Short story - Aeternus

 Mortality doesn’t always claim its due. In a very few cases, it has found itself completely redundant. In the wake of the final fall of the Qliphoth from around the Sephirot, a single speck of their essences fell to Earth. This coalesced into a stone, which became the signet of a ring. When a person wears this ring, it triggers Conditional Infinite Cell Renewal.

Usually most of these are granted a tight limit on the number of times this gene can propagate itself before its collapse and failure, returning their mortality and nullifying the ring’s power for several years. But one in a thousand exhibit signs of continuous renewal. They become the ring’s keepers for extended periods of time, potentially centuries or millennia.

I have been assigned to this subject, hereafter designated in my dialogue as Subject Alpha. The first date of recognition is 50 BC, then known under the name of “Vercinget”. Subject was executed following his transportation to the capital of his conquerors following a great battle. Subject Alpha revived during transport from the city to a pyre, and escaped. Over the next fifty years, Subject Alpha is noted as having “died” 1687 times by a variety of methods; 347 accidental, 1286 caused in battle against various opponents, 23 due to environmental factors, 31 self-inflicted.

In subsequent centuries, Subject Alpha has become a less obvious figure. His deaths have totalled 34 over the following 2168 years; 20 accidental or environmental, 1 self-inflicted, 1 classified as “murder”, 5 caused by other factors.

Current subject file; CICR Subject Alpha, dateline 18-09-2120, location State of Oklahoma, United States, American Continent. Conditions; Post-Pestilence. 123-345-212363PZ, record open. Personal report from subject follows.

***

I’ve been called many names in my time. Ahasvar. Buttadeus. Isaac. He Who Wanders Eternal. My real name’s Hugo. At the moment.

Death is unpleasant, unnatural death more so. How do I know? It’s because I’ve experienced more deaths that I’m comfortable remembering. From my ‘first’ as an old man succumbing to heart failure on a bed inside an infirmary chapel in the 1100s, to later ones as a young man caught in drive-by shootings or natural accidents in the late 2010s. But how am I able to survive all these deaths?

Apparently, I’m Death’s Watchman, someone who goes wandering the world and keeps a metaphoric finger on the pulse of humanity. The last one fulfilled their term and was allowed death, so I got picked at random from Death’s handbook of suitable souls. Mine is a millennium-long contract with Death to keep tabs on what goes on, whether there are gonna be wars or famines or plagues or purges or suchlike. I feel large numbers of dead, and when that happens Death appears and collects their souls, sending them for judgement in the Beyond. It’s a grim job – no pun intended – but it comes with a lot of travel.

At the time I’ve decided to remember, I was lying in a patch of scrub rubbing my chest, where some smartass cowboy with a gun had tried to shoot me. Pointless. All he did was kill himself, blowing a hole through his lungs. Basically any unnatural death I suffer is reflected back at its perpetrator. Quite unpleasant when I got caught by some pal of Gille de Rais and he.... well, he died in my place. It’s like there’s a huge mirror around me that reflects death, and reflects it back with deadly accuracy when it’s anything caused by another human being. Death says it’s divine justice, but I call it crap.

This period’s pretty much on a level with most of my other adventures. It’s while I was in the Mid West in 1849. The world had gone made for gold, as could be evidenced by the maniacal prospector who thought I was intruding on his “patch” and shot at me before I could explain. Guess he was lucky. He didn’t need to hang for my murder, only be found with a bullet from his own gun in his chest. He’d probably be put down either as a suicide or unsolved murder. Satan knew there were more than enough of them about the place. I didn’t envy the guy his quick way out.

Most people won’t tell you this, since they’re not in a position to. Dying hurts. It’s bloody painful being choked from behind. Or being stabbed, shot, falling off cliffs, drowning in the sea, burning to death, being buried, even once being stoned. But I didn’t die. No matter how many times, I never died. So when she appeared before me and asked me that question, I wasn’t in a mood to be polite.

“Tell me, do you still wish to live?”

The question was idiotic. Of course I wanted to live. Who didn’t wanna live? But I also wanted to die. Here I was, aching like hell because some son of a bitch shot me over something silly, going through the same weird process I’d gone through how many hundred times before... I didn’t feel like being polite.

“What the hell d’you think?” I spat the words at her, “You don’t think I enjoy this, do you? I’m not like those creeps who need it to get high.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “I hardly see the need for such rudeness. You are wearing something. Something that has attached itself to you quite strongly. I am here to ask whether you are still willing to be its custodian.”

“F--- off!”

You get the idea of what I said, I guess. She didn’t answer. Instead she simply vanished. Damned angels, always coming back to clarify things for their bloody records. Oh well, guess this rant's over. I didn’t like writing it, but since they asked whether I should file a formal complaint, I have done. That's it! Finished! Finito! Wish I could...

Flash Fiction - For easy reading

 These are two pieces of flash fiction I'd originally written for submission. Since it's well past the point where it'd be considered, I've decided to put them down here. They're both in the single theme of 'gun'. Enjoy!

***

The Disrupted Denouement

“And so I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that the murderer is–”

The report of a rifle outside the window, instantly followed by the smashing of glass, cut off the detective’s monologue. He was thrown back, a hole in his chest, to fall against the hearth with a sickening crash. Everyone gathered in the room – the two policemen, Lord and Lady Stool, Miss Amelia Straight, the Honourable Sebastian Cole, two maids, the butler, and a rather vague vicar – looked on in astonishment as the clever detective lay bleeding out onto the hearthrug. Then the Honourable Sebastian let out a falsetto scream, and the house was in uproar.

