A shot of story...

Here is one of the exercises that I did at the writing group.  Like the other bits posted here, this was based on prompts and done in 15 minutes (less the time it takes to look nervously around the room and swear at all the people who are already writing).  For this one, I pulled two prompts: "Fantasy Story" and "Write something that involves a big miscommunication."

Prophecy
by Alexander Newcombe

Orlan knelt in the vast meditation chamber of the Beneficent One's temple.  The thick carpet cushioned his old legs.  He sighed once and began reaching his spirit out to the Perfect Force, the manifestation of his deity in the heavens.  In his many years of study at the temple, Orlan had found that the clarity he acquired in meditation to be the greatest reward of his dedication to his god.

He rolled his mind methodically through the day.  As he recalled the obnoxious chattering of the initiates over lunch, a burning flash erupted inside him.  His eyes felt as if they were plunged into the sun.  He cried out and pitched sideways, blind from the heat and light.

Agonizing moments passed, and then he felt calmer, though he could still feel his body writhing and screaming at some indeterminate distance.  A voice shook from the light inside him, "Hero of the golden trials, you have braved much to reach this holy stone.  As the ancient compact states, you may now receive my consul.  Do you wish to have it?"

"Yes," came Orlan's fevered reply, "tell me lord."

The voice reached a tooth-shaking volume in his head, "You must find the red serpent, then loose it upon your friends.  Watch for a stick of oak in a forest of ash, it will guide you truely.  Your fate will be decided in combat, as you wished, though against an enemy you cannot fathom."

Orlan sat, digesting the words of his god, but could not make sense of it.  "What was that?"

"You cannot question your future Doraldan."

"I'm not Doraldan."  He was dazed.

The pain and light faded slightly, "What?" said the voice.

"My name is Orlan.  Your servant, Beneficent One, a student of the Perfect Force."

"This isn't good."

"Why was I given this prophecy?  I don't understand your will my lord."

"Stop that.  I am not your lord."  The voice still resonated with shocking power, but it went on unsteadily, "You've done something terrible, human."

Now Orlan was frustrated and suspected trickery.  "No, I was just praying.  You got in my way."

"Ah no.  I was divining the future, reading the very fabric of the universe.  You crudely intercepted the message in some way."

"You don't know that.  You're grasping for excuses.  Just like those children at the table this afternoon, never accepting responsibility.  Listen, have you ever done this before?"

"Yes!"  The voice boomed at its full strength again.  "Since before man crawled on his belly from the sea."

The force of the reply sunk Orlan down to the floor again.  "Fine, well I will delay my meditations until midnight.  Will that work for you?"

"I can't redeliver the prophecy, Orlan.  Only one person on the earth can hold such knowledge."

"Well great.  Not very useful to me is it?"

"Perhaps, but if it is not given to Doraldan, he will die."

"Hey, I'm not going to do your work for you."  The light faded from his body as he called after the unseen voice.  It seems no one is willing to put in a little real work these days, thought Orlan as he shuffled to bed.

Inside and outside - very nice!

So I just have to say that I have seen workings for the cover and parts of the inside and it will look very nice. No doubt at all now that we have been very lucky putting this together.

An excerpt from Duane Burry's “Electricracy”

So it was not easy for me to find an excerpt that I felt represented my story for our first edition of Here Be Monsters, but I think this works. The title for my story comes from combining technocracy and electrickery. As always there are things I see in it that I feel I would like to improve... but I will refrain. A sample of the third story should be here soonish. Thanks again.


The modifications performed on Queln took. One after the other. Week after week the procedures were successful on him. The sci-mage, Zinntar, turned out to be not only one of the best, but one of the most caring. Those who ended up under his hexes and blade were in good hands even if some of his experiments did not succeed or work as expected. Very few of his subjects died. As the mods became more popular, heavy handed industry moved in, laws and regulations to control the implantations and changes were put in place. Slowly the system became safer, but not because industry cared for the people, but because industry saw the money that could be made if things were controlled. Procedures like those performed on Queln and the junk kids of that period were never done now, except for underground. Queln himself was still learning years later of what his modifications could do. It was a subject that was a guarded secret for him, a part of his life that he shared rarely. Standing in line to be cut and hexed so he could have food and shelter for himself and one other person was a time he would rather forget. It was a symbol of his failure, a symbol of his family's failure, of his social failure, of his lack of strength. But he had bowed to the harsh world, opened himself to Zinntar's blade and hexes and here he sat, before a person who had come to the procedures years later after they had been refined, perfected, rendered safe and undetectable for the right price. Was he disgusted? No. He was awestruck and proud. This beautiful girl before him could experience what she could from the mods because of what he and others had been subjected to. Maybe he was angry at the injustice of it, maybe deep down an ember of despise, or anger, or rage was birthing, but for now it was imperceptible.

