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.

A new origin of evil. - Talking out the story part two.

Delving into my brain, I realized about two years ago that Scorpio was born, really, from what I know call the "Walkers in Darkness" cycle of stories characters. The Necromancer, Zisura, is the greatest bane that not only seeks to craft him as her tool, but fails to see she makes her bane as well.

So, we start the tale in the ruins of occupied Kvaeg, a city on the dark continent of Domorushtuu, once ruled by Afreet, cruel masters of the humans there, but now held by the sorceress and her brother, the one who thought he would ascend to be the head of the Allegiance of the Blades, the guild of the assassins.

Here, I show the crafting of evil knives and tools, meant to warp souls to Zisura's domination. And her brother's. I also lay the ground work for something else, if you can see it. While still in first draft, I'm sure the telegraphed blow to fall in future stories is obvious, so once the tale is done, we'll work at cloaking it better. For now, get the story out, and fix it with the chainsaw and Bondo putty later.

As I have said before, there is a strong tie between the tales of Billenius and those of Scorpio, not just the setting of the world, but in the weaving of the Parcae, Billenius's mistresses of Fate. I lay that out in revealing somewhat of the nature of a side character in this tale, who figures strongest in one to come, that I call "The Knife Has No Forgiveness". At the chapter's end, I intend to reveal who, and what, Tam-Hattu, blood brother of Adresh Tesh is. And toss in hint about others I write of.

Call it telegraphing the punch. Call it many things, just let me explore it.

Driven Down - A Poem of Homeless Desires

Driven Down

Been months,
but it still hurts.
Losing camp
to other folks' idiocy.
Driven down,
forced to "Urban Camp".
Not happy,
can't sleep well lately
as longing
for the open places
takes hold
and refuses to release.

Too long
without a silent night.
No peace,
no time left alone.
Always someone
ghosting about scoping me.
No release
from the City's tension,
no freedom
to sit smoking quietly
gazing down
at Salt Lake's lights.

Miss darkness,
not to mention crickets
who serenade
you to deep sleep.
Well, yeah,
but hundreds, not handfuls.
Yearning for
the deer to watch
like sentinels
on a castle wall,
over me
as I finally rest.

Needing it,
I look that way
each day,
feeling my camps calling
stirring desires
for those safe havens
I'd carved
out for just myself
even if
others felt I shouldn't
be there
even under the sun.

Can't wait
for eyes to turn
back downtown
to the shelter area
where trouble
seems to like congregating
so I
can slip back up
spread out my roll
lay down
and find some peace.

Damn, folks.
Just let me go.
It's not
like you want me
down here
holding a sign often
or sitting
in the library daily.
Grant me
just a few nights
each month
with some blissful solitude.

Ain't like
it's a big bill.
After all,
my camp was clean;
no bugs,
no piles of trash
just backpacks
cached for the day
so I
could rest my back
a bit
from their heavy burden.

Want it.
Need it, more likely.
Feeling anger
overwhelming my broken soul
seeking destruction
of me and others.
So if
I manage to disappear
don't pout
just let me recover
from pain
inflicted by your brethern.

26August2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Another Moves On - Poem of the Homeless Streets

That time is coming again.
Another friend is moving on,
to better things one hopes,
though down on the streets
you never really know it,
until they stop showing up.

Already folks are making fuss,
trying to take his place
and get those camping spots
I hold so close in
my chest gets bruised occasionally,
so I have some quiet.

No, I'm not depressed, really.
Happy for his good luck,
a bit worried about Fate
taking her left hand harsh
to his hopes and dreams
once he gets back home.

The line is forming already
to take up his spot
around me to gain luck
or cover for criminal acts.
Not sure how to speak
without starting a war now.

Only one thing for sure.
Come Monday September the Ninth,
"Our Girl" the hawk's gonna
take me to task fiercely
for losing another of her
special fountain-side morning gathering pets.

I'll just shrug at her,
sitting squawking in that tree,
and tell her it's okay.
He's back to his home
where he will feel better
and maybe have a chance.

ME? Hell, don't worry, folks.
I done this often before,
will probably do it again.
Might take a spell  here,
look over those seeking company
make sure I choose right.

Or maybe, not choose at all.
26August2013 - Dyfedd Rex

I am Sunset's Thrall - Poem and Photos of Sunset

(more photos amid and after the poem!)

Got bit again this week

by that shutter bug virus.