Over the next several weeks, all the grounds were searched. No trace was found of where the sniper had fired from. The detective’s last words were a string of gargled gibberish no-one could decipher. The notebook in which he had recorded all his findings was in indecipherable code. Each member of the household was arrested and released in turn, bar one. The papers were full of the mystery, almost to the exclusion of the murder the detective had investigated.

They never found the sniper. Or the murderer. They did execute someone for the crime, but does that really count?

***

The Bullet

I was fired from a .50 Calibre weapon at someone. I don’t know who, and frankly I didn’t care. It wasn’t my job to care, only be accurate. The snap of sound as I rushed from the barrel filled my world, and the dusty environment surrounding me masked my flight. I travelled approximately three metres, and in that time saw some very interesting things.

I saw two soldiers from one side advancing slowly on an enemy position. In another area I saw two enemy soldiers shouting some nonsense about their cause. I didn’t care about that. I was a bullet, what did it matter to me why I was fired? Well, I tell a lie there. I was fired by one side against another, to hit the target chosen by the soldier who fired me. That is an inviolate truth.

As I entered the body of my target, I briefly saw their uniform. I must admit to being puzzled. Either I’d been fired by an enemy, or the soldier firing me had hit one of his own. Well well. That wouldn’t go down well back home. If I could have smiled, I would. But then, how can I? I’m a bullet. At least I hit my target.

Proofing challenges

 Proofing a book before you send it to your publisher can be the devil and all. You know that at the other end, you've got a dev editor and copy editors waiting to get their hands on it, and you feel like you don't want to produce anything too riddled with mistakes. Of course, everyone can make mistakes. It's almost unnatural for someone not to make mistakes, even with Grammerly shouting at you from every other advertisement that they can remove all mistakes. Yeah, I tried Grammerly, and when it attempted to turn a particularly moving scene into a scientific dissection, I wasn't impressed.

There are a number of things to do when proofing. First, check that you haven't don anything silly like leaving a sentence unfinished. That's happened a few times. Once, I even forgot to complete half a paragraph. It's a little troublesome when you're doing a scan read and you get an impression like when a record or CD skips. The issue when scanning is that your mind tends to naturally fill in gaps, so unless it's a really glaring issue, your mind can smooth over it.

Second, obviously, is little problems like duplicate words or sentences, in the order of "the the" or "and and". Or, worse, spaces put in by accident and the spell checker not picking it up as the single letters have some kind of language usage. I've done it more times than I can remember, in my writing and on this blog. They can really screw up the proofing, as it it can be difficult to spot them. See what I did there? For first-person narratives, it can be especially tedious. You need to filter through the idiosyncrasies to find the actual mistakes.

Third, and most obvious, are spelling mistakes. For standard words, these aren't a biggy. If you don't pick them up as you're writing, you can pick them up later with a spellcheck, which I usually do when I've completed the first runthrough after the manuscript is complete as a narrative. But for invented names, or unusual spellings, it can be a nightmare. For instance, one of my characters has the use name "Sedna", but due to fast typing stuff I can end up typing "Senda" by mistake, which can be passed over by accident but completely throw off the reader if it isn't caught.

There's also a fourth category that's worse, but also trickier to spot on a micro level. It's plot threads you've forgotten about. I've talked about note-taking before now, but even then it can slip. If you've had something inserted in an earlier chapter that references part of the subplot or overall theme, then forget to resolve it later, it just leaves a loose thread hanging in mid-air. No reader likes that kind of thing. It leaves a bad taste in the mouth upon completing the book, even if they don't consciously register it.

Oh well, that's my feelings on the matter. It's something to do, and it's necessary people should know writing isn't just a picnic. It's real work, with challenges and brick walls and deadlines to face. But at the end of the day, for someone who really enjoys it, there's nothing like finishing that sentence and sending off the manuscript to the next stage. Nothing in the world.

In Aid of My Sister.

 This is the first time I've done a blog post like this, but I feel it my duty and privilege to do so. My sister, Daisy Eliza Wrightson, needs your assistance.

My sister is an artist, and a good one if I do say so myself. For those who've been with me some time, you'll recognise the artwork she did for the covers of some early self-published work.

Currently, Daisy is preparing the ground to start a local artist's studio, with its accompanying small-scale business. She has family backing for her artist's studio, But she needs funds. Not for the studio, but those little things that can eat into any budget. Brushes, a good easel, the general basic little things.

If you want details about the project from her, please check out her GoFundMe page. Her goal is £1500, of which just £50 has been achieved. You can also see samples of her old unrelated-to-books art on Etsy.com. I've linked an update video below, showing the ground pretty much prepared. If you want details about the project from her, please check out her GoFundMe page. Her goal is £1500, of which just £50 has been achieved. You can also see samples of her old unrelated-to-books art on Etsy.com. I've linked an update video below, showing the ground pretty much prepared.

I realise things are difficult in these times, but that's why we need to support creatives in any field, be it writers or artists. If you can, please help a fellow creative get off the ground. Thank you for reading.

Short story; On the Road to Edo

 A storm was gathering on the horizon, buffeting the hem of Shiki’s travelling cloak. But he stood against its temper as the rock blocking the road to Yomi. Standing atop a rise in the road, looking down the long valley that drove through the mountains of Shinano Province, he appeared the very image of a god returned from Heaven. By his side stood a woman with hair of a fiery orange hue and a sky blue kimono. Her eyes directed towards the end of the valley, where it adjoined two further paths, one of which would take them to Edo.

