A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 21

Champion’s Rise (short fiction)

Todd had spent his whole life reading superhero comics, watching superhero TV shows and movies. Even when they were low budget and terrible with horrible special effects and dumb acting, he watched them. Every one of them because he’d always known he was destined to be a superhero.

A real one. Not just some guy running around in a funny costume who maybe broke up a fight now and then, but usually just called the police to handle the situation. Not a weirdo who lurked on rooftops, playing like he was there to save the day. But an honest-to-God superhero who fought crime and helped people and had his own evil nemesis. Maybe even two or three.

He wasn’t lazy about it. He worked out religiously. He trained in multiple martial arts. He studied criminology, military tactics. He was a decent escape artist, though he never was much good at science, if he was being honest. And all that training had taken its toll on his social life. He’d never had a girlfriend, didn’t really have many friends at all. He worked. He trained. And he waited for his chance.

And when, one day, a glowing meteor had plummeted out of the sky to land in his backyard, he knew his destiny had finally come. He ran into the backyard and, with the help of oven mitts and a wheelbarrow, carried the object into the house. He sat in its warm, blue glow, knowing it was modifying his DNA, altering him on a cellular level. He wondered if he would be able to fly? Maybe superstrength. Maybe telekinesis. He’d settle for something sort of dumb like jumping or talking to plants. It wasn’t the power. It was having the imagination to use it properly, and Todd had been imagining this day since he was four years old.

Grinning, he fell asleep, basking in the rock’s light, dreaming of all the wrongs he would right and people he would save. An unfamiliar voice woke him in the morning.

“Hey, get up already.”

He opened his eyes and checked himself out. There was always the possibility of hideous disfigurement along with superpowers. He would forever be a misunderstood outcast, even as he fought for a world that hated him. It wasn’t ideal, but he could make it work.

“I don’t think it worked,” said the unfamiliar voice.

Todd glanced around the room. The voice sounded close. Perhaps it was a telepathic mentor from across the cosmos here to give him his first mission.

“Down here, Todd.”

Champion, his black and white cat, sat at his feet. Except Champion was blue and green with sparkling emerald eyes. The cat swished her tail and yawned.

“I’m out of food,” she said. “Well, technically, there’s still food in the bowl, but I can see the bottom. You know I hate that, right? I thought we clearly established that within the first week of me living here.”

“You can talk?”

Champion stretched, started walking toward the kitchen. “We need to address this food issue.”

He followed her to her bowl and poured her a fresh cupful of dry. She sniffed it and crinkled her nose. “Who the hell keeps putting triangles in here? I hate those damn things.”

“You can just eat around them,” said Todd. “You always do.”

“Well, it’s inconvenient. That’s all I’m saying.”

The cat food levitated in the air and sorted itself by shape. The triangles were launched across the tile floor as the rest returned to the bowl. Champion nodded to herself.

“That’s better.”

“Oh my God, did I do that?” asked Todd.

“Can’t talk now,” replied Champion. “Eating.”

He stared at the bowl and tried to repeat the effect. The food didn’t move. He thought maybe a piece or two vibrated, but that might have been his imagination. He went back to the meteor and touched it. It was cold. Its glow had faded. He knew enough comic book science to understand it was probably useless now.

He didn’t feel different, aside from his newfound ability to talk to cats. Maybe it was other animals as well.

Champion rubbed against Todd’s leg. He scratched her between the ears and got a shock that rendered his fingers numb. He couldn’t figure this out, but he would. He sat on the sofa, and Champion took her position on his lap. They turned on the TV and saw the breaking news.

Weird meteors had fallen across the city last night, and now the world was full of superhumans, none of which appeared to be human. A herd of purple giraffes had teleported out of the zoo to graze in the local arboretum. An invulnerable dog was catching cars on the freeway and burying them in the park. A killer whale had built some kind of forcefield generator out of whatever odds and ