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 »
I wanted to inform you all that I’ll be participating in NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) this year. I hope to post the progress of my novel here as well as on the NaNoWriMo site. I believe I’ll be writing a sci-fi story but wont know for sure until I actually begin the story November 1st.
NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, and it encourages authors to write a 50,000 (or more) word novel in 30 days. If you wish to participate or know more please visit the official site and sign up with no obligations, and if you want to be my writing buddy (corny, I know) I signed up as esahc. More information on National Novel Writing Month can also be found here.
October 30, 2010 | Categories: Blog, Creative Endeavors, News, Writing | Tags: Arts, Book Writing, fiction, NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, Novel, Writing | 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 »
Pecos Bill: The Birth
Part #1
The story begins at his birth, the last of nineteen. The trail was hard and the desert wanted its toll. Mother screamed and cursed at the birthing pains, but let out a smile as father came into the light. Father sat and mother leaned against him. She cried with resolution as father sent us away.
Father was a pillar of hope and strength, though the only help he could offer was support and compassion and a guiding hand bringing the tequila to her lips.
“I’m ready”‘ she said, tear falling.
The knife was pulled from his belt and placed mothers sweaty hand. Another drink to calm the pain and harden the spirit . . .
A deep slice from left to right, giving light to the unborn, and from the wound came Bill, on his own, just a smiling and laughing as the happiest child could possibly be.
Never was such a child seen.
“You are born to do great things Bill”, mother said while bleeding from the heroic wound. She held him and simply looked. Love and adoration filled her eyes. Mother then died.
Bill, sat in the comfort of the dead mothers arms, chewing fathers Bowie knife; and father sat with death and new life both looking for support. He weeped for joy and sorrow looking at the desert dawn.
October 8, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Serials, Short Stories, Stories, Western | Tags: fiction, Story, Western | 1 Comment »
Lotus and the Rose
Chapter 5, Purity and the Snake
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
The day begins with internal silence. This morning I’m animated, feeling healthy. My mind is a jumble, and usually this is quite normal; this dawn is no different. The voice isn’t there, no whispers, no screams, only me and the happy silence ling in bed with my love. I hurt, but its that good pain.
Waking up ( . . . please no).
Eyes open, no longer in sleep. A spiders web directly above, no arachnid, no proprietor attached, clinging to no walls, a strand of silk floating in the still air a specter haunting or a ghostly snake slithering across the still air, stalking the innocent mouse; perhaps a trail of smoke from sacred frankincense. Yes, a snake; its tail lost somewhere in its sentience. Life seemed to eminate from the shifty creature as it levitates into a sly dance on the slight draft of my open door; teasing and intoxicating, lingering and laughing, seducing the space around my being and trying to weave its way into my thoughts (no). Again it tries, phasing in and out of my reality, folding the space it occupies. Continue: In my head and out again (no). Again it tries, hissing and screaming, pleading for this young mind to accept it in (no). “Please no,” then stop; silence, and a seeping pain in my being.
“No . . .” The voice returns like the silent sound of an echo escaped from the origin. Th echo falling back to the ether until silence was, once again.
A sad disappointment emanates as the snake levitates into the darkest corner of my room. It disappears into a shadowy corner (vortex). A light flashes. Confusion.
I get up.
Naked.
Her face and body buried in pillow and blanket; still asleep in deep dreams, bare back dry to the touch and smooth, it rises and lowers; her breath in harmony with her heart, her heart in sequence to the clock. The clock seas sin . . . no six in the morning, by mind seas high noon; my corps has had its time to be rested. The clock is correct.
Stepping outside I saw no sun. A thick fog sheets the streets. Awesome is the fresh, brisk air; the river scent still hangs.
The fog lingered and waited and watched.
Shivers shook my spine. The damp cold touched my skin. Dim light shone in a glow through the ground layer clouds. I stood still feeling the uncontrolled rattle of my body; stop, stretch; my back, shoulders, and a few joints popped to my pleasure.
Back inside. kind-of dark; no lights were on and the blinds are shut. Apples and oranges and bananas all rotted in a basket on the partition. The neighbor baby is crying, odd; they have no baby. Mrs. Black, nice old lady; she always makes lemon pie and usually shares. That’s where the sound was coming from. Probably just a grand child.
I need a shower.
A diamond back rattler shedding it’s skin, a mammal in spring loosing its winter coat, as I am naked, exposed; not for sex but to cleanse.
The knobs are cold; the sound of the artificial rain, water falling, skin preparing for the for the wonderful feeling of searing , stimulating pain.
Stepping into the stream of water, almost burns the skin; just the way I like it. Ten thousand beads lash my skin and flow down the invisible fissures of my back, wetting me. The liquid deluge pours over me, breaking off impurities, rinsing away the stench of last nights ecstasy. Steam blankets bathroom as the rolling fog outside, everything is blurred, my mind id a cloud [small stumbles and quick steps] . . . vertigo.
Awake.
Washing with soap. The bottle squeezed, ectoplasm essence lathers my body. Soft movements of slithering liquid, traveling droplets at war with the filth. I am becoming; clean. Sharp pain from the wounds. One weary traveler snakes his way down; a forest it finds, deep and thick; the traveler dispersed, never to be seen again.
Dried blood is being removed my wounds sterilized. The rushing water removes the soap. My hare is wet [hands run through then fall to the side, face looking down to the tiles]. Water, milky and pink, it coils, falling and dragged to the dark vortex.
Standing motionless, five minuets pass.
The heat is poison passing through the heart, weakening; the cold is an antibody that returns vitality.
Move [head lifts].
Water still pouring, then the temperature alters. I turn the shower off. Knobs hot. I feel faint.
“You still in there” She asks.
I remove my-self and dry. “Yea, be out in a sec”.
Towel wrapped around my waist, I open the door. “Love?” My hand on her hip, pulling her close for a kiss, “no hot water”.
“Thanks”, she replies. Sarcasm? “I like cold showers”, without deceit. A smile on her lips, her hand to my cheek, peck on the lips, removed then into the bathroom; door shuts behind along with her contact except for a touch of spirit left by her kiss and a shot of energy from her to me. I stand for a minuet with my back to the door, probably less.
I smile.
I move to the kitchen.
I cook breakfast.
September 27, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, magical realism, Prose, Serials, Slipstream, Stories | Tags: fiction, literature, Prose, Slipstream, Story | Leave A Comment »
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 »
Tip Jar