‘I hate summer storms.’ she said, adjusting her large hat as the wind tried to snatch it away. ‘They’re always so windy.’

‘We can’t stop now.’ said Shiki with a sigh, holding his own hat in place. ‘You wanted to go to Edo, not me. You’ll get there, come what may.’

The woman glanced at him, smiling a little. ‘Someone’s in a bad mood. Maybe the weather is getting to you.’

‘You know my feelings, Hana. I would have happily stayed in Kochi.’

‘You want to avenge your daimyo, don’t you?’

‘Of course. It is the reason I have become...this.’ he gestured down at his soiled clothes. ‘Were it not for the injustice suffered by Master Azai at... his hand, I would have followed my master into death years ago.’

‘I understand your frustration. But be patient. We shall find your goal and mine at journey’s end. Now shouldn’t we find shelter before that storms hits us? There must be a village nearby. Yes, look!’

Hana pointed. In the near distance was a collection of huts and houses bordering an area of rice fields. Shiki shrugged.

‘Better than nothing. Come on.’

The two began their walk down the hill towards the village. The roadway was lined with bamboo stands which swished and stirred in the growing wind. An earlier squall had turned dirt track into the village into a muddy quagmire, but neither was deterred; Shiki strode through regardless, while Hana skipped across the surface as if traversing stepping stones across a river. As the two reached the village gates, Shiki rapped hard on the wooden barrier. A small door was opened, and an elderly-looking villager came out.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Hana took charge. ‘We are humble travellers. We wish to seek shelter during the oncoming storm. Have you anywhere we may rest? A stable or similar would be more than suitable.’

The man closed the door, and after several minutes the gate opened to allow them entry. The village’s headman was before them, and both bowed their heads in respectful acknowledgement of his rank. The headman said they could find lodgings at their local inn, but that they might have to share rooms with other guests. Hana agreed to this, and humbly thanked the headman for his generosity. Shiki nodded in agreement, but was otherwise silent.

The two came to the inn and were greeted by the patroness, who guided them to a table near the fire. The two allowed the patroness to take their cloaks and Shiki’s hat, and sat at the low table upon leaving their shoes in the customary place. The warmth of the fire was a welcome thing, and as they ordered vegetable broth and sushi with sake, Hana glanced around at the other patrons enjoying the inn’s hospitality. There was a fine-clothed woman with a young girl beside her, a stiff-looking man with the accoutrements of a middle-ranking samurai, and a man both plump and bilious who sat near the window drinking with a small group of similar-looking men.

‘Quite a variety here.’ she said, glancing at her companion.

Shiki nodded. ‘Indeed. Any examples.’

‘As many as there are notable characters. Take the samurai yonder. Though he bears no mark of name and clan, I recognise that air of authority. He is a retainer of some standing, but a long way from his native lands here.’

‘On a journey, like us.’

‘Yes. Now for the woman over there. I’ll let you guess first.’

Shiki studied the finely-dressed woman for a time. ‘I would say she is also on a journey, but that perhaps she would rather have used a different route. She is of high status, but perhaps not so high that she has autonomy in her own house. I also fancy that her only having one servant is a sign of her status rather than travelling light.’

‘Insightful as ever. I do recognise her actually, from a visit I once made to Heian-kyo. She’s a noblewoman from the capital, and that girl beside her is her daughter. Probably going to Edo on family business. As to the rest, I will say you are as right as you can be without being scandalous.’

‘Find. What about the man you were grimacing at?’

‘Him?’ Hana frowned. ‘He is the kind who would be a bandit were he thinner and not so flush with money. Those around him are fair weather friends only. He treats others as beneath him to stave off his own feelings of nothingness. He too is likely heading to a major port, likely to further some deal to increase his wealth.’

‘All on journeys then.’

‘True.’

‘But with no such agreeable and unusual companion.’

Hana smiled, an inscrutable expression. Their order was brought, and Hana sniffed the broth with approval. There was some roughness to the cut of the vegetables, but otherwise it was a nutritious meal worth eating. The sake was also good, and quite fresh judging by its strong yet airy tang. The sushi, dipped in soy sauce, was also delicate and smooth without being wet or slimy. Hana particularly enjoyed the sushi, while Shiki savoured his sake.

The storm struck as they sat there, arriving with a whirlwind and burst of thunder that made nearly everyone else start in their seats. The Takeda samurai remained as a statue, while Hana smiled and continued to enjoy her meal. She began playing with the last few pieces in her broth, pouring a little of the soy sauce into it to see what would happen to its flavour and texture. She was slightly distracted by the growing ruckus from across the room where the rotund man continued to indulge. Shiki ignored him and stared into the fire.

Night came swiftly, aided by the glowering clouds overhead, and the whole village retreated into shelter as rain began pouring from the sky. When asked whether they wished to stay the night, Hana said yes and that they could share a room if needed. It took some little time to assure the patroness that there would be nothing scandalous happening during the night. Hana hinted that she was far younger than she looked, and her “bodyguard” was sworn to protect her. With the patroness satisfied and the two alone once more, Shiki chuckled.

‘Remember that village where you said I was too young for you?’

Hana frowned. ‘That is enough of that, Shiki. Not here.’

