where her fingers leave
a trailing wake and sunlight
sings on ripples; where
crawfish scuttle and reeds
reach up, green arcs between
the rocks. Her turtle toes
drive deep in mud, they send
the minnows flitting; gulls
circle wide above her head,
and seaweeds cling to ankles.
I promised that there was more with the "building worlds" theme to share! This is a story by an extremely talented friend of mine, Steve R. Smith. Steve is a computer expert by trade and a writer by passion. He is one of the staff members at 365 Tomorrows, a site that offers a new science fiction short story every day of the year. The features are micro stories, to be exact. We call them "flash fiction"; they are only 1,000 words long at most. Many are even shorter than that. What's impressive is that talented writers like Steve can create fantastic, believable worlds in this short amount of words.
I am pleased to offer you one of his stories here. I'd also like to encourage you to check 365 Tomorrows out. It takes about five minutes apiece to read each story; the perfect break for your work day!
*republished here by permission from the author.
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To Sleep Alone
by Steve R. Smith*
Nathan hated fighting with Claire. It was inevitable; they'd been awake and otherwise alone with the ship, tending to its needs, granting their minds a temporary reprieve from the long sleep. If you spent a few months alone with only your partner hurtling through deep space, you'd find things to disagree on too.
He never meant to argue, she was just so pig-headed sometimes. Before he knew it a rolled eye and sharp comment became a tennis match of barked recriminations and rebuttals, and the inevitable storming off to opposite ends of the ship.
He watched her from his perch in the observation deck as she moved among the rows of plants in the greenery below. The outer hull plates were transparent now, the ship having rolled towards a star similar enough to Sol, so close as to provide light, yet distant enough not to scorch the delicate plant-life. He studied her as she stripped to the waist and soaked up the sun's rays herself.
It was his captivation with the sheer beauty of her that afforded him the best possible view as a cluster of meteoroids lacerated the hull, tearing through the weakened greenery hull-plates like hot knives through fresh snow.
Nathan screamed at Claire's upturned panicked face before the defense systems hardened the hull, opaquing his view and hers.
Nathan ran. He barely heard the warning messages describing the breach, and the steps being taken to contain it. He threw himself headfirst down the vertical shaft towards the core channel, grabbing the lower rungs of the ladder as he exited and with jarring force flipping himself to land feet first on the floor below. Sprinting to the greenery doors, he found them sealed tight.
He could only watch through the window of the door, pounding with flattened palms until his hands stung while mechanical spiders attached plate and injected alloy to repair the damaged hull inside.
On the ground, scant metres from where he stood helpless, a maintenance droid methodically held and sliced the scaffolding and shattered structure that had Claire pinned to the deck. Carefully removed pieces were set aside as it busied itself with freeing her. While it carved, a surgical droid scanned, glued and stitched the broken pieces of her body as they became accessible. It's hands flitting in and around the cutters and clenched claws of the much heavier machine towering over it.
By the time the atmosphere was stabilized, and the doors opened, Nathans hands were numb and Claire was fully exposed on the floor. Her body was a latticework of suture lines and micropore patches, and while her chest raised and lowered, he could see the labour of her breathing. The surgeon stood still, its chest a billboard of vitals, its work done save for the occasional jolting of Claire's heart back to motion. Nathan could see she was struggling, the muscle repaired but the shock to her system too great.
"You can't leave me here, you can't leave this all to me." His voice caught in his throat, tears rising unbidden.
"You can't quit, I need your help, I can't do this by myself." There was a too long moment of silence until the surgeon reminded her heart to keep beating.
Nathan felt his anger rising. "This is just like you, storming away from anything that seems too hard." He found himself yelling without meaning to.
In his mind he saw Claire at their last argument, balled up fists and the fire of purpose in her eyes.
Nathan dropped to his knees, gently placed his cheek against hers and whispered, "I don't want to live without you. I love you. Please don't go."
His tears fell warm against her skin, the only sound the now steady beating of her heart.
When I am stuck on any kind of a project, there's a couple of default things I do. One is to put on some provocative music. Another is to look at art I admire. But one of my favorite things to do when I'm caught on something is to go to google and look up old books.
While these things seem mystical, however, there are other, far more mysteriously interesting books out there in the world.
Wikipedia; image is in the public domain
Take for instance, the Voynich manuscript. To this day, no one knows very much about it at all. It is written in an unrecognized language that has eluded code-breakers and linguists for decades. The anatomical, botanical, and astrological illustrations don't seem to make much sense, and there is little to no information about it from primary sources. It remains a tantalizing enigma.
There are hundreds of extant historical documents from around the world. Many of these pieces have been digitized or at least partially digitized in order to preserve them. A quick look on Google will reveal a wonderful array, from renaissance concept sketches by famous painters to medieval maps in fanciful colors. All at your fingertips! This is a fabulous time period to live in.
One more fabulous thing to note: medieval tapestries. Books were not the only means by which people in other time periods could chronicle events or tell stories. Another way was by embroidered or woven tapestries, such as the Bayeux Tapestry---a length of embroidered cloth depicting the Norman conquest.
A fabulous team of historical enthusiasts got together and created the Historical Tale Construction Kit, a free, computerized way for people to tell stories the good ol' fashion Bayeux Tapestry style:
I'm also excited to share that a certain beloved bead artist has agreed to let me interview her, and two very talented writers and an artist from deviantart are allowing me to share some of their creative work in the upcoming couple of weeks. Exciting stuff! Stay tuned. :D
The moon was a giant, sunset-colored coin hovering over the horizon tonight. I was driving toward it and it was like finally moving toward home. When it rose, full and white, it made the clouds stand out as though they were sewn to the sky with silver thread. We went by an old cemetery that is said to house a ghostly woman with a pale gown; she did not show herself to us, but moonlight glinting off crooked stones was worth the drive. We were very tired, we were very merry; we had stopped at a cafe on the way for coffee. The wind howled all around us, bringing down tree branches and casting about debris in an eerie way. Then, it was back home again for wine and a game of Scrabble.
It's hard to know how to feel these days. Out in the world there is much anger, much unrest. The days this week have been marked by protest, both at home and abroad; there is the unfolding plight of working-class families in Wisconsin over union-labor rights, the movements of the House to curb government spending. The world is changing around us. This is an historic time; important things, important things.
My work has become much darker as of late, probably because of these uncertainties, the longing for simpler times, and the yearning for a return to the earth.
Even though I try hard not to, I inevitably bring these things to the beading table with me. They are always in the background, influencing my creativity. Music helps sometimes, but not completely. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; it's just a thing. It's soothing to work, to be doing something, because sometimes the world can make you feel so helpless.
This is going to be a pretty image-heavy post, just to warn you. I got the idea from like a bird's blog and thought it was wonderful and wanted to do something similar.
January
The first time I used the camera that would be mine.
February
I turned 26 and worked on my novel, received the third of my set of owls.
Alexander held the envelope in both hands and looked hesitantly up at Mr. Whitby. "I have something I must bring to your attention, sir." There was a tremor in his voice. His heart threw itself against the walls of his chest in an allegretto beat. He took a deep breath. "If you have a moment." Whitby paused in his writing but kept his head lowered. "Certainly. What is it?" "I possess a letter…" He tried to think of the most appropriate words. "A rather distressing correspondence from a pupil, one that I must make known to you. It is…Well." Now he stepped across the rug and laid the envelope down with care at the edge of Mr. Whitby's writing table. "I… I require your advice and guidance, sir." He bit his lip. Whitby raised his eyes and let them settle on the folded paper. He didn't move to take it. There was such an expression of dread in his face, Alexander caught his breath. "I will have a look," he said flatly. "And I shall notify you when I've had time to contemplate it." He turned his face down again. The quill scratched across his page.
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March
I made my first pair of earrings:
And really started focusing on my etsy shop for the first time.
April
April is National Poetry Month. I only managed one piece this year. :(
The Phoenix Must Burn
A shadow rain, those feathers---
pestilence in the form of
fireweed; thunder
across the ground.
We huddled,
and in those moments
we forgot who we were.
I made and sold my first pair of chainmaille earrings with the first briolettes I ever used.
May
I made my first major three-strand, asymmetrical, pearl necklace using techniques I had been teaching myself. It feels like a milestone in my jewelry-making experience.
I also wrote what some (who I highly esteem) consider to be one of my finest poems so far:
Sleepless
His eyes are spoons,
empty and bright. He has
taken to counting the clock-
ticks in absence; pages
flutter in his lap, but
he does not read.
If I should listen
hard enough, some
old dead will find the
voice to speak into
these hours, he thinks.
Nights pass like this.
There is only quiet;
that endless tick ticking,
those pages as they ruffle
beneath his patient fingers,
the creak of furniture
like scolding old friends
around him.
June
Tried my hand at designing costumes; it was a lot of fun!
Wrote my first rhyming poem since the Christmas before, based on the story of Mary Wollstonecraft.
Mary
A bright doubloon of moon
fell upon the golden wheat
when a lady, in her gown,
went down into the lea.
All the night she walked among
the stalks of dewy wheat,
white hems trailing far behind,
footsteps soft upon the peat.
She wandered 'til her frilly robes
were laden with the sweet
nectar and the dewdrops twilight
placed upon the wheat.
The pathway to the river
was celibate and clear;
she could see the starlight shimmer
as water-lilies there.
July
Ah, July. This was the busiest month of all; it was flash fiction month, my fiance's birthday month, the 4th of July, we went to several concerts, and won some pretty hefty online honors for myself.
We saw this, my fiance's favorite band, in concert:
I won the annual six-word story contest on deviantArt with this story and illustration:
"She conquers everything with a book."
I was able to get through half the month with my flash fictions.
