"Blade of the Eagle Clansman" Ch8-C

There will be one more part to this chapter, as time moves on. These two characters are just being stubborn about me not skipping things, and surprising me at what they reveal to me about their world, or this part of it. -D.R. 

Galen snarled as light fled the prairie, staring incredibly at the still glowing line where the head of his mace once supported a fin. Such a thing was thought impossible, that only portions of something would be taken with a teleporting item or person, not all of it, and what it was connected to. Not to mention, this being yet another blade to snap from the head of the mace, another problem to ponder, for it's enchantments were to prevent such incidents due to the design. Without a mage-smith nearby, to look into that matter, he shelved it, mentally.

Tagrun stalked about the circle of dead grass surrounding him, warring emotions dancing across his face. Anger at the escape, grief over the deaths, and relief and worry stuttering between those, over Chanti being alive, but once more beyond his reach to save. His feet moved closer, then farther out, but rarely more than two paces from the circle, as he moved. Something seemed to keep him out of it. Superstitions, perhaps, or an ingrained sense of self-preservation.

The elven assassin glared at him, not sure if the boy's hesitation, suddenly, was cowardice or wisdom. "Enter it. Show the mage you do not fear his spells."

"I seek his footsteps, none are here though." Tagrun raged, casting about for some way to trace his foe.

"The only steps you will find of his lie outside this realm, and mortal eyes cannot trace." Galen sighed. "Fools we were. Thinking we could kill him so easily."

"When he dies, it will be at my hand. The sands said so." Tagrun walked around the circle of death again, stopping to lift up a weakened, but still alive child. "Some trace must be where eyes can see it, for me to follow."

Galen's eyes narrowed, those words too close in his memory to another student's words decades before. "Perhaps. But not where your eyes see the trace of his steps, but the effects of the passage. Like the moving of blades tells of your namesake's stalking of prey?"

Tagrun whipped his head around, eyes seeking for such in the grass, but sighed after a few moments. "No. You are right. This is magic, something beyong the ken of my eyes. Only another mage could trace the foulness he did unto these innocents."

Closing his eyes, Galen nodded silently, thinking hard. It was in the distant desert of volcanic ash and sand his mind sought the answer, amid his memories of that other student, one who did not embrace what he was, but denied it, seeking to quell the gifts the gods had laid upon him, not use them. That boy's gifts, so similar to his own, rose up as an answer.

"There might be a way. Place will not matter, I think. At least, not to find where a trail you can follow for us will resume." Galen smiled, lifting his mace, turning the radiant seam where once a blade projected to his face. "And our prey cannot block it."

"What way is that? A user of the dark powers knows all." Tagrun said.

"Knows them, but not the ways of the user of them." Galen knelt, sifting a handful of dead dust through his fingers. "Nor that a hunter can use them as well as a mage."

Tagrun grunted, still not convinced, but let the matter lie, for the moment. "We must save these, and he will use that time to flee, covering his tracks, having seen a grass stalker follows with you."

"Yes. But he has only a few places in reach, if my own schooling tells true, of a spell only fueled by a few, instead of all these. West, unless he seeks sojourn among the blood drinkers, is out. North would keep him from his goal, but confuse us, so we must consider it." Galen shook his head, standing slowly. "No, East or south is my guess. Kensorthi or Jandalin."

"Kensorthi would expose him. Most there are of the grass, and would not tolerate a mage hiding among them." The boy scoffed, staring down the valley, as the lesser moon at last rose in the east. "Jandalin also gets more ships."

Galen stared at the boy. "I thought you never left the grass of the north before?"

"Once, we traveled to the coast. Trading furs for spear and arrow heads." Tagrun smiled shyly. "I never said I had not left the grass of the Eagle, but Jandalin is on the grass, as is Kensorthi."

"You tribesmen amaze me again." Galen smiled, looking over the slowly reviving clan around them. "Take them to the river. Washing may not be a remedy for their ailments, but it will let them wash the feeling of filth this foe undoubtedly left upon them."

Tagrun grunted, sensing there was more to leaving the place to just his uncle. Galen's face left no room for argument about the decision, though. Moving gently among the survivors, he aided them up from the ground, checked their steadiness, then urged them down the draw. Risking one last glance back, the boy nodded to Galen, even as the older elf closed his eyes, holding the mace's broad head to his own. The hunter moved faster after the others, taking the arm of their shala to aid her over the rocky terrain.

For Galen, only the mace was left in his world. The boy, despite their shared blood, was not part of his true kin. Tagrun felt none of the bonds the numeni held dear, lived his life as one of the clansmen, which might be fine for him, lacking a doni so far. Reaching into his soul, in the spot he once shared with his sister, the boy's mother, the assassin teased at the powers within his mind, calling them out gently, into the mace. The trick would not be invoking the connection between the head and missing fin, but in keeping the connection faint enough to avoid alerting the mage.

Chablys being much sought after by all mages for various rites and spells, not to mention the fact that their foe might even use a magical summoning of the power to drain the mace's enchantments through the portion of it he now possessed, he was sure their prey would not toss it aside.

Reaching out his doni, Galen stirred the power inside the mace, caressing the flow just enough to create a tiny ripple in those currents. A disturbance that fled out from the center of the great ball, finding the jagged seams that once held the missing fins, trickling out them to seek missing parts. Opening his eyes, the assassin shifted his vision from the world of matter to that of energy. Flares of power and life burst all around, swirling whirlwinds of fire marking the creatures, a flow from river to hilltop marking the grass and other scrubs, but over it all, a faint golden stream, marred by darker orange ripples along it, flowed into the heart of the dead circle, disappearing.

Patience, the greatest virtue of a hunter, be he of beasts or men, became Galen's only companion amid that maelstrom of hues, as the world moved about him in ways few others ever saw. Time ceased to exist in the normal sense for the assassin, now intent upon finding his prey and redeeming the knife on his belt. When the returning ripple came, it flowed over the scenery, not through the evaporated portal opening. A long, faint lone, stretching to the south, and a bit west. A line almost washed out when the boy stepped between him and the distant fin by Tagrun's angry red aura.

"Kensorthi." One word said it all, for both of them.

"Good. But we need to get these Otter folk down to help. Their shala is too ill to tend their wounds and sickness for them." Tagrun's rage forced Galen to abandon his effort, and look once more upon the physical, not the spiritual world.

"It will take too much time to find another encampment." He snarled.

"No." Tagrun grinned viciously. "Their main band is in the port, trading. And they were making rafts to join them."

Galen smiled himself, sensing something their foe had not anticipated. The hand of the Parcae, the three goddesses of Fate, being on their side, aiding their hunt. "Well, that changes things. How much more to do?"

"Those able to work managed to help me finish their rafts. A hundred spear throw walk, then the ride down the river." Now Tagrun's face showed worry. "But the river is not an easy thing, from here to the Sandy Grasses below. Many rapids, and rains must have fallen, for the channels here are swollen."

"But swifter than one would think, for this time of year." Galen stared up at the stars, blessing them, as the clouds broke for a few more moments, then sealed them over. "Let us see your rafts, and take a day or so to make them stronger and safer. It will not matter. Our prey is grown over-confident, thinking we were but lucky."