It was not until much later that night, when the two were in a small room at the back of the inn, that Hana was able to relax again. With the door closed and the window fastened, she removed her hat, exposing the ears poking up through her fiery hair. It gave Shiki a momentary shock to remember his companion and confidant was a nine-tailed kitsune, a powerful fox spirit sent by Inari Okami herself.

‘Back in that village you mentioned,’ said Hana coldly. ‘we were in a place where my kind and our lady are worshipped. Here we are in tanuki lands. I won’t allow myself to be compromised by such slovenly creatures. That man in the corner? He had tanuki written all over him. I hope he does not join us on the road for any measure of distance.’

Shiki sighed. Hana had helped him out of many difficult scrapes during their journey to Edo, ranging from financial difficulties to fighting off hostile yokai, but she had a violent dislike for tanuki in any form. A few weeks after first setting out, they came upon a tanuki in disguise; the argument and subsequent battle covered three days before Shiki ended by threatening to cut off both Hana’s tails and the tanuki’s own magically-imbued parts. The two settled down for a night’s sleep, with Shiki keeping an eye open for anyone approaching. With this assured protection, Hana discarded her human shape and curled up in her blankets as a fox.

The following day dawned bright and clear, a relief for Hana – by the morning the smell of nearby tanuki was too much for her to bear, and it was a struggle to maintain her human form. Paying their bill, the two set off once again on the road to Edo. The sun shining on the fresh ground caused the scent of wet earth to cling to the air and everything nearby. Shiki walked on regardless, but Hana ran ahead and took deep breaths of the cleansing air while waiting for her companion to catch up.

For many miles after leaving the village, the road skirted the edge of rice paddies tended by the village workers. After a while the road turned in among the forest of bamboo that still dominated the lower slopes of the valley. Beneath the trees, Hana kept a hand on her hat as if something were threatening to knock it away or snatch it from her head. Shiki in contrast bared his head and enjoyed the moments when large drops of water fell from above onto his topknot. As they neared another corner, Hana stopped and held up her hand.

‘Someone is near.’ she called out ahead. ‘Show yourself!’

After the briefest of pauses, a figure stepped from behind a rhododendron bush. It was the samurai from the inn. Shiki frowned.

‘How did you get ahead of us?’

The samurai smiled. ‘We are not all bound to a particular time of day and pace of life. It was easy to leave long before you and prepare. Shiki Osugai, I am required to stop you.’

‘I see.’ Shiki nodded. ‘Here and now, or–’

‘Wait.’ Hana held out her hand. ‘You, samurai. To whom are you sworn?’

The man turned, his narrow eyes fixed upon Hana. ‘Why should I explain myself to you, fox?’

Hana’s mouth twitched. ‘How did you know?’

‘It is plain to see. And smell.’

‘Given our pressing errand, I will not take offence. But you will answer my question if you want me to keep my companion at bay.’

‘Very well, fox. I am Toru Ishimura, once a retainer to Azai Nagamasa, as your “companion” was.’

‘Excuse–!’ Shiki’s mind cleared. ‘Wait... Now I remember you. But you died. You died with his retainers when he committed seppuku.’

‘No. I did not die. I lived on to fight for my true liege.’

‘Your true– No. No! I won’t believe it.’

‘Quiet.’ hissed Hana, who then addressed Ishimura. ‘Are you here at the behest of Lord Oda?’

‘Yes. He knows of your journey to Edo. It cannot be allowed to continue. You stay out of this, fox. I am only here for the ronin’s head.’

‘At least I remain loyal to my lord. You are a base traitor! Just like Oda!’

‘Your temper tantrums mean nothing.’ Ishimura grasped the hilt of his sword. ‘Will you not draw and die like the samurai you claim to be?’

Hana might have stepped in and thrown their opponent aside, but she remembered the last time she had tried to stop Shiki fulfilling his need for “honour”. She walked to the edge of the path and sat on a patch of grass, producing a fan from her sleeve to ward off the summer day’s mounting heat. As she sat and watched, Shiki and Ishimura readied their swords and took up fighting stances.

‘OOORRRRAAAA!’

There was a tearing crash as something large and furry plummeted from the bamboo above and landed on top of Ishimura. Hana started and Shiki jumped back as the furry creature flattened Ishimura beneath its plump bulk. For a moment they both stared, then the thing tipped up the brim of its large hat and chortled.

‘Sorry for crashing the party. Did I miss anything?’

Hana rose stiffly, and Shiki wondered if her expression had caused winter to arrive early somewhere in Honshu. He then recognised what had dropped in on them from a great height. This was a tanuki, and from the looks of it a mature and somewhat merry tanuki.

‘What do you want?’ was Hana’s curt reply.

The tanuki scratched its belly. ‘Thought you needed help. I can’t have samurai killing each other here. We’d never start our tanuki-bayashi!’

Before Hana could reply, the tanuki began drumming on his belly, emitting the familiar “pom poko” beat. Before Shiki could stop her, Hana stomped forward and kicked the tanuki onto his back. Before his eyes, Hana’s human form was warped by fox-like features, and her paw was planted on the tanuki’s expanded chest. The tanuki stared at Hana’s face as her canine snout twisted into a disgusted grimace.

‘We are on an important journey, tanuki. I have no time for your idiotic pranks, or your impulsive interference.’

‘Temper, temper.’ the tanuki grinned. ‘I know you’re on a journey, which is why I intervened. Didn’t you see me in the inn?’

‘See you–? Oh, I see. That man in the corner, drinking a lot. That was you?’

‘Yep. My friends and I are on a journey too. So was that other one.’

‘What other one?’

‘That pretty woman?’

‘She was–’

‘She was a jorogumo heading for Edo. I’d not linger if she realises just how handsome your man is.’

‘I....see.’ Hana sighed. ‘Alright. Just for once, I’ll take your advice. Shiki, come on. We’ll take the mountain track. My thanks to you, tanuki.’

Shiki glanced from Hana to the tanuki, then sheathed his sword. The three left the tanuki behind with the unconscious Ishimura. The two came to a fork in the road, and in the distance Hana smelt the spider’s poisonous taint. They took the left hand fork up and round the mountain.

‘So we continue to walk the road.’ said Shiki.

‘As we vowed.’ said Hana.

The Body of Fantasy

Don't be fooled by the title, this isn't about the entire corpus of fantasy literature, which goes back as long as people have been making stories about the magical and supernatural. This is about the body types of fantasy. As in those slender elves, those perfectly proportioned humans, those stocky dwarfs, those skeletal wraiths, those bulky orcs, those snake-shaped lizard things... All those hokey physical stereotypes that are the real thing holding modern fantasy back in the visual medium.

It hit me while I was playing a session of Dragon Age: Inquisition. It's one of the most traditional fantasy universes out there in terms of the physical builds of its peoples. I've always had an uncomfortable relationship with the game. I loved my playthrough as a British-accented Qunari Rogue who freed the mages, brought peace to an empire, had all companions friends and surviving by the end, and romanced the character Cassandra, but there was always an underlying discomfort that had nothing to do with its perversely addictive nature or criminal loading times. It was only when I was playing as a human mage that it hit me. Everyone looks the same!

In this universe, humans are a particular type of well-muscled but not bulky type with mostly rounded faces, Qunari are walking tanks that look like bodybuilders with angular faces, dwarfs are stocky with square faces, and elves are slender-framed with vaguely oriental teardrop faces. Females are all slenderer and often shorter variations on these themes. There's no fatties, no emaciated figures, no odd facial shapes with a few exceptions within the main cast. There's plenty of ethnic and sexual diversity, and more gender equality than you find in most sci-fi, but the world looks like they share the same pair of parents across an entire nation. Or five.

While this works in some instances in visual fiction, it only really works for me when coupled with a stylised fantastical art style. Dragon's Crown uses physical fantasy tropes a lot, but its exaggerated and fantastical art gives it a unique excuse. Dragon Age doesn't have that excuse, as it seems to aim for a realistic style. That visual clash in my mind makes me unwilling to invest in this world, as in other respects they seem to be aiming for a realistic depiction of the great tapestry that is "people".

This is a problem that besets much mainstream traditional fantasy. Orcs have the same problem as Qunari of all being large hulking whatsits, and when they're smaller they tend to be shunted into being goblins or similar. I know for a fact that those idealised figures aren't healthy, as their fat distribution is completely skewed and they have an unhealthy lack of the stuff. But I know for a fact that someone wielding a large weapon, whether they be and elf or a human or whatever, can't be a slender little thing. The weight proportion would be completely off. Call me picky, but I'd prefer some physical realism even in deep stylization, or magic allowing the blade to hover without needing to be held at all.

This whole thing is similar to the old argument of women in realistic armour, or just armour in general in fantasy, but physical stereotyping of peoples is more perverse as it reinforces several ethnic stereotypes. During a test piece I did that may yet create something, I deliberately broke away from these physical stereotypes. One of the main characters was an orc, a bookish type who doesn't fight and thus has a very different physique to the stereotype.

I know there are plenty of examples floating about that counter this stereotyping, but it's still common and pervasive enough that the issue should be raised. This most influential of fantasy visual codes needs to bend to modern life and allow something more into its standard, rather than confine this variation to special exceptions. Which would you rather see in your apparently grim and realistic fantasy universe? An elf greatsword wielder who was a slim little thing, or an elf greatsword wielder who could actually use the thing without shredding their muscles?

Please, please point me to any examples you know that defy this physical stereotyping in an appealing, original way. If you can find them...

Short story; A Job for Gaols

‘Good morning, Sir. You have new messages.’

‘Yeah yeah, PAL. Play them.’

“Now is your chance to win C400,000 in the Drake Sector lottery draw. Enter now for just one credit, and you could become the richest person out there. Don’t dawdle! – Dear Mr Goals, your subscription renewal request to Hot Action VR has been received and approved. We hope you continue your patronage. – Mr Gaols, our mutual client will be calling on you in one hour to retrieve the information we hired you to recover, and transfer your fee. Be ready.”

Gaols sighed and stretched his arms and legs. ‘That’s fine. PAL, set up my VR set. I’ve got time for a quickie before they get here. Use Hot Action VR – Male 33.’

‘Understood, Sir.’

Gaols got out of bed and walked naked to the VR chair set up in one corner. Lying back on its soft leather contours, he let the VR visor slide across his eyes, and felt the connectors attach to the near-invisible sockets in the small of his back. The video slowly appeared, as if he were opening his eyes, and the virtual rapture began. The stimulation was palpable. He was lying in that chair, being slowly and amorously devoured. He briefly marvelled at how people had ever done this on their own or with 2D videos.