It floats about in air

seeking victims to wickedly enchant

teased into her contagious embrace

by a moment so beautiful

you just cannot pass by.

This was the case Tuesday

when I headed out slow

rounded the corner to see

the sunset blaze under clouds

that already were watering me

thinking me just another blade

on the lawn down here. 

So I share some frames

caught on my beat-up camera,

a simple digital Kodak C310,

that could use tune-up

or even better a replacement.

Forgive the grains, the blurs,

She gives what she has....

... and still keeps clicking away. 

30May2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Why I don't post daily.

Folks ask it a lot.
Why don't you post daily?
You have no job interference,
no wife, no kids disturbing
your writing as you sit
daily at your precious computer.

I have only one answer.
I have no home either,
nor a steady revenue sources
and meals are scavenged regularly.
So you tell me how
to write while out panhandling.

They don't see that bit
about me really being homeless
and how it's no way
a gravy train ride daily
as some make it out.
Nor is sleeping under stars.

Look, like all of you
I have issues to handle.
Food, smokes, where's my coffee?
Heck, don't forget the hike
from campsite to the library,
which is over five miles.

So ten mile hikes daily
under a load that includes
almost everything I still own
with water, food and such.
Try it, walk that path.
You might lose some weight.
     And I may try posting more often.

13April2013 - Dyfedd Rex

My currennt short stories have an origin from this challenge and the story that follows it. This is the first hints at Troy Tanner, the main character. Its clunky, not well worked out (I just wanted this one done, at first) and a bit too heavy on certain words. I will be reworking it to make it something else this week between other projects and little bits of work to make my hapless ends meet.

The Challenge was from this list:

1 - a jar of frogspawn
2 - a tattered photo of a distant galaxy
3 - a snowflake on a fingertip
4 - a zombie survival guide with brain stains on the cover
5 - a ragdoll with pins stuck in its head
6 - a broken lightsaber
7 - a newspaper dated August 7th, 1945
8 - a battered copy of 'Twilight'
9 - a radio station playing 'don't stop believing' by Journey
10 - a tin of sunflower yellow paint
11 - a three-legged dog
12 - a packet of M&Ms with all the green ones missing

Send your entries to my inbox by next saturday.
Anything up to 600 words is fine, but try not to go over please.
Multiple entries, collabs, basically anything goes as long as you get the buggers in on time.


And now the story:

In my line of work, sooner or later you see it all. Some jerk back in DeeSee had screwed up and agreed to subcontracting the military's new Soldier Superior Therapy program out to a lab in Haiti as part of the rebuilding. I could have told them it would go sideways, letting voodoo mix with big pharmaceuticals dreams.

But, they never call me until its time to clean up the mess. Now I was walking down a deserted street in a forgotten place called Dugway, testing grounds of all the military's bad ideas. Lucky its in the middle of nowhere.

There was a broken lightsabre toy on the walk to the side, stepped on, military boot print. Yep, I had his trail . He had stepped in a mess left when he feasted on the head cheese of some poor s.o.b. painting the gatehouse at the east entrance to town. Sunflower yellow, must have been left over from some TV show filmed out this way once.

I followed the tracks up to the house we were in front of, the last one for me to clear. There was a ragdoll with pins in its head on the porch swing, holding in the strips of purple cloth hair, needle and thread on the ground, pooled around some poor Army wife's corpse. She had not much of a skull left. I pumped both corpses with rock salt. Only good thing about this place, I could restock my supply of shot and catch a few runs on the Measured Mile afterwards.

Inside, I knew they had some inkling of what they were messing with, there was a zombie survival guide covered with half digested brains and more flies than Beelzebub's last picnic drew. There was also a bag of a certain melt in your mouth, not in your hand candy, and all the green ones were missing. Damn, they finally listened to the Nuncio about that, making them inoculate themselves to keep it to the test subjects only. Made my job easier, and harder. Now instead of shooting all the corpses, I had to look for ones without flies.

The trail led over the dead sergeant's body to the stairs, up which I heard the pants I knew meant at least one family member had failed to eat power pills. The radio in the master bedroom kicked on with that tired old Journey tune, the one about never giving up belief. While I hate that tune, it gave me cover on the steps about a creaking riser.

There was a poster of a Hubble shot of the Sombrero galaxy on the wall over the bed, with battered copies of Twilight and other trashy vampire novels all over the floor. Great, this one had wanted to be undead. Right up until she realized she had to swallow the barf of the zombie after it drank a jar of frogspawn while they had sex.