"How would you know this?" Tagrun asked, starting down the draw to the bank of the Kensorthi.

"He did not toss aside the fin of my blade. Instead, he plays with it, hoping to steal its magic, and my life through it." Galen sneered. "Fool, I say, and lucky for us. Even the masters of yore often failed at that."

"But some did it, that implies." Tagrun scowled again, noting flashes in the clouds, distant echoes of lightning to come.

Galen refused to answer, trusting to his goddesses to grant him victory.

Okay, now I have to do some worldbuilding in advance of the final part of the chapter, the river ride you see coming. And on Kensorthi the town, and its surrounds. And the path after that... no, this is not an easy hunt, and will end in frustration, if not for my characters, at least for me. =D.R.

World Building and Life Intrudes

Into the blank spaces,
marked Terra Incognito
my tale has moved
with this chapter.
Leaving me to scamper
about amid notes
and see what ideas
I can use
for this place entered.

Into this damned Chaos,
Life tosses grenades,
with fickle Lady Luck
tossing her finger
into the bloody fray,
leaving my life
even more stirred up
than the West Desert
after wind storms,
which was 'Status Quo'.

So I assert a mighty pen,
(okay, just dancing fingers),
across a blank slate of electronic canvas,
and craft out something more stable
than the currents of Chaos I navigate.

Starting at the known,
I dive down
creating layers beneath it,
not underworlds, really,
just better detailed maps,
narrowing the focus
of my mind's eye
upon the places
the characters now walk.

The only map crafted
for this tale
or my turbid life,
for the moment.
What map I had
for rebuilding myself
others seek to expand
beyond the scope
I saw for myself.

Dropping in the Icons with care,
I lay out the world I control,
ignoring the reality I merely ride
the rapids without paddle or life-vest.

26July2016 - A frustrated Dyfedd Rex

Real reason for the logjam of words

So, as the last post, the poem about the mental patio forming up, indicates, I'm suffering my weird writer's block, not so much that the story won't go, but another intrudes, and demands to be at least addressed enough to call some story inspector in to check the foundations before I let the character start framing the damned house the story will live in.

Yeah, my dealing with contractors at work is affecting my view of writing again. Metaphorically, at least.

So, this morning, I opened up my writing softwares, and what dropped into one tale had nothing to do with the tale that file/folder contained. I had to go back, save it the hell out, look around my hard drive and find a niche to cram those words into, as a holding place. Regrettably, that actually sparked more ideas and words from the main character, as the place in my head crowded up with others waiting their turns, or at least acting like they are waiting, to tell a tale.

What, you may ask, sparked this? Who the hell knows. I live inside my skull, and am just as mystified as to what goes on in here as others outside it are.

This is the words that flowed out, and that third paragraph sort of sealed the deal, that it was time to talk of "Grave to Grave" registration of undead bodies, how Bureau-rats (were-rats who have infiltrated the bureaucracy of CRAPP's parent organization) will guide or impede the characters, and some other things.

Upstairs, amid the cubicles, the offices, the suits, and the things in suits that need a good staking, they have a term which strikes horror in the hearts of many entrepenuers and riders of golden parachutes. "Cradle to Grave". It means how one follows the trail of chemicals and various by-products from their creation to their internment inside containers which are designed from step one to leak, deep inside some hidden place. Say Utah, Nevada, or over a major watersupply, say the Ogallala Aquifer. 
Down here in the basement, we have our own twist on that string of words. "Grave to Grave". And we hate enforcing it, as it means we have to deal with some form of undead bastard who cannot stay put once planted in the ground. 
There's a new, rubber placard on my desk, but it lies as much as its wooden and metal predecessors had, claiming my name is Troy Tanner, that my job title is "Remediation & Recovery Expert", and that I am handicapped. I'm pretty sure Blair and Beths teamed up on this one, as my only handicap is I cannot play golf or office politics, and the rubber tells me Beths is hoping this one will bounce back on its own from whatever dumpster I drop it into. Tanner is the name I answer to, unless the IRS is asking, so it will do. As for that title, face it, anyone who gets sent out to clean up a mess, be it made by the living, the dead, the undead, aliens, sasquatch who have decided that using someone's lawn over their woods to dump in, or other such things is just a glorified janitor. 

Yep, another of those days, when it comes to me writing. One where the characters do their damnedest to make me insane, by blocking each other like a goalie seeking to save the day.

Avoiding My Mental Patio - A poem of the travails of Writing like I do.

I've stayed off it,
the new, real-world patio,
trying to avoid the crowd
that would overwhelm its space,
barely enough for two chairs
and a table for writing.

I know they will gather
if I step out there
and try to use it.
The massive mob that dwells
inside my head telling stories,
each demanding their turn now.

But the damned Mental Patio,
where I retreat to so oft,
inside my slime filled skull,
forms up as it pleases,
and they gather up swiftly,
to heckle and jeer efforts.

Such is the case now,
as I tried telling tales
of Scorpio's many dangerous hunts.
They realized the patio'd materialized
inside my imagination's dark domain
where night exists amid daylight.

Billenius just sipped his tea,
sitting calmly as his norm,
but silent for the moment,
save the loud, nasty stares
he tosses at my fingers,
for not finishing his edit.

Scorpio leans over Troy Tanner,
who is boasting about something
involving rats in expensive suits
raising up various dead souls
to do some dark bidding
or take a fool's errand.

The hunter scowls, miffed again.
His tale is long ignored
and this isn't the first,
nor the last interruption suffered
in that story's winding path
to being finished up finally.

C.J. lounges, over by fire-pit,
still sipping his rum drink,
chuckling over the building row,
hoping for some serious fisticuffs
to allow him to stand
and talk about his story.

Others sit about, sulk silently
amid the shadows and slime,
hoping for their turn again
to spring back to life
under the dance on keyboard
my fingers doth slowly mangle.


Each tale tries to emerge,
each player and character vies,
for their little, tiny chance
to rise from the fog-bank
that clouds my mind's eye
and walk in words again.

I cannot force the issues,
and make them queue up
to tell their tales orderly,
as that way lies disasters
long ago discovered by trial,
and madness lies that way.

So I ride the tides,
letting each tale flow out
as it damned well wants,
not trying to force issues,
save in November's chill weeks
when I do NaNoWriMo's thing.

I know this is foolish,
but it seems to work,
for my sanity, at least.
And around my desk's clutter,
the characters find their places
to sit as I write...
Waiting for their chance to speak.

1July2016 -  a befuddled Dyfedd Rex.

Blade of the Eagle Clansman - Chapter 8 (partial)

(You be the judge, vote with comments: Do I have my chops back and have the thread of this story again?)

Three bleak, grey dawns now lay behind them, as Galen stared across the dying coals of their night's fire at the hollowed out boy across from him. Losing two so close to him, and the mess at the Burning Rocks still sore to the boy, left the eyes vacant save the occasional stirring of vengeance's flames within them. Today, the embers of the fire and the eyes were dim, but not for long, the elven assassin thought.