The discharge was sudden and powerful, causing Gaols’ whole body to tense and relax. The VR device slid away and the connectors withdrew. He cleaned up the worst of the mess, then dove into the shower cubicle and let the steaming jets do the rest. Forty-five minutes later, when his client arrived, he was spotless. The exchange was made. Data from a local triad organisation for C40,000. Enough to keep Gaols’ business afloat for another two months.

He was expecting the wile away the rest of the day in solitude. But then someone else came to the door. A woman with the tight outfit and vividly dyed hair of the privilege few who lipped on the uppermost levels of the Terrace. She sat abruptly, then fidgeted in the chair for some moments. Gaols decided to initiate the conversation.

‘If you want serving, I’ll need to know how.’

‘Hmm? Oh yes. Sorry. I... Well.... It’s somewhat delicate.’

‘Hey, didn’t you read the ad? “Delicate situations a speciality. Discretion assured”. I don’t say what I don’t mean.’

‘I’m glad about that. You see, I want you to find my brother.’

‘Find your brother? As in find long-lost brother, or find mission brother?’

‘Isn’t it the same thing?’

‘Not at all. They’re totally different. So what’s yours?’

‘He’s... Missing. Since last week. I think he may be in the lower Terrace strata. He doesn’t know how to survive down there.’

‘I see. So you want me to find him. I’ll need details.’

Gaols got my details, then mentioned his fee. ‘It’s C40,000 for one job like this.’

‘Would you accept more?’

‘Who wouldn’t accept more for a job like this.’

‘I can pay you C500,000. Is that acceptable?’

Gaols almost went slack-jawed. C500,000. The same kind of sum he heard touted on the regional lottery commercials all day long. Twenty times the standard amount earned by lower strata citizens. More money than he had earned in his entire life. Enough to set him up for retirement, early or otherwise.

‘Sure. I’m willing to accept that. I’ll find your brother. Call round in a week. I’ll have something for you then, guaranteed.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman got up and left abruptly. Gaols made a note in his small book; “Dyed woman, missing brother, C500,000.” He closed the book and smiled. This would be a synch. He cut his teeth on finding people in the lower strata, whether they wanted to be found or not. Even during his enforcer days, when he worked for the local Triads shaking down people who were late with payments.

‘PAL, I’m gonna be out for a while. If I get any calls, say I’m out on a case.’

‘Understood, Sir.’

Pulling on his jacket, Gaols left his apartment building and mounted the vertical Metro which would take him to the lower strata. He got some brief looks at the sun between the Terrace’s gleaming towers, then everything was plunged into industrial shadow. The smells changed from the tang of street purifiers to the industrial smog he knew so well. The Metro reached its destination and he stepped out onto a dilapidated platform, stepping round a homeless man who had clearly died during the recent cold snap. The station staff would notice once he started to smell.

A two street walk took him to Tseng’s Place, a small den he had frequented during his triad days. He walked in, strode through the shop and past its empty counter, into and beyond the hidden parlour with its intoxicating scents rising from discarded pipes, and into a sealed room deep within the building. He rapped on the door, and a voice sounded from within.

‘Who is it?’

‘Pizza guy. You ordered extra sleezy.’

The door opened with a sigh and Gaols passed inside. Tseng was lying on a large divan on the opposite side of the sumptuous room. He stared at Gaols as the door closed behind him.

‘I never imagined you would come back here, Gaols-san. You told my boys that you were now a respectable private detective. To what do I own the pleasure?’

Gaols struggled not to scowl at the false Asian accent Tseng insisted on using. ‘I’m looking for someone. I thought you could help me. Someone from the Terrace’s gone missing.’ Gaols gave a brief and informative description. ‘I’ve been hired to find him.’

Tseng gently chewed the stem of his hooka. ‘No-one has been here from the Terrace for over a month. We’re out of fashion at the moment.’

‘They don’t need to come here for you to know. You keep your eye on everything in the lower strata. It’s your business to know.’

‘True. That’s why you made such a good enforcer. My brain and your muscles made the perfect combination. I’m surprised you left for the higher strata.’

‘I wanted to be my own man. Surely you can understand.’

‘Yes. But I miss your little quirks. You’re the only enforcer I’ve ever known who got paid bonuses in virtual sex. Is it still twice a day?’

Gaols’ eyes narrowed. ‘Just once these days. I haven’t got free time for any more. A self-run business isn’t an easy task master.’

‘True. And it must be hell keeping your chair in good order. I remember the bills we got after that night following the Terrace Anniversary job. You spent over two hours in the thing. Practically melted its motherboard.’

‘It was a rough mission. I needed to blow off steam.’

‘Most of my men do that with drink, drugs or real sex. Not a chair-mounted VR system and a subscription to Hot Action VR.’

‘I don’t like drink. I hate drugs. And real sex makes me squirm.’

‘Not a good advertisement for your kind, don’t you think?’

‘You gonna help me or not?’

Tseng smiled. ‘As this is the first time you’ve asked, and I owe you a favour or two, I’ll do this for free. But if you keep on coming back, I’ll expect payment.’

‘Understood. Phone me when you hear anything.’

Gaols left without another word. Returning to his office, he rang another of his lower strata contacts. He knew her under the name “Sally Surge”, the name she had taken when she entered one of Tseng’s businesses. Everything that Tseng didn’t know, Sally would. It took half an hour to get through to her, and even then the results were fruitless.

‘Sorry, Honey.’ Gaols grew red at Sally’s use of his given name. ‘Haven’t heard a thing about any Terrace tots down here. It’d cause a real stir.’