Anthropomorphic muffins

First, I would like to thank everyone who has come to check out what we have been doing. Pass the word. It started a while back and it has been a slow progression, but it hasn't stopped. I have to say we have been lucky with the help we have gotten from our friends.

The short bit that I am posting here was in fact, I believe, the first piece that I wrote during writing group. I had two prompts: anthropomorphic muffin and cathedral . As you will see right away or maybe slowly, we all have different styles and the directions we take our writing vary drastically.

The stories that we will publish in our first edition will be about 70-80 pages total in a 5 x 7 format, I think. Considering when we meet to write, we are looking to generate ideas, tell stories and get comments what we write is much shorter. I am always impressed. Sometimes it is amazing what someone will do with an idea and sometimes we are writing and someone will say, "Oh this is sooo bad...". It is always fun.

Normally, I don't give the short pieces titles, but for putting them here I guess I will. This, inspired by the prompts above, is:

A Heart's Taste of Purpose

“I haven't eaten in days, my battalion is... I don't know where and my only protection from the war is this broken cathedral.” My soldier uniform is filthy, but of no concern to me. Things are in a haze.

“I can help,” it sounds like a voice spoken through a muffled bag.

“Who...?”

“I am under the pew. Behind you. You saw me when you came in yesterday, but I think you forgot me. You passed out and I think you had nightmares.”

“I don't remember anyone.”

“Look. You'll see me. You need me and I need you. Give me a purpose.” The sounds of the words are still distorted.

I look under the pew. “My god... is... is that you?”

“Yes.” says the muffin.

“How?” I ask.

“The chaos of war changes everything big to small. It breaks concrete and even minds.”

“Me, am I crazy?”

“No. You are hungry. Eat me. Don't let me waste away without a proper end. I have oats and... and sweet banana.”

“I can't.”

“I know. I am ugly. I feel sluggish. This green-blue coat of fur is getting thicker everyday, but I can still help you.”

“No. I am not going to eat you. You are disgusting and I can find real food.”

“That hurts. I don't think you can and I think leaving me to rot is selfish and wrong. You can peel away the rot, the green-blue fur. The banana bits on the inside are still good.”

The muffin is heavy to lift. I begin to peel away the rot.

The muffin whispers, “Thank you.”

A bit of story from a prompt

As you know, the Here Be Monsters stories were created in a context where we drew random prompts from a hat. The stories like "The Stone of El-Al-Fey" and the other two stories that will be published in our first issue were stories that we decided to work on further and complete. Here, on the contrary and for your amusement, is a story that was written in about fifteen minutes during one of our writing sessions, using the following prompt: write something involving walls.

Here goes.

The New Wall. By Vincent Mackay.

I woke up one morning and it was there: bricks, mortar and all. Well, mostly bricks and mortar. It completely blocked my window from which I’d had, the very night before, a sweeping view of the ocean. Now there was only the wall.
Blaming it on caffeine withdrawal, I rubbed my eyes and walked down to the kitchen to put a pot on. But out the kitchen window towered the same ugly, reddish brick wall, this time hiding my garden. I sighed and sat to wait for the coffee.
Unfortunately, drinking it did not dispel the wall, so I stepped out on the porch. The morning air smelled of dust and cement instead of the usual sea breeze, and the sound of clanking tools rose from the front lawn, where stood another wall under a low, gray sky.
Still clutching my coffee and the hope it contained, I scratched my beard and walked to the clanking. I found a man there, kneeling beside a cement mixer, wiping his dirty hands on a dirtier towel.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” He said back.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Building walls,” He answered.
“On my front lawn?” I said.
“If that’s where here is,” He said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I got a contract,” He said.
“That’s very inconvenient,” I said, and drank some more coffee.
“Not my problem,” He said. “D’you have any of that coffee left, by the way? Been up since four, you know.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, sure, come on in,” I said.
I led him to the kitchen and served him coffee.