of lust in the storage rooms, seeds spilled under the cellar door. Dark deeds in the minds of patrons filled with golden spirits. Music plays gently in the night air. Moisture stifles the sounds in the distance, but are still herd in the east by the riders who approached; comancheros on painted steeds.
Bandits of the waists, and the people of the desert town welcomed them (or rather welcomed the stolen wealth). Apathetic malice rode in the five hearts, whores and rape, opium and booze, the core of desire; and the big show.
Three notes began the show, two hard, one soft.
Nona Magaera began with a stomp on the bar she stood upon, then walked extending the legs gracefully but with great exaggeration with a wide swing of her hips. A sinful smile perked the corner of her lips as she sang a song of innocence defiled and virginity ruined. One could almost tell she was pregnant.
Then they walked in, the five bandits of the waists. Room was made for them. Seats were given to them. Whiskey was served. And as Nona danced and sang, a tear fell as she looked at the youngest of the comancheros but she covered it with a skillful swipe of her hand against her cheek but as the hand fell it caressed the very slightly protruding belly. The young bandit looked up in recognition, smacked his companion then pointed at the poor Nona, laughing with villainous pride.
The performance ended with the second woman leading in as None ran back to her room.
Decima Tisiphone came out with a rage in her eyes, even though she had a matronly look. Beginning her number with a scream that was either the sound of vengeance satisfied or sexual climax. Her song was not slow, her song was not sultry, but was more like a hard but satisfying fuck. It brought a new level of drunkenness to the crowd. A Dionysian dream was taking hold; which lead to next act as Dicima, instead of returning to her room, stepped down into the crowd and accepted the drinks offered.
Morta Alecto was a woman of dark attire, silk and lace in shades of black, magenta, and violet. She wore crimson on her lips, the color of blood. Skin pale like the high desert snow.
Her song and dance was slow, but her skill seemed off as if she waited for one set of eyes in particular. The performance was unlike any sung that night, more of a summoning than a song; but that would be correct. The object of her calling now stood in the large door. Then her song really began, as the dark man seemed to nod in response to the calling.
Fire was in the voice of Morta Alecto, and the Dionysian fever gained in heat.
One of the eastern bandits beat on Nona’s door, not the youngest who was now perusing matronly Decima, but no man longed for Morta though she shined with more beauty than all but one who now took her steps down the long staircase into the cravinous crowd.
She did not see him at first, but on the third step his pale grey eyes fond her hazel. He smiled pure wrath; pulled his pistols and let loose the rage . . .
November 12, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fiction, Stories, Western | Tags: fiction, Serials, Story, Western | Leave A Comment »
“Good evening fine folk of the south desert, and honest men of the tilled earth. As you know, one night a week we have our very special performer. You all know her. You all lust for her, in your secret dreams. To all our delights . . . welcome our desert queen . . . Ximena Aljibe.”
The screams and yells of welcome from the citizens of the Red Saloon was heard throughout the town, but when she entered the balcony, the people quieted. With her first step the piano began and in her third step down the tall stares she began the song. She sang and she weaved her way down the wooden steps. Each step was three beats of a heart, but to the eager audience, it seemed like ten-thousand.
She walked with confidence, but in her heart sat a stone. From her voice came her passions and songs of lust that burned in the obsessed; the crowded joint responded. In her dance was the dance of the succubus, movements brought radiance, but from around came dark desires seething with lust; one will pay later . . . so will she.
She jumped and sat on the edge of the fine oak bar, the crowds gathered around, lust filled their loins, desire in minds, and she sang to the power of melancholy delight, salacious sin, and delightful devilry. She knew the highest bidder wold take her. After the show gold would be her only delight, and she would swim in a yellow lake.
On the other side, leaning in a corner, only a reflection in the mirror from behind the bar, stood a man who did not lust. A dark man whose soul reflected pain like Ximena’s brought desire. He stared with eyes of grey steel, and for a moment, his stare made the angel voice quiver; but only the ears of the dark man heard; it made him smirk.
The song she sang continued and slowly the melody focused only on the dark stranger and he felt the sting of green eyes in the hearts of the mob. His face was stone and that stung her. In her inner most thoughts she was already in love, her conscious mind hoped he would pay this evening. Her eyes to his, and when love gets brought in, the walls will invariably fall. So dark man of the dusty planes stood like a pillar of salt, watching Ximena bring the audience to near climax . . .
Then stop.
The song of Ximena Aljibe had finished. She vanished to her room in the tobacco filled air, reading herself for the high bidder, desire against hope, for her dark man.
But them old devils are at it again; the dark man did not come, but the rancher Stevens stood at the door, his toothy and droopy smile and drool at his lips corner and glazed eyes leered.
Stevens tossed the gold too her feet.
For the first time, since her innocence was sold for the yellow metal, she cried. This angered the rancher. He fucked harder, but Ximena learned, long time past, to embrace the pain and let it fill her, listen to the hurting to drown out the cause.
The first thing she remembered, since going away, was the quiet night. Stevens was gone; left sometime in her delirium. She fixed her-self, scrubbing the filth away, removing the sickness outside. But the inner sickness was rising, and refusing to be submerged again. What had the dark man done to her. His steel eyes tore through her like hot lead through flesh.
And that’s when the shots came. From the street below her window they rang; uncountable blasts, with a scream of rage, sounding like the cumming of Stevens. She ran to the window and in her sight was the rancher, sprawled on the dusty street, above him was the dark man, his double colts smoking but still aimed at the fallen face.
And the dark man looked to Ximena Aljibe’s window, steel eyes a weapon. He looked down to dieing man, and fired the double rounds. From Stevens face rose crimson mist mixing with grey smoke.
Without looking, the one in the dark duster walk off, not a care for those that stood around. Not heeding the woman in the window.
October 29, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fiction, Western, Writing | Tags: fiction, serial, Story, Western | 3 Comments »
Chapter #3
Damned by Divine Wisdom
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
I am a seeker on walkabout, on a journey through vast lands of beautiful groves, hidden cities, and burning furnaces, whose keepers feed the vortex fires.
I stand at the edge of a valley blanketed with high thick grass and yellow patches of mustard; everything moist with mornings dew. Scattered oak trees twisted and sublime spot the nest. At the center stands the largest and oldest of the ancient oaks; tall and grand. In its shade shimmers a still pond of pure water, fresh as if it just fell from the heavens, tall reeds at an edge.
On a bank, still but not stagnant, a log lays, half submerged in purity, twisted, sublime and wise. That twisted old log by the pure pond, resting in the shade of the king of trees sits an old woman drinking from the pool with cupped hands.
I now stand in the center of the valley, a distance of hours to walk, in a blink. A single bird sings his song, insects buzz in the distance; me and the old woman an audience. She splashes cool water on her face and with a look in my eyes and a sweet smile on her lips, a flute is raised by her liver spotted hands then she adds to natures melody. Chirp sings the bird and the insects chime in time, out of the void the womans flute begins and brings the harmony of natures voice. The old woman, in gypsy like rags, sits cross-legged on the twisted log, her eyes closed, her instrument begins an ancient tune.
“I want to see,” I say, “I want to listen to the harmony that can be between humanity and nature”. I feel the need to learn the way that may be, but is not. I want to learn from the old woman, hair of long silver strands, sitting cross-legged on the twisted log, in the shade of the king oak, by the pond of the pure water, ancient, sublime.
She smiles with glee, not loosing step with the song.
As the melody transpires, as the woman puts her breath into the song, I sit listening to the play between the musicians, the harmony of humanity and nature, nature and humanity, beast and beast, life to life and back again; to add more wonder to this magnificent setting the stage changes. The valley grows dark; filled and shaded by redwood trees growing high above low-lying ferns. Darkness consumes but not the darkness of night but a cool shade in a thick forest. The ground grassless with mulch, mud and mushrooms.
The melody never stopped but is in harmony with the metamorphosis of the habitat. The bird still sings, the bugs still buzz, the lady still plays by the pond under the old oak.
I look to the canopy, fog swims through the branches above, but no motion is felt. The leaves move, but without a breeze. They move with intention. Butterflies; ten thousand. They hold in clusters to the branches and groups; individuals flutter from bunch to bunch; ten thousand butter flies to a cluster with ten thousand clusters; truthfully uncountable.