So he moved on to his own research methods. He slowly trawled through the Dark Net, looking at any sign of a Terrace resident getting lost in the lower strata. The whole thing looked like a big mess, and even his experience net surfing skills turned up nothing. It was almost as if this man didn’t want to be found.

The revelation was immediate and complete. He didn’t want to be found. And if someone didn’t want to be found, the lower strata were full of alternate worlds where someone would exist beyond society’s eyes. In fact, one location leapt immediately to mind. The Dregs. Once part of the early city’s advanced sewer system, left behind as the city climbed like the Tower of Babel towards the heavens, now it served as the home for everyone who fell or threw themselves off the grid. Once there, a person was effectively dead.

Near the end of the day, he got his news. Both Sally and Tseng reported back, and both confirmed that the only signs they could find pointed to the Dregs holding his quarry. Changing into something suitable for that quarter – slacks and waterproofs that looked the worse for wear – Gaols walked to the one major elevator which went down to the very deepest strata. Even then, he had to find one of the ancient sewer covers and make his way down a network of ladders and ramps to reach the Dregs proper. No-one wanted an easy way down there.

Gaols navigated a long line of ancient sewers, filled with the detritus of its ancient past, and the human remnants that drifted down from above. He even fancied he saw the remains of some in the large water channels which ran beneath him. He walked for some distance, then stopped at a vast chamber. One of the old sewer system’s recycling and pumping hubs, it now stood empty like an artificial sinkhole. A shanty town stood at the base of a power relay pillar which extended from the floor to ceiling. Tails of smoke rose to the ceiling and its vents, which in turn led into the city’s lowest strata and its eternal layer of smog.

Gaols had no choice but to use the stairs, inuring himself to the mounting stench rising from the town and every vent he passed. There weren’t enough outlets for the general miasma produced by a few thousand people, and he shuddered to think what the facilities were like. If they even had facilities. When he reached the main “street”, he found himself walking through puddles of sludge he tried not to think about. When this was done, these clothes were getting incinerated. As he pushed into another part of the town, something caught his eye. A figure who vainly struggled to avoid the puddles of filth, and who walked with a strange upright stance he remembered from earlier that day. A stance only those in the Terrace would hold.

Gaols came up to the man and tapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘Your sister’s worried. She asked me to find you.’

The reaction was not what Gaols expected. The man turned, punched him hard in the stomach, then began running. Gaols recovered quickly and ran after his quarry. The pursuit took the two through the other side of the shanty town. up another flight of stairs, and down a large waste pipe converted by the locals into a walkway. Gaols rounded a corner, almost slipping and falling off the walkway into the festering mire beneath. His quarry was frantically climbing a ladder, heading for the bottom strata. As he continued his pursuit, Gaols wondered why this man was so terrified. Had he wanted to get lost in the Dregs?

Gaols emerged in the middle of a large square, and saw his quarry struggling to free himself from two Servitor drones who were demanding he “cease his erratic and disturbing behaviour before further measures were taken”. Gaols quickly ran over and spoke with the drones.

‘Sorry about him. He’s...under treatment. PTSD. I’m his minder, but he managed to slip away. Crows upset him so. Sometimes he just doesn’t know what’s happening. Come on now, let’s go.’

Gaols took the man’s arm, and he suddenly seemed docile. The drones let them go, and the two walked to the elevator which would take them to the upper levels. Before leaving, they had to go through decontamination to get rid of the worst of the mud and stink. They were still the only ones on the lift, as everyone else hung back. The lift took fifteen minutes to reach the upper strata, so Gaols had time to talk with his companion.

‘Why’d you run?’

‘I don’t want my sister running my life any more.’

‘That’s what she does?’

‘Simon, do this. Simon, do that. It never stops.’

‘You know she’s worried.’

‘Yeah. Worried about her position. If I’m not around, whose gonna make the money to look after our senile parents, keep our Terrace apartment, pay for all her fancy clothes. She’s a parasite, and I can’t shake her off. Why couldn’t you just leave me there?’

‘It’s not my business to help you. I got paid to find you.’

The man looked at Gaols, and for a second their eyes locked. In that glance, Gaols saw a man driven into nothingness, someone whose own will had never been exerted, who had only ever lived for others. It had broken him.

‘Yeah, sure.’ the man smiled. ‘Guess you’ll have to disappoint her.’

The lift, a simple platform surrounded by a scaffolding structure, was passing through a large open area where an old strata had been evacuated due to contamination. Before Gaols could stop him, the man dived to one side, leaping through a gap in the scaffolding into thin air. Gaols rushed to the edge of the platform, but knew there was nothing he could do. It was a 100-foot drop. No-one would survive that.

The following day, the woman called round again. Gaols received her with professional impassivity, and she was equally impassive when he told her of her brother’s death. She slowly nodded.

‘I know you did all you could. Perhaps, given the circumstances, you might accept a reduction of your fee.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I’d expect too.’

‘Shall we say...C50,000.’

‘Sure. Why not? Transfer now?’

The transfer was done. The woman left without another word.

Gaols found himself wondering how much of the original money would now be put aside to save herself and her social position. With her brother dead, she was on her own. He leaned back in his chair, smiling and looking back on what he had seen. A sister distraught at the wrong thing. A brother so afraid of his life that he saw no other way out but death – whether social or actual. And himself, the private eye who got involved. Was he responsible for that man’s death? He shook his head. If he started thinking like that, he would be back on two sessions a day in the VR chair. With the rest of the day clear, he decided to read one of his books, then go out and get some fresh waterproof gear to replace the ones ruined in the Dregs.