Love's Moment
He chose the moment that he loved her most to relive. It was crystal-clear in his memory: a Sunday morning shortly after their youngest son had gone off to college. They were sitting at the table across from each other. He was reading the paper; its pages ruffled in his hands. The house was otherwise quiet. Leaves, the first of autumn and still yellow-green, were falling past the windows. Then a sudden beam of sun poured in, turning everything a golden hue. That's when he looked up. She'd been slathering jam onto a slice of toast. Now she brought the knife to her mouth, closed both lips around the blade. She raised her eyes. He was watching her with such a reticent smile, with tears sitting in his eyes. It startled her. "What?" she said. "Nothing."
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On July 15th, I signed into my deviantArt account to discover hundreds of messages for me. I had been awarded my second Daily Deviation feature on deviantArt. It was for a nonfiction piece I'd written about creating believable characters: "A Note on Writing Characters".
August
I took a hiatus from deviantArt to get myself situated and to focus on my writing and jewelry making. There was something else I wanted to do, too: launch my Jamberrysong's Creations blog.
I've since met wonderful people, whose works and thoughts I now follow. You brighten my day, and it's amazing to connect with you! I hope you all know that. :)
Photography was something else I wanted to practice. We took lots of walks and lots of pictures.
Ah, National Novel Writing Month. I used it as an excuse to keep working on the novel I have been slogging through for many years now. Cheating, I know, but I made a lot of valuable progress on it.
This month marked my first real craft show! I did very well at it, and met several amazing people. It was also a tragic month for me; my beloved HP digital camera finally bit the dust. :(
One of my flash fiction pieces was published in a project on livejournal called Fiction Mingle:
Some claimed they had seen her in the bayou, an Ophelia of the swamps. Floating on her back, her dark hair radiating in tendrils around her, white dress translucent in the water. The glimpse of form beneath her gown was enough to drive men mad; many had jumped overboard to go after her. They met ragged alligator jaws or the sharp poison of moccasins before reaching her arms.
Others did not see her, but they describe a sweet, lone voice in the darkness. And there are some who swear it was her hands that first made water lilies grow there.
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My artist's block finally broke and I made some illustrations to go with my novel.
December
Here we are. This month, I embarked on a really ambitious endeavor that will carry into next year:
It is my goal to finish a piece for every one of these prompts by the end of next year. I got my new camera, which will continue to slow down your computer with beautiful images. XD
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I am so happy to be able to have shared this year with you. Already, I'm so thankful for having started this blog. It has offered a creative outlet, a way to network, and invaluable inspiration. Here's to another wonderful year, and many more after that! <3
Clouds hush the wood with dreary shadow in the night,
their cover making secret the star and moon light;
with darkness there comes a terrible freeze
that cracks the tree branches with a bowing breeze.
It silences the cry in the whippoorwill's breast
and frightens the chickadee away in his nest.
Over field spread patchwork and pines rising tall,
one snowflake shivers while it spirals and falls
to settle with its fellows on needle and cone
or pile, pale on pale, against bare mountain stone.
Many soon follow, blanket hills with their cold;
fill the river valleys, hide the ruins of old.
Animals pause, raise their heads where they kept;
country folk with bundles slow in their steps
to glance at the tufts in their marvelous descent
from clouds that are thinning and passing, now spent.
The world is a-glimmer, a true shimmering sight
and the trees, like layered cakes, are coated in white.
Silks instead of prison chains hang from her beautiful wrists. This was not always so; it takes cleverness to save a girl from her fate with an axe. Scheherazade had stories.
Her sister, one of the sultan's many wives, interjected in her favor. "A tale, my liege, to alleviate your boredom." And while Scheherazade spoke, she daubed oil over his skin and placed olives upon his tongue, all the while wishing desperately that she could wring his neck.
His eyes, in his listening, grew glazed and far away. He hung to her words, grew rageful when dawn's light interrupted golden through the windows. Scheherazade paused then. Shall I live another day? And the sultan had her dragged back down into the dungeons to await the coolness of night again. Her sister would steal down with a bite to eat, but she could not linger long. "Courage, sister! You are brilliant as the sun; it will not be long until you and he are united again."
Many, many moon cycles passed in this way, until the sultan realized these stories intrigued him like no other thing. "I release you from your execution, so long as you become my wife and continue to regale me with, not only your stories, but your beauty as well." What could she say?
Now the storyteller stands, her golden ornaments gleaming in the sunlight that falls upon palace courtyards. She is still a prisoner.
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A feminist interpretation is not something I usually do; I tend to think the feminist movement mostly a silly one and prefer humanism myself. But there's something about these fairy tales I was fed growing up as a little girl, you know the ones that always end with the princess happily married off. Even Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, George Eliot and Georges Sand (women who took men's names) wrote so much romance. I can't fault them for it. But I've always felt something of a link with poor Scheherazade, a most intelligent scholar and imaginative storyteller. It seemed a shame she should end up, no matter how glamorous, just another wife of a Persian king. Yet that is how her story ends.
I wanted to celebrate her legacy in these very beautiful earrings. Gold-tone filigree, brass wire, and golden-amber colored glass drops symbolize her winning back the day with her clever intellect.