Continuing metamorphosis: a sharp scent invades, the air dries, mud and mulch turn to dry hard dirt. Redwoods no longer; eucalyptus.
The monarch butterflies, flutter high and flutter by; a dance in the air to melody performed by flute and chirp, chirp and buzz then stop.
Silence.
A single sound interrupts, like solid wood against hollow. Another strike, then another. Three strikes and a stomp. Across the pond the woman stood still in gypsy like rags but no longer old, beautiful and lithe, mischievous appearance, mischievous smile, in a sultry stance and a naked leg stretched from beneath the colored rags, flute to her full lips.
Strike; Strike; Strike; with each strike she stepped, steppes, stepping and to the end of her stomps the strikes begin again, each faster than the last, and each step of hers becoming a hard dance on the dirt floor. Each beat faster in the rhythm of passions spirit and in step with the percussions heart. No longer the harmony of nature but passions of the wild and she plays her flute in step with her wild dace to the beat of the invisible percussionist.
The pond was still and clean; air filled with the dry stinging scent of eucalyptus; the king oak proud, watching. The beat continued, the song quickened, and she danced and shipped and the air was saturated with butterflies fluttering by and dancing in tune with the music. The woman skipped, her bare feet kicking up the dry earth into clouds that caught the rays of the hot sun as the monarchs fluttered through.
I am surrounded by fire.
All became silent.
Then a kind womans voice said, “when you awake, run to the western mountains, though the mountains wont hide you . . . Seek the cave that’s shelters the adversary”.
Butterflies flutter by and around and around and around as the voice fades into memory; bright orange and black merge into streaking flames. Hot is the dust and wind in my lungs and it consumes my being. Floating in the vortex of flame searing flesh and burning hair. For only a moment within a moment, found in the flying flames, like the burning bush, floats a face. Its eyes hot with passion and malice and pleasure for my agony. It smiles with ash and smoke and embers of the deconstructed.
Some nights I sit alone thinking of existence and experiencing loneliness as only pond lilies and the sages do. Other nights I go out, socialize and play with great excitement and joy, injecting myself in to the hole of the moment. Now I am an infant ant the point of birth.
Floating.
I see the chaos, the chaos takes me.
I am naked.
Bright flames, an iridescent shell. I am the fetus within; hunched over, exposed and protected. All dark and comforting, but a light is calling me.
I am born.
I am awake; naked, wet, bald and exposed. Under a glaring sun, on hot asphalt.
A frightened voice to my right, curses and the sound of feet running away.
In the sky, high above, orange and black butterflies rise.
Coyote corpses littered the ground around my nakedness. Sirens sounded in the distance. Sitting up a ghastly sight welcomed me. Crucified on the cliff-side was D. His insides piles the ground below his limp legs; vivisected.
Many running feet heading this way.
September 8, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fiction, Prose, Serials, Slipstream, Writing | Tags: fiction, Prose, Serials, Slipstream, Story | 1 Comment »
Chapter 2: In the Autumn of Apathy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
A loud voice came to me one day like the sound of waves crashing on a midnight beach; it was born a whisper in the morning light, now it’s later, near midnight. I was sitting alone writing; young and living. My body ached. Alone is all I know, empty inside, just writing and waiting. Apathy fills me, all I see is the emptiness in the words.
I am naked. The smell of hormones burned on this bare body. Awake after the physical representation of love, sex, copulation, pleasantly violent, bleeding scratches on my hips, expression of my inner aggression and sexual gratification, I just enjoyed. An arm reaches around and grasps my upper chest. Her hair floats against my skin, as ten-thousand webs would wander through the nameless void. It feels good.
“Writing”, I can feel her soft nipple on my back. Lips, tender, brush the back of my neck (that special spot). Eyes close, I can feel her soul.
A moth rests on a white wall.
“come back to bed.” She bites hard, on that spot bordering my shoulders on the right side of my lower neck, almost breaking skin [extention].
A hand clenched on my cock [harder], leaving the story on the floor, hardly dry from the last engagement.