‘Yep.’ he said with a rueful grin. ‘Just another day in paradise.’

The Derivative Outlet

Dragon Age? Dragon Quest? Drag-on-Dragoon?
Dragon on forever? Difficult to tell the difference sometimes.
(Image credit; BioWare)

It's easy for a writer to become derivative. Which is derivative for a start. You just have to look at the numerous games inspired directly by the lore and structure of Dungeons & Dragons, which in turn borrows heavily from the established sword-and-sorcery and pulp fiction, and the work of Tolkien and similar writers.

I took fall to that temptation. Derivative works require less thought than anything else I might work on. I don't say any author's work today can't trace back to something written or conceived years or centuries earlier, but being wholly derivative of some tropes is something I want to avoid except when they serve the characters and narrative. But sometimes writing things like that as an exercise. And sometimes the things that emerged from that become more original ideas.

Take The Leviathan Chronicle. That emerged from me having a deep liking for the Drakengard series, which dealt openly with taboo character traits and religious themes in a way few stories are willing to do. It's the purest form of genre deconstruction, taking a dark fantasy world to its logical end when characters and events are presented in such a distorted way. After all, wouldn't someone who slaughters thousands on a battlefield be called mad today? The Leviathan Chronicle's first chapter emerged from me beginning something in the vein of Drakengard's opening, and then it shifted and changed into something more.

Recently I wrote something that I consider highly derivative. Tentatively titled "Warped City", it emerged in my head for a screwy combination of a certain physical stereotype, Devil Survivor, and Mozart's famous aria "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen". A modern metropolis where a group of close friends are meeting up in a new metropolis. The goal of the narrative was to have them becoming chosen people who would be pitted against divine fragments emerging in the city in the form of people, altering the city physically or culturally around their twisted worldviews. It's slightly embarrassing putting this down, but it shows how I can have very derivative flights of fancy. But now that it's out of my head, it's not getting in the way.

Whether it's annoying derivative ideas, fan fiction your brain is boiling up out of frustration at another piece of media, or just a standalone scene that doesn't seem to fit in, don't let it fester. Put it down somewhere. It if becomes something interesting, remember it. If not, leave and forget it. It's amazing how many ideas and proposals I've put down over the years have either led to new concepts for current work, or just been a good outlet to stop those terrible ideas cluttering up my work life.

A silly song for all...

Picture of young man feeling extremely embarrassed, but wanting this song (?) out of his system.

Through wars both old and new,
the men, and women too,
have each been told the heart must be forgot.
But now and ever more,
shall elicit that word ‘Cor’.
And guys and gals are all a handsome lot.
But for those who seek connections,
of a more enduring kind,
I have this quaint narration,
to ease both heart and mind.
Though there are mines exploding,
and masked men are approaching,
with their machine guns primed.
Whether veteran or green,
support or combat sheened,
your stars will soon align.
Whether in the cubicle or through a reticle,
you may see your chance.
So go out and pursue,
sweetness for them and you.
Go after that one romance.
Though there are bullets flying,
and enemies trying,
to send us all on high.
Though you may be contested,
sent up or berated,
or fail that first small try.
Do not let your failure
affect your behaviour,
or make you miss that chance.
Just go on, don’t you rest,
you’re the best of the best,
you can make that one romance.
Though you’re laid up in bed, sir,
due to having ate, sir,
the cantine’s Christmas cake.
Even if you’re there, sir,
you mustn’t yet give up, sir,
that is the big mistake.
So just write that letter,
you can’t forget, sir,
that they might be the one.
So be up and away.
This is no time to stay.
This is the time to say.
Say it in your own way.
Say it to that one romance.

Short Story - The Cleaner

Author's Note: This story was born long before the current COVID-19 crisis. It was created in a brainstorming session with my late father in mid-2018. However, given the current situation, it came to mind as something people might enjoy. To all those suffering, I give my sympathies and good wishes. Here is a little story to take the edge of the current situation.

This account is for the benefit of those who may read it after my upcoming and state-sanctioned death. I think they'll find it... Maybe not amusing. Shocking, perhaps?

"Come on!"

I let myself be led from the van without protest. I was in my scrubs and mask, and when the cleaning gear was forced into my newly-liberated hands, I looked for all the world like a zero-hour cleaner. The guard, gruff as always, shoved me through the door of the evacuated hotel.

"It's on the roof. Deal with it."

Not quite monosyllabic, but certainly curt. It was a long trek up the stairway, up to the roof where my task was waiting for me. The building had been evacuated about an hour before, shortly after a patrol drone had spotted the thing on the roof. After that, the drone had remained while people were rushed and given preventative treatment, assessing how long there was. Then I was called for. Or rather, I was picked out from a large selection of society's unwanted. Better than the needle, I suppose.

It took ten minutes to reach the roof, up the main stairway then via a service entrance onto the roof. It wasn't hard to find my assigned clean-up. There it was, sitting in a slightly curled-up position just hidden by the concrete balustrade. It had been human, and was still to a degree. But the string-like fungus has completely covered their form, and from the pores round the joints came the first edges of immature fruiting bodies bearing the germs of a billion billion spores.

Want to read the rest? Visit the original on my WordPress website.