I reloaded, as they were occupied with her transition, as well as the fun stuff, waiting for the moment. I did not want to kill a living human today. As they got off, I fired all five shells, cutting them in half.

As I left, I caught a flake of snow on my fingertip, and realized it was too late in the year to hit Bonneville. So I headed to Wendover, where in a museum, I bowed my head before a framed copy of the Deseret News from August 7, 1945. On the way out, I saw the three legged dog, and knew there was another job waiting at the Stateline.

Breaking Mom's Rule One - A poem for my family and of Life

Everyone wanted me to publish this one, but here is the deal. I did not feel like condensing it, cutting things or otherwise changing the words or beat I had just to sell it. If you study it hard, you will see the progression beat of words I used, the form I held to, and held fast to. Others miss it, never seeing it. Which some say is good, and others say is bad. I could care less, I was out to tell the story, and have a laugh while doing it. Enjoy it, pass it on but give me credit, send donations in small-unmarked bills, send kudos, comments and thumbs up. But most of all, try not to break your Mom's version... she may smack you.

It started small
back when I toddled around
bouncing off furniture, over railings and other obstacles
seeking to learn co-ordination so fine, and failing miserably
Never quite killing myself, missing the mark.

It snowballed more
as a sibling joined me
in roaming from disaster to disaster quick
sometimes staging competing ones that brought that cry
"One Disaster at a Time, I Say!"

Mom was frazzled
by the many emergency trips
but at least the hospital offered help
in the form of a bulk rate payment plan
to ease the burdens just a bit.

We forced mom to make the Rule we still oft break
with our constant succession of childhood accidents and near daily disasters.
So she came out at last with the dreaded Rule One!

Tyranny it seemed
to me and my sister
to be bound by rules so untenable
that even our aunts and uncles had to chuckle
as mom called it out each time.

So it went
as we grew into teens
and more disasters came each passing moon
that mom would invoke her call loud and firm
as we blithely ignored her strident warnings.

Things never settled
as the litany was built
of injuries, blunders, wrecks and heart attacks
added by dad getting in on the action late
but making up in seriousness it seemed.

So we go on breaking Mom's greatest request she heartily made,
staging our disasters in chain reactions, or simultaneous ways.
All in defiance of her constant loud invoking of Rule One!

Oh, we cared
but we were all clumsy.
Or how else can you really explain
the day I burnt my hand upon a lawnmower muffler
as Sis, creek wading, cut her foot!

That was it,
the final straw lain down
upon mom's back like the proverbial camel's.
She finally got mad, and wrote the call down
so she could point to it and say...

"One Disaster, Please,
at a time my children
and all must be scheduled and approved
at least three years in advance to be permitted
even then, last minute veto is allowed!"

Oh, she tried so hard to keep us alive and well
despite our wandering around like chickens with heads lopped half off
with her contribution to better mothering, the ever dreaded Rule One!

It's catching on
now through the whole family
as I hear it from cousins to their kids
and my sister, always the last to be injured
took it to heart over my nieces!

The last holdout
is the first and greatest
of klutzes in family folklore to date
oh, I beat the family's previous generation in stupidity
trying to move the firehouse by bicycle!

Over the years
things still happen despite trying
not to make mom give that cry
Loudly and firmly, or some times with streaming tears
of "One disaster at a time, please".

We have taken it up, in our generation as well now
as her grandchildren play out the curse she called some times
as our payment for having broken her personal dictum, Rule One!
　
Oh, yes, we pay, and now see error in our ways
as we grew up so carefree and clumsy in those days!
And on our own walls lies a plaque with Rule One!

Oh, now we enforce, that which we broke, Mom's Rule One!

(2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Creative log jam poem

Attempting to elude the Union
formed by my bodily parts
over the abuse they suffered
this past week and more
I turned inside my head
seeking elusive clouds to tickle
dancing across shades of blue
between their cool satin puffs
only to find myself falling
as someone pulls the plug
on my creative psycho excursions
just to keep me grounded
for reality must apparently reign.

(28Apr2012 -Dyfedd Rex)

This one came as I tried to jump start my creative side, which was failing to respond to coffee today...
so I asked my FB friends for some words to electrify me... not sure if it worked, but at least the motor is cranking over even if not firing on all cylinders.
(Yeah, I know, I always seem to have a missing cylinder in my head.)