Picking her up, skin so soft, and taking her to the mattress; a quick toss and she’s down with a bounce. The bed screams with a squeak, the energy of the collision is stored for a moment in the metal springs, then released causing a leap back; metal on metal, the voice of the inanimate. She giggles. I follow her; she pushes me off. Her foot leaves a trace on my chest.
Lunging in counter offense, her arms are mine, now pinned to the sheets. A tan breast my lips encircles ((lower) go lower), a naval, then to the side, ((kiss) a kiss), soft flesh, a hate-filled bite (Hate?). The bite feels good, the flesh broken under my teeth, moans from outside my, maybe a scream, perception; I don’t care, blood in my mouth, just a little bit.
The voice gets louder (at noon it grew to maturity).
I release her arms, I go down, lower to her pleasure. Minuets later she grabs my hair; it hurts. Yanked to her face, a sweet kiss, it’s hard and bonding, then slow and soft as she pushes my chest with both her hands, her fluid still on my lips; i’m thrown against the wall.
The night is cold, I’m warm. Scent of the river fills the air and a nightingale spins a sorrowful sonnet and the screech of an owl prevents its conclusion.
“Did it hurt?” She whispers, a smirk on her lips, and hint of euphoria.
“It hurt good” I reply and she laughs. She goes down. She bites my inner thigh . . . twice, soon after a third.
An insincere statement, “you don’t have to do that.” She didn’t stop, and I didn’t stop her. It feels good; crest to neck to base and back again.
It’s late, long past the witching hour. The voice is louder, an ancient entity, a boom in my head. I can’t make out the words, jumbled & incoherent, like a young child rambling about a subject only he understands.
She releases with a gasp of air, pushes me down, puts me inside her; crest to neck, neck to base and back again.
Her side’s still bleeding, I can feel the blood on my hands, or is it sweat. Blood. My eyes are shut (all too soon, we are at passions point). Picking her up, i’m still inside her, her legs wrapped around my body. We fall to the floor I stay inside her (fuck harder), she starts screaming and moaning and harsh breathing.
The neighborhood is quiet. She rests. I’m still inside her, both of us still bleeding. Not a care.
“I love you”, she seas in perfect conjunction with my thought.
The moth on the wall crawls to a high corner, now in shadow.
And this is only the beginning . . .
It’s cold, but the coat warms. The ambiance is natural; a pond full of koi, potted plants provide a place for private conversation. The smell is pure, but for the cigarette smoke from all around. The inside cafe opens to the outside patio. Lighting is dim for a mysterious or romantic setting. The cafe gives that nineteen twenties impression. Beatniks & bohemians recite poetry and trade in philosophy. Malevolent characters seat themselves in corners, speaking of things unheard and conspiracies not proven. Like a film noir, the characters at play on this strange stage, tormented by subconscious guilt, sit, some in sinister silence, glowering, waiting fore a chance.
Life – death waxing now waning,
The poet recites from inside on a small corner stage. Coffee is served by an attractive waitress. Thanking her and sipping the hot beverage, I’m board and they’re late.
“How are you,” remembering she serves me regularly.
“Your sitting alone?” She asked.
“Waiting for some friends,” I stated.
“OK,” she responded, “It seems like your always waiting for someone.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
“Who you waiting for?” continuing, but before I answer she’s called away to serve another.
A moth flutters from a tree, my conciseness follows.
Beneath the dimming lights,
As I follow the flying messenger I saw her . . . Laughing and walking with mutual friends towards the table ware I sit by the swimming carp and under the tall potted trees. Kerry Heart pointed and waved to me, Biggs did the same. All three walked to the table, but my eyes followed the unknown woman.
They sat down, pulling out the steel chairs with friendly greetings and warm introductions for me and my desire.
“This is Sarah Klein,” said the fiery Kerry Heart with the multi blue and spiky hare, “Sarah, this is my good friend . . .”
We are blind to all others, dark eyes, olive skin, black and brown naturally curly hair to her breasts held by a black silk corset. A flowing dark dress fell to her feet. Here is your love sings in my mind.
Two hearts burn this night at the small cafe off the main street.
August 23, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fiction, Poetry, Prose, Stories | Tags: fiction, Poetry, Prose | 5 Comments »
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