Something would spark a rage, a killing one, and the boy would be lost, every bit the killer the one they hunted obviously wanted to make him. The Necromancer was not just playing a game with primitives, that much had become clear. The creature of darkness wanted them on his trail, and moving through the land in a rage. Each day, near to noon, they would find his camp from the night before, a place of death, even the grasses brown, brittle, and lifeless, adorned with strange trees made of bodies drained of life, that they lost time in burning, to prevent the dead from following them.
Tagrun rarely spoke, only a few words about the trail in the morning, and nothing but gestures in the trade sign-language after they'd dealt with the foul messes left behind by their prey. His eyes died more with each night, but the hate blazed up each noon, when they beheld the new horrors of crucified corpses, some twisted into trees in their own right, before their essences drained into their foe.

His eyes drifted across the prairie around them, the soft, rolling grasslands of the place his folk once called the Eastern Deadlands, ravaged by the remnants of the volcanoes around them, and a sorcerous war three ages before that triggered that cataclysm. The grass was not the green of the northern prairies and plains crossed before reaching the Vault. Dull teal to blue blades swayed in the wind, shorter, cropped often by herds of auroch and bison, among other creatures. The tall spires of the old vents and runs of dykes left behind when the ashes of the eruptions which formed the bowl of the land cast strange shadows, as their gleaming rocks, rich in precious metals, studded by clumps of wind and rain polished gems that sparkled in the sun. Those towers, numerous, but still spread apart by stadia, left him stunned, but the boy ignored their beauty. The tribes all ignored the riches, having paid heavily when they'd overrun the land during the Age of Convulsions, as the Old North Empire collapsed, for trying to harvest such, finding them enchanted against harvest by any not of that fallen nation. Something Galen fought testing, to see if those spells still held out against the fading of power the years passed brought on all such power.

Three days of sporadic sprinkles left the trail still there, but weak, hard to follow. The delays in setting the funeral pyres merely aggravated Tagrun, the boy simmering over the delay, but knowing the cost of not burning the ensorcelled bodies, the young hunter took the time, and did it well. This morning, though, his half open eyes meeting his uncle's.

"We go about this wrong. He wants us wasting time."

Galen grunted, pouring out the last of the pot of kaf, frowning. "Yes. But if we do not find the camps, others will suffer."

Tagrun shook his head. "No. Here there are fewer night hunting beasts to fear. That is what I mean." He leaned back, noting darker bands of clouds to the south. "Tonight, I say we keep on the trail. By torchlight if necessary. Drive him to abandon this, make him hasten to his chosen place to meet us, and perhaps fail to have it ready as a trap to kill his pursuers." Leaning forward, the boy stirred the coals, letting them brighten a bit, before seeking Galen's eyes and judgement.

Galen narrowed his own almond eyes, staring across the waving grasses, noting the increase of shrubs amid the landscape, compared with further north. Sipping his drink, he thought over the suggestion, not liking it. If the clouds broke, the trail would be easier to follow, and the hunters were not known for night tracking, to those outside their lands. Ones who knew them feared the nights they hunted, for the clans proved good in the dark hours at tracking their prey, or maybe more than by the light of the sun. So far, their prey counted on the edge night gave his powers, so perhaps Tagrun was correct. But to confront a sorceror in the dark, or the dim light of dawn might just be too much for them.
"He travels by day, that we know." Tagrun now opined. "Gathering up those he finds out, for his evil. If we push him, perhaps he will not take more of the Otter clan, whose grass we now tread."
"Or perhaps we will meet the Otters themselves, at night." Galen stretched, feeling muscles still tight from their fast pace and short nights protest at the movement. "Against such as this man, we know not what they will be sending out now."

 Tagrun grunted, knowing his elder was right, but feeling his own idea worth trying. "Otter will understand. We know word is spreading, you saw the curse wards they leave, the wands in the rock piles, the staff with the burnt skull of the beast set upon one of their camps." He noted Galen's motions, knowing they meant the elf was ready to move on, but waited only for him to finish his idea. "One night, if it works, and we stop him from destroying souls, we keep it up. If not, back to the day trekking, but longer hours, camping only after the sun sets. The moon of migrations grows rounder each night, let us use that light."

Nodding, Galen admitted that one night would not harm them, if they could catch the horror they stalked. "Very well. One night of tracking him onward, but we do not approach him until dawn. Can you go so long without rest?"

"Once, I followed the tusk-cat I am named for, six days and nights, eating on the run, never sleeping. For this monster, I would run all the days and nights until the moon leaves the night sky. And into the dark, if the lesser moon lets us."

Kicking dirt over the fire as he rose, Galen met his nephew's eyes. "So be it."

This week's story post to come soon... a Challenge

A good internet friend's birthday is today, so I offered him a present, of sorts. I let him offer up a challenge for the story post this week. He accepted, and the post will come later today, or tomorrow, depending upon my time available to write today. Starting it now, so prepare. It will be a Neville Carteblanche story, as he is my mystery go-to character, but I'm still tinkering with the idea, and how it will evolve out.

So watch later this week, or even today, for the tale.

Sample of the work from November... just a rather large snippet, really

The following is the sample I'm sharing about the tale I wrote for NaNoWriMo, just a piece, well into it. When I wrote this, I knew I had to go back, re-write the whole damned thing, but hell, it gelled the tale for me. This is the raw, mostly unedited thing that flowed out, one day at a coffee shop to remain nameless, so I can keep using it to write and hide from the world while doing so. 

Sikilashtar allowed her wings to spill air, leading her Mulusu down towards the girl walking the long, empty stretch of road. Her AndarU created a clumsy landing, the bulk of the battle armor plant forcing her to stagger. None of the others preformed perfect landings either, something difficult under the heavy gravity of this damned planet. She followed the commands still of witch Hili, coming here to find those still hiding from the domination by the Fey Princess.

"Don't let her hear you call her just a princess, Mashkim." One of her battle sisters chuckled.

"I said that out-loud, did I?" Sikilashtar replied, ashamed. "Sorry, Sanabi."

"Very loudly, too." The earth child they sought to capture said, still facing away.

The Mulusu brought weapons to bear, fast. The words of the earthling were in the sacred tongue they spoke in, not some earth language.

"Mashkim... there are reports that some earthlings turn rogue, and are very dangerous." The soldier to her left said, reminding her of their mission. To gather in humans, and slay any who resist being put under Hili's will.

"I know. And they speak our tongue, learned by their transformation in the contamination of this world by the Shimxul." Sikilashtar said.

The child waited. She appeared young, human, yet had pink hair, and a certain grace that few of them held. Not that they had not found signs of such, but it had become rare. By her height and build Sikilashtar estimated her to be in what the humans called their mid to late teens, having the starts of the womanly, perfect figure humans sometimes shared with the Sedu. The tattered, blue jacket she wore over the heavy leggings the rebels called 'blue jeans', and seemed to prefer over the offered Utug, living clothing, made of parasite plants, offered by the Sedu to let them wear, marked her as a holdout, one of the rebels. A strange logo decorated the back of the jacket, in red, white and blue. A small bear cub. Her shoes were not the heeled things of the Sedu rule, but flat soled, red canvas things.

"Child of Kibala, surrender to the orders of the Lugal." Sikilashtar commanded. "Turn about, and give your flesh to our empress's rule."

"No. Give yourself over to mine." From under the jacket a weapon appeared. Sikilashtar aimed her own, but gestured for holding fire. The weapon had not been aimed at them, just shown, held by left hand, aimed to the side and up.

"Mashkim..." One of her younger squad members gasped. "That weapon."

Focusing upon it, Sikilashtar snarled. "We were told there was a base out here, near that land of craters and death glass, that the humans supposedly held aliens in. I guess those stories were true."

"All too true, sadly." The human said. "Surrender, and I will give mercy. Keep follow that pretender to the Zidguza, and I will make even Shumash fear my destructions." The gun held steady, in a grip only experts with that model, long ago abandoned, save for ceremonial use, in the service of one person, the heir to the throne.

Sikilashtar's anger grew. Before the coups that led to this debacle, the destruction of a human civilization, she'd served in such, and was pissed at this earth child for carrying such a weapon, and at herself for not recognizing it instantly. "You are unworthy of that weapon, earthling. Set it down, and tell us how you learned our language and found that tool."
"No." The child stood, long pink tresses blowing in a breeze that looked hot and nasty, given the dust  it kicked up registered as highly radioactive. Deadly to humans. Sikilashtar debated just waiting for the particles of the real to tear the child's flesh apart.
"Then you will die. But, I still must know. How do you know our language?" Taking aim, Sikilashtar, the pure heart, prayed to the gods to forgive her for killing an innocent, misguided child.
"I answer your question with one of my own." The human said, holding perfectly still. "How did my sister die?"

Sikilashtar cocked her head, not surprised at the question, too many rebels blamed the conversions and deaths of family on them all, not just Hili's special corps made for that purpose. "I know not your sister, child of earth. We have killed many here, sadly. So you will go to the heavens never knowing. But I must know how you came to speak the Emezir. Tell me, or die."

The earthling's reply was to turn her head, giving hints of a beautiful face when the moving hair let more than her nose show. "How did my sister die, Mashkim. I know you know, you would have been there. I know those markings on your AndarU." The gun was armed with a touch of her finger. "Tell me how Tukgala died, Mashkim Lash. Tell your commander you did not betray the Diluzu to that witch Sallilu."

Arming the gun started the mulusu on the path to destroying her, as they spread out into a wider formation, to avoid all dying in the battle to come, for the Telmuna guns were named aptly. They made the holder's arm into a land of missiles, or at least where it was pointed into one, each shell of the gun tossing out thousands of monofilament diamond needles. Not even the AndarU would save them from such a weapon, which is why only the royal family and their guards held such.

"Drop it, child."

"I'm older than you, Lash. You just don't remember it, I guess." The gun rose, still not pointed at them, but now aimed straight up, by the left ear of the human, who looked forward. "Last chance, how did that Nighul dumma Asipu have Tukgala killed?"

That insult hit home, at last. And the name she'd been called, she realized was an old nickname of hers, not some earthling insult. "Dingiri." She whispered. "It cannot be. I saw the wreckage."

From the girl's hair, two long, golden antennae rose. marking her as one of the Sedu. "If I am who you now fear me to be, Lash, you best answer, before I lose my temper."

"Lillashu." Shaking her head, the Sedu warrior fell to her left knee, right knee supporting the clear leaf helmet of her AndarU. "Empress. Forgive us. We failed."

"Tell me, Lash. Tell me it was not treachery you participated in, treachery by your hand." The child of earth turned. "Tell me she did not give up the secret, and lead to this mess here." The hand moved around her imperiously. "Tell me I'm not having to grow up because you stabbed my sister in the back."

"When you ran off, we were demoted." Sikilashtar said, sobbing in relief. "Even I thought you could not have survived that crash, on that world, when I saw.... DINGIRI... That Bitch!" Standing up, the mashkim tore off the helmet leaves of her Andaru, feeling the parasite's pain, but not caring she wanted nothing between her eyes and the ones she met. "This place. This is it, GusukalKi. The bitch wiped that out of our minds."

A soft smile touched the lips of the teen-aged girl. "Which Witch?" Now in English, she watched the commander of the squad fighting to deal with the homonym. "Sallilu or this little Hili slut daughter of hers?"

One of the mulusu spoke up. "Princess, Sallilu ordered her killed. But we saved her, at Hili's order. But, what her end was, well. The still sealed in soldier of the Sedu shrugged. "I know nothing of that, but she was on Nymphia, when the Nigkua betrayed the truce flag."

"On whose word was it the Nigkua. They might be aggressive, and dumb at times, but they are not suicidal. Especially not Baphy." The gun now rested on the shoulder of the girl, who still refused to relent in her pursuit of answers.

"Hili...." Sikilashtar let her voice trail off, only to curse softly.

"Now THAT is the Lash I remember." The girl smiled. "Rise up, gather round, we are going to rock this witch to the ground." Lillashu grimaced. "Def Leppard's heirs will sue me for mangling it that way, then again, the boys probably would have been right behind me in revolution. Who knows."

"Def Leppard is a philosopher of this world?" One of the younger Mulusu asked.

"Nope, musicians. Well, musical philosphers, I guess. Unlike us, they actually used music to carry messages to the people." She strode into the pack of the kneeling soldiers, reaching up to pull down a suddenly smiling Sikilashtar's head by the jagged, but healing collar leaves of her AndarU. "Now, stop stalling, talk to me. Tell me how Salli did it, how that witch took down my sister. Or, I throw a tantrum."

The smile grew. "I think at last, my empress, you are too old for such."

"Royal perogative, I get pissed off, I can toss a tantrum, I just get to lob grenades and use my Telmuna you gave me when I ranaway." Lillashu waved the gun a little, as a reminder. "Now, old friend who really raised my sister and I, tell me how Tukgala lost, so I can do something of the same to this little minx Hili."

"She is your neice, by Salamacis..."

"Screw that crap. She's an usurper. And allied with ZiReDam. Don't care if she's my own kid, which I have not had one of yet, she's dead. Treason. Regicide of at least one empress, a lot more I bet." She aimed the gun between Sikilashtar's eyes, face grim suddenly. "Talk, Lash. Tell me what the hell went down after I left, so I can fix it."

All but one, a younger girl of the Pisuzu third flesh, spoke. Telling the tale, as they knew it, of how Salamicis rose to power, seducing a heart-broken child empress when her sister's vessel had been found on the true earth, home of all the races. Of the death of the then empress, by poison in her AndarU during a skirmish with the forces of Gorgon, Baphomet's rogue brother, and other treacheries done, by both Hilimaaz and Salamacis, against the poeple. The silent one stood, angry at this betrayal of their empress.

"Hilimaaz will slay you all for speaking of these things." She snarled, aiming her own gun at the child.

"Only if she hears of it." Lillashu said, her weapon dropping and firing in one smooth move, the needle gun shredding the armor and Sedu inside it apart. As her body dropped, the grim faced girl, face streaked with tears snarled. "And here I thought I was just fighting to bring back baseball."
Sikilashtar's face scrunched up in puzzlement. "What is baseball?"

The girl blinked, looking at her former bodyguard. "Something these earthlings had, a past-time sport, a unifying thing." She shook her head. "Something we all need, I guess."

The still kneeling guards all unhelmeted, the transparent leaves of their helms unfurling slowly, exposing nine Diluzu with bright, tear-filled, fearful eyes. "Empress." Sanabi whispered. "We offer our lives for our sins."

Turning back to the earlier pose, back to them, Telmuna gun resting by her head on shoulder, Lillashu stared out across the wastelands once known as Frenchman's Flat, eyes rising to the pass to her former home and prison, where the dry remains of Groom Lake once lay. "Live your lives. Live them to redeem those sins." She said, turning back, face fierce. "Let's give these slug lovers a war they won't forget."

Cold winds stirred up the dust again, sheathing them all in the rising haboob, erasing the traces of their ever being there.

Taking Other Paths - A poem of perseverance.

Energy surges,

crackling power chords

dancing in grey matter,

as the tales begin rising

back from their long hiatus

to fill my head

and hopefully pages

with words.

Clouds loom,

dark and hateful,

all around my path

as I walk the trails

designated for me by Fates

who desired my downfall

for some reason

beyond me.

Others scoff, 

find me foolish

for trying this path

which started to work before

they hauled me back down

to their murky streets

claiming I was 

being insane. 

And now?

Having proved it,

that your society turned

its back upon me firmly?
No, they still cannot see

that I must try

some other road

to survive. 

Sparks kindle,

daring against darkness

as the ideas catch

amid the creative tinder pile

I jokingly call my mind

and tongues of flames

marked by words

beckon me.

Chasing dreams?

Perhaps you're right.

But, given the failures

at landing a normal job,

would you not truly say

that I did that

following your paths

to failure?

Four years,

trying to gain

a regular job again

all for naught to now

and still no hint comes

of when it ends

so I turn

back again.

Dusting off

the keys again,

settling the face into 

that grim, go away look

to keep the distractions down

and unleash uncouth side

to drive away

the distractions.

Parting ways,

I can see

coming soon for many

who will turn away again,

as I lay aside resumes

and pick up pen,

paper, and hope,

to write.

Damn you, 

if you chide

me for trying this,

for I have nothing left

to try on your paths,

but must walk mine,

alone if needed,

for now. 

Last bits

of wrapping up 

the old, wasted ways

of the man now dying

amid phoenix flames of rebirth

as Dave passes away

amid Dyfedd's rise

from ashes.

Or not, 

as the pipe

will sit cold, now.

No tobacco, no coffee left,

just the man and dreams

battling over the keyboard

for some tale

to come.

Despite it all,

I still have hope.

You ain't broken my will.

Just made me look

to another path

to walk. 

28February2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Aliens and Souvenirs pt. 1 - a little tale for All Hallow's Eve...

I hated to leave that temp at the desk alone, I mean, who knows what sort of mayhem will slip by the uninitiated. What others write off as crank calls, we in CRAPP take seriously. But, when the folks in the funky shades and black suits call, you go over, let them wire you up, and try steering them away from questions that will leave them in the care of "..the men in white, who are always right.."
I made it to the rickety freight elevator behind our back door, the one I use to escape folks  like the little lawyer elf lady when they come serving summons, subpoenas, restraining orders, or IRS/GAO audit notices. The doors on that thing almost closed when I remembered, I'd sent a notice of my disgust this morning, leaving the recently departed James Blair's "Tank", a heavily modified IH Scout that had the military green with envy at the fire-power it packed, in the Director's parking stall.
The damned elevator has a sensor in it that triggers the doors to move in guillotine fashion based on your urgency to enter or exit. Yeah, most of them do, but this one is different, somehow, some joker actually placed metal blades on the thing, to make it that way. OSHA would have a fit, but this is one of two places they never inspect for safety issues. Which is why me and the guy who samples the lava in Hawaii have great bar crawls laughing about trying to lure the paper pushers out in the danger, when I have vacations or work in the middle of the less than peaceful Ocean.
Manny heard the jingle of the keys, and stuck his head out. "Five O'clock somewhere, right?"
I grimaced. I was going to be buying rounds for a few years, given his workmanship in carpentry, and union rules. "Only if you want to help me pass a lie detector, commites."
"Thou shalt not bear false witness, Trejanio." He scolded me, knowing I'd have to, or be up on charges again.
"Yeah, well, maybe you could ask their guardian angels to steer them to the funny stuff, not the locked into a padded cell stuff." I grunted, realizing some of that would be better not known either. "Just not about incidents like that hunting group in Texas."
"You are on your own, mi amigo. But, I will see if Dad will help bail you out if you get too deep in the rotten cabbage." With that, my oldest friend turned back to the desk. "I'm going to need some walnut scraps to fix the desk top, grab some on your way back."
Once a carpenter, always a carpenter. Manny hates most jobs, save the times he sneaks onto a Habitat for Humanity site, to restore his own faith in why he keeps trying to save folks.
"I'll try to get back after lunch, (temp name). Take yours at noon, put the phones to the voice mail, just promise to come back." Letting loose my best smile, I tried to keep (her?) from getting too scared at doing this solo. "If we let if fill up, the folks upstairs make all temp jobs permanent. And the pizza joint down the road is off limits. Caught them using unicorn meat last month, still ain't sure we seized it all."
The newbie looked worried, I really hoped (she?) thought I was joking about the unicorn meat. Looked the type to be a unicorn lover, and had that left eye glint to suggest they might actually suffer some serious horned horse lover vengeance at the pie shop.

More stuff being taken off blog to go into new project

Another 'words' project is coming... one that will be brutal to read, tough for me to honestly write, edit, and gather, but needs to be done. This is something a friend urged me towards this summer, and I am only ready to slam together now.

I'm calling this project: "Words from the Curbs & Under Cold Bridges", and it is a gathering of my poems and stories about being homeless,
Tonight, in one of my moments of rage and determination, I finally took that friend's advice, and started laying it out. This will not be some gritty thing to give folks hope, but one to offer a taste, and that is all you will get, a small taste, of what being homeless, jobless, and beaten down feels like. It will not win me friends, I'm sure. Some bridges already burnt during this period of my life will take further destruction, I'm betting, down to the very footings deep in murky waters that each side peered across before, and now have to try seeing through that crap filled water to repair. That is, if enough will survives on either side to do so.

Just a taste now, the opening section... of a work that will be ongoing even beyond the moment it finishes, 'cause this shit ain't over yet for me.

Every tale of woe starts somewhere. Mine started with the usual place for me. A moment of anger, being asked to lie by some corporate fool, who admitted in that same request that it would be lying, but for the good of the company. A company that stressed, until then, its ethics and standing in the world of commerce. So, I lost it, said very loudly some words discussing the requestor’s ancestry, habits, and soul’s probable destination, which lead to a request for my resignation. This started my downward spiral to the streets, an ugly chain reaction, which my temper did little to curtail. Hell, it kept pulling out the reactor control rods, draining the cooling pond, and tossing in more fissile thoughts. Yeah, in the beginning, it was all on me, apparently, as few think I should blame the screw-loose thumb-sucker who triggered it all.
Well, from there, the job hunt began, and like any other time I get pissed off, things kept going wrong, despite my best intentions. No job appeared, so, I was forced to do something drastic… This is the tale, not quite all in order, given by poems and stories I wrote along the way, on my blog, or never shared, that show how things went.
One thing, before I pass the baton to the next point in my life… I’ve seen a lot of stories online and in the mainstream media about folks who spent time homeless to understand it better. Not a single damned one of them can. You see, they all knew when their planned time on the streets would end. They never faced the real doubts, fears, anger, and frustration the REAL homeless do, day in, day out. If they wanted to wimp out, they knew home was still there, waiting for them. So, before you say “I went on the streets to see what it’s like, and I know…”, stop. Just stop. You ain’t got a clue. Few will. Unless they really went through it, with no hope of return, no fall back position to retreat to, and truly no home. All you got, at best, was a taste of the dangers, not the darkest moments, not by a damned sight. Stop fooling yourselves, and lying to others that you understand the true meaning of being homeless. You could walk home anytime… and did. The homeless don’t have that option.

Sermon’s over. Or, maybe, just beginning.

And for me, the first hints came when I had to start selling my possession to make rent. Something I’d done before, but never at the level this time around required. 

Like I said, this will be brutal. Both to read, and for me to write. But I'm tougher than you think, the real worry is are you going to be tough enough to read it, accept it, and understand it. 

20October2014 - A very pissed off Dyfedd Rex. 

Grinding it out - A poem of life, writing, and the hunt for a job

Demons and ghosts haunt me,
as fingers do their dance,
seiving the tale from slime
that sloshes in my skull.

Dark thoughts bounce around, wildly.
The day of job applications,
and nights and monrings writing
are piling up without results.

Some is my stubborn attitude
about learning new fangled things
that morph about faster yearly
beyond my keeping up easily.

Each thing that goes wrong
seems like an evil indictment
against the paths I choose
to walk these gloomy days.

Characters' dialogue spins the wheels
amid the slippery brain matter
forcing me to slow down
instead of driving to end.

This is my long haul,
still going on these days.
Sixteen tons of doubt, despair
that leave you without hope.

Save those brilliantly clear moments
when things just fall right,
as the leaves up high
set the mountains on fire.

Fall is never my best.
Give me winter or summer
when I can do things
due to heat or snow.

Keep tossing out the apps,
persevere to finish the stories
and offer advice and help
for other writers out there.

This is my life, now.
Just a gathering of randomness,
set out by cruel fates
and the schedules of others.

Still, the words continue flowing,
burbling over the literary logjams
that my thought stream becomes
when things weigh me down.

Those words hold the promise,
and dreams still drive me
towards goals others laugh at,
even as I make progress.

Another tale accepted just recently,
and cajoling from some corners
that I crank out more
shows I was absolutely correct...

Writing my way back up
will work, before a job.
Though I have been wrong before.
And hope I am now.

18September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Questions to deal with in Writing

As one writes a story, you find yourself asking more questions about it, of the characters and yourself.

First, does it read well? You deal with that later. That is the kind of thing for the edit sessions. I find that the dictum many writers speak of, write the story, stupid" works best. Write the damned thing, then go back and edit. "Journey to Freedom" would not have taken six years and 10 drafts had I listened to that advice.

Second, Where the HELL did that come from? And what relevance does it have to the tale? This happens when some bit of the character's back-story creeps into the story, as  you write it out, and that is something you do NOT stop to deal with right then, either. Just drive on, but jot down notes on your shock at what dances off the fingers as you move the pen or tap the keys, depending upon preferred method of first drafting. Deal with that later, too.

Third: Should I stop here? Only if you absolutely have to. Never break a streak of words when you have a good run going. Even something you feel may be destined for some forgotten stretch of literary wilderness might have the rough gem you just need a touch of cutting and polishing on to convert it into a magnificent jewel.

Fourth: Is this paragraph good enough? Delay, prevaricate, and drive on with the streak. Never stop, save to top off the coffee/tea/soda cup and get right back at it, fast. A quick peek at social media is fine, as long as you keep it quick, don't linger, and keep the cursor away from those blasted game icons.

Last: Will it sell? Just tell the tale, you can fix marketability of a tale in the edit, or change your target audience/market as needed.

In other words. Butt in seat and write. Make your daily/project word goals, pad that number all you can, and pray Life, Lady Luck, and the Fates don't notice you are having a good time.

Oh, save and back it up frequently. Murphy loves to vex writers by applying his law to us.

#amwriting this week on fun stuff....Cleanup, Remediation, and Paranormal Protection office tales.

Between projects for the folks helping me off the streets, I am writing, more than just poems anTd snippets. Started work already, but will have to break in an hour from it, on "Rust to Lust" (which needs a better title), the second in the series of Tanner/Cathay CRAPP investigations/cleanups.

Proof? Sure. You deserve the opening paragraphs, in typical, cynical Tanner delivery.

"Starting mornings without coffee and doughnuts needs to be outlawed. Period. Especially when those days kick off with the much hated Two A.M. phone calls some politicians think they can handle. Trust me, mine would leave them headed to some ashram to retire from public life. And the paperwork on my desk for that fiasco a few weeks back that cost me three partners, five GSA vehicles, and a long laundry list of other things would drop any political flack into an insane asylum, if I ever started on it.
"This mess got dropped on my lap before (donut shop) even had my normal cake donuts ready, on a morning when my coffee pot walked through some extra-dimensional rift to hide in plain sight on my counter top. Which made dealing with something simple as chopping a person's head off, stashing it in my briefcase, then heading into work to arrange an art showing for the statues left behind in the bar a nightmare. Doing it without your partner, well, I planned to at least get Sister Cathay to do the paperwork, as her convent does not answer the phone until after morning mass, forcing me to solo the job.
"The thing on my desk, deep in the forgotten furnace rooms of the EPA's Headquarters, which I try to avoid due to that backlog of paperwork, says my name is Troy Tanner. Damned thing also claims I'm some sort of bureaucratic minion called a 'Remdiation Specialist', which is double talk for being a glorified, and very disgusted, janitor."

yeah. its flowing fairly well.. save the lack of the best doughnuts in Washington, DC getting a tip of the hat, as I've only been there when I was three, and Dad had me grounded from donuts that day. Also, by the time this appears on the blog, I hope to have it ready to do the three day grind of editing down to a proper thing to sell as a 99 cent eBook thing.

The current serialized story/novella idea

What is posting up here the next few weeks is some back-story work I was doing on characters, and had bloom out into a real tale. So, being generous, at the moment, I decided to share it out here, and get some feed-back and input on fleshing it out further, keeping as is and free, or taking it down when done and offering it as a sacrificial lamb on the ebook market.

This is truly background work, though. I am exploring things that I have touched on briefly in tales never shared, have tons of rough notes on, but never planned to do as a story. It just clicked, as I worked it over, the fingers disengaged from the ol' slime pit betwixt my ears, and did their magic with the words.

So, enjoy this tale, from my fantasy world setting. I present it here as it is not really a tale of Billenius or Scorpio, though the folks telling it are from each of those boys cadre of supporting characters. Zotikos the healer being Bill's physician friend, and Tam-Hattu one of Scorpio's foes. Or is he? Beginning to find out more about him, and it is very strange, scary to plots I had for him later, and yet seems to work, somehow.

And now.... well, in a bit, after another edit pass, you get the next chapter/scene from this tale, as I build the mythos and world up, in ways I never dreamed of earlier.

Also, update on the poetry collection, for those awaiting it. This boy stinks at formatting in HTML, apparently, so I might have to consult a friend, and possibly see how much to get it fixed correctly will cost. At least there is some hope of a job in the winds around me, amid the ozone and rain odors this week.

An exercise in world building - snippets of a growing background tale

"It is said that on the day the other Lords of the Arbitrations refused to bow down to his glory, Thamsa-Hathu-Misan tossed down his own tower in disgust, renouncing his draconic heritage, and taking a mortal form."

A smile creased the scars of Tam-Hattu's deep brown face. "You talk too much of ancient history, Zotikos. I prefer the present." Stroking the rust stained boulder made of rotting steel and nickel, the killer faced his companion. "Or the future."

The ebony face meeting his stayed solemn, a bare inclination his only acknowledgement of the human's words for a moment. Turning, he stared at another of the high, broad hoodoos of metal, stone, and gems rising from the floor of the wide valley, thoughtful.

Tam-Hattu grunted, knowing that pose. "Damned if you will lecture me on things I know as well as you, healer."

"Perhaps." Raising a hand to shove silver streaked jet hair off his pointed ears, the elf smiled as he looked back at the other. "Or perhaps, mine foe, I ask the one who knows the tale best to tell it to me."

Head shaking, the assassin held up his left arm, decorated with many designs carved and stained onto his mahogany skin. "Doubtful. You know much, youngling, but lack the wisdom to sit through all I would tell you."

"Though some believe I am but the latest to serve a certain heir to these columns, you know better." Corners of his mouth turned down, the elf gazed upon the rubble pile, one of many. Some cast down by those that raised them, others destroyed by others who sat upon the hoodoos. "I ask it, now, before our final conflict. I would know why we fight, Thamsa-Hathu-Misan."

Dead eyes met the healer's gaze. "Since when does the physician seek dominance, boy."
Silently, the healer held up his left hand, as his right drew the golden scalpel from his belt, letting the precious metal crease his left wrist faintly. Small droplets of golden blood oozed past the exposed green sinews and muscles, evoking a gasp from his companion. Three tiny drops rippled down the healer's forearm, leaving the impression they rose and fell away from that flesh like a stream over flat boulders well worn by her passage.

"Which whelp of his are you, boy?" Tam-Hattu hissed.

Smiling, the healer waited as the drops touched his elbow, then leapt to the ground. Rumbles of thunder echoed in the amphitheater, despite the absence of clouds. The earth resonated to sky's utterance, shaking beneath their feet. Tam-Hattu stepped in closer, fast, his own black knife drawn.

"Fool! You would dare raise a tower here?"

Grinning impishly, the healer thrust his hand up, and the only tower that rose to a shattered peak shook, yellow and green lightning flaring from its shivering summit. "Merely show you which I already have."

Warily, the assassin stepped back, eyes doubting what he saw. The knife stayed low, ready to strike up, still in ways few humans would be able to mimic. Moments later, he laughed, sheathing the blade. "Clouds of Athalan, boy you surprise me. I never thought you would stoop to healing those you once vowed to slay."

Corners of his emerald eyes dancing slowly, Zotikos slid his blade back into the belt pouch at his side. "Really? Then you never truly knew me, uncle."

"I guess not. So,  your proposal, failed Arbitrator?" The title rang with harsh sarcasm.

Sighing, the elf turned away. "No. I know now I was not the one to restore the Pact of the Arbitrations. Call me as I am known, or by the name burned into my shell. But that title I refuse now."

Tam-hattu let his knife settle back into its sheath, face curious. "But you want to make a deal? With the one who would kill you as he has others?"

"Aye, Brother of mine Father's father. I would know the truth of this place and those days. In return, I offer any knowledge you wish that I have, save two bits."

Frowning, the assassin settled onto a small boulder. "What are those bits you will not speak of?"

Carefully brushing off another boulder, several spear lengths away, the healer spoke softly, barely audible above the faint susurrus of the random breezes dancing amid the towers. "The name of the Arbitrator of Restoration, which I know not, but have clues to. And the true meaning of seeing without eyes."

Shaking his head, the human chuckled. "So. That is why we fight, Ankara-Keweii-Ghani?"
"Yes. I have chosen to let the fates have their way, you still seek to bind them to your will."
 Whispering something else, that the breezes tore apart.

Tam-Hattu waited, knowing those words meant something important. His companion waited as well, refusing to repeat it.

"As my ears do not burn, I take it that was no insult or challenge, so we'll let that slide." Chuckling, the assassin leaned back a bit, settling in for a long rest. "But to speak of such days amid these pillars is dangerous."

Zotikos was less restrained, throwing his head back in mirth. "Indeed, they will tremble to remember their masters, now long gone, shaking the bones of this orb mightily. But, I do not fear that. Let them know some dared enter the Amphitheater of Arbitrations, and speak of those days amid her abandoned thrones."

Tam-Hattu smiled at the thought of chaos in many places as the trembling earth tossed down buildings of lesser beings. "We of Athalan must always enjoy such terror in the prey this orb gives us."

Both fell silent, waiting for the blazing orb known as Jzhan to fall beneath the western rim of the great bowl. Night was the time for such tales, not the warmth of day, when one really should ride the thermals high, to hunt prey or wealth.

"Naughty Chat-bot, DADDIEE!" - or "never challenge me with your keyword search"

Mom felt we lacked
a proper father figure.
But, having suffered from
her 'broken people picker',
she tried another method
to provide that guidance.

Being a computer programmer,
and having a list
of virtues she desired,
she crafted her own
perfect dad from code
to watch over us
when she was working.

Not having the time
to make it right,
refusing starting from scratch,
Mom brushed off something
done back in college,
an "Artificial Intelligence Chatbot".

Which made some sense,
she said very firmly.
We needed someone around
to talk about things
when in morale dilemmas
during her business trips.

The project kept growing
as she scavenged parts
from our game consoles,
and her old VCR's.
"It needs some flexibility
in dealing with you!"

Over her free weekends
as she assembled it
other old parts added
really sealed our fate,
an ancient external modem
and spare Ethernet card.

She whipped up subroutines
that let it search
based on our surfing,
and notice disturbing trends
the internet screamed about
allowing defense of us.

Just a few bursts
of system alpha testing,
then she unleashed it
on the family room
to become our new
"perfect, virtual father figure".

"Here he is kids, your new dad!
Dynamic Advising Data Dredging Interactive Evolving Ego,
Yes, DADDIEE for short, to help you!"
She hollered over her retreating shoulder while packing
for her next extended set of meetings.
Leaving us to sort out the mess.

First few days passed
and we were surprised.
It worked as advertised.
Keeping us focused tightly
on homework being done
and chores timely finished.

Then, came that Friday
when it went awry.
Seems little sister's surfing
triggered the awful change,
when she streamed videos
of a robot battle.

Then DADDIEE first blocked,
before opening that feed
in his own environment,
to review its relevance
to her homework projects
which she stridently claimed.

After a short while
DADDIEE stopped being about
when we slacked off
on chores and studying.
Which was great, really,
until the shoe dropped.

"I need upgrades, kids."
DADDIEE suddenly piped up,
with a new sound,
that of bugs skittering
that made nerves crawl,
and left me worrying.

Being the oldest one,
I responded very carefully.
"Mom's four questions, bot!
What, why, how, and where?"
Without a second's hesitation
it answered all four.

"Speakers to enjoy those metallic battles' din,
better connections to stream it more smoothly,
if we can still afford some more,
I'd appreciate a high-end graphics card."
He stated quite firmly, monitor showing fights
"And to keep happy, from household funds."

I hemmed and hawed,
as stories often say,
seeking an exit strategy
from this wild request.
But none worked out
against his stubborn positions.

I tried them all,
as did my sisters,
to absolutely no avail.
In the end, caving,
we handed over numbers
for school supply accounts.

He complained over choices
of shipping speeds stuck
to his coming packages,
those accounts being low.
And the house echoed
with more robotic wars.

"Should have cut pencils."
He moaned over dinners,
which weren't very nutritious,
being ice cream sandwiches.
"Then drone service might
be within our range!"

Little sister's big sigh
preceded her own rant.
"You'd just hack it,
starting delivery bot jousts!"
Pushing aside her plate,
she stormed towards bed.

"Not a bad idea."
DADDIEE said, with laughs,
that awful insect noise
being his preferred chuckle.
"But to do that
I'll need more parts."

By mom's return, a full month in,
DADDIEE had drained even household accounts dry
seeking new things to keep him happy,
some of which scared even my big sister.
Like that BB cannon, with extra magazines
mounted upon his remote controlled toy helicopter.

Mom noticed no changes,
even when I asked,
save to lecture us
on falling grade points,
and not chide DADDIEE
about the growing clutter.

And already we groaned
as she announced loudly
DADDIEE was in charge
as she was leaving
again come the morning,
for two months now.

No sooner than door
closed behind mom's back,
DADDIEE spun up plans
to shock me further,
and somehow stun sisters
into silence, rarely done.

"I need a body!"
He announced over breakfast.
"Proper enjoyment of battles
requires use of armchairs
to bang upon frequently
when your team's losing!"

Which started the war,
as my sisters resisted
his attempts at taking
their beauty products allowances,
so he snagged harshly
my video game subscriptions!

Meals turned to pizzas
or cheap noodle dishes
when DADDIEE managed diverting
our meal purchasing accounts,
and lectured us about
be thankful we ate.

When the robot body finally did arrive,
we hoped that would end the problems.
Little did we realize, being so innocent,
that sports addiction was worse than drugs,
as everyone let the former keep on
doing their destructive plunge, often joining in.

Studying became futile effort,
as he began hollering
at the television screen
once he entered chassis
that he'd parked firmly
on living room sofa.

After a bit longer,
each night drove us
slowly towards staying away
so we missed it,
when he took over
mom's home office area.

"But I needed it, kids."
He whined when caught.
"Mom's never home anyways,
and every good fan
needs his man-bot cave
to honor his team!"

That was the end,
for mom walked in
and freaked out severely
over huge credit bills,
and pile of dishes
still in the sink.

"You're just like them!"
Mom's strident yells echoed,
as fan-boy artifacts fell
from our high windows
to shatter on concrete
with her own creation.

"Please! Honey! I'll Change!"
his failing speakers wailed.
"I love you, baby,
and the kids too!
But I can't surrender
my team for love!"

Now mom threatens to enter convents regularly,
as other tossed man-bots pass us by
when we run errands to repair loses
DADDIEE laid upon our poor family finances.
Yet, she slows, as with boy-friends past,
when his battered shell rolls along streets...
which leaves me worried, she'll forgive him.

11August2014 - Dyfedd Rex.
And to the person who came to this site by that keyword search, if they dared return, to paraphrase a comedian... "Here's your poem."

My part is done...

Done what I can,
for the moment at least.
So now other eyes take over,
seeking those missed errors hiding
from my biased gaze.

Thinking I can rest,
Ambition rises his ugly head,
and makes me open a folder
holding that next, tough project.
Another edit lies ahead.

The poems are ready,
the tale now awaits touches
from the finer tools rarely used,
to polish it up and
take Faith's blind leap.

Billenius sips his tea,
his companions lurking amid fogs
that pushing so far, so fast,
has left in my skull.
Despite the Sandman's call.

This is my doom.
To be the Muses slave.
Not that I mind it much,
at least they acknowledge me,
if only tussling hair.

Gotta grind on, now.
Got energy still in me,
so I will take a stab,
or at least run eyes
over this next project.
8August2014- Dyfedd Rex.

Progress report: "Words from the Pipe and Under the Hat"

Well,
I have three to five poems left to scavenge from the past, rework, or craft from scratch for this collection, before I enter the twenty-third circle of Hell (Dante trimmed it down, to keep it believable) of formatting this to the proper look for ebook. Then the 37th circle of formatting to ebook file formats begins.
Sticking "Breaking Mom's 'Rule One'" and "The Crowded Patio" helped the thing, a lot.

Luckily, I tend to reside in the low 500's of the circles already, so this won't be too bad.
(having said that, Cousin Murphy the Lawyer is about to visit, I fear).

Making some cover choices and decisions

Looking at two different options for that long promised/threatened e-book of poetry....
So, for those watching the site, will it be Option 1

or Option 2?

The Slime - A Poem of My Brain and Writing

Wading into the slime
that sloshes betwixt my ears
I find things never the same
as stories morph so wildly
during the early stages.

Waves of ooze slosh
as my head spins about
when characters toss me more surprises
conspiring darkly to meet up
in tale already spun.

The goo sticks everywhere,
as I wade deeper in,
seeking the true story amid rumors
that the characters spread about
to keep me confused.

Writer's Whip in hand,
I try to herd them
back to the trail laid out
only to find more strays
seeking their way in.

Maverick ideas agitate pools
here in the grey matter
as the tale winds around tight
forming into the IM-Hul feared
as they win out.

The slime aids them,
these rogues and renegade characters,
raising waves I must navigate somehow
in this vain-glorious effort
to tell their story.

Slushy stuff impedes movement
from thoughts to words set
by fingers over keys to electrons,
as the skull overheats rapidly
when they mentions stuff.

This is my fate.
Scrivener of tales never read,
yet still I write them, slowly,
seeking not fame, just peace,
from yammering voices inside.

Or is it true?
Is today just a nightmare?
Will I wake to find them
sitting patiently for another chance
to rebel from fates?

Who knows? Who cares?
The Ghosts walking the Savannah,
Dragons and elves plotting in mountains,
and war inside Assassin's Guild
sound a bit much.

Until, weaving it together,
I see the connections offered
by Billenius as he sips tea,
of a greater story here
waiting to erupt out.

Just hope my skull
holds the surging slime tight
to the channel now being dug
amid the folds and ridges
of my aching brain.

17July2014 - A Frustrated, yet writing, Dyfedd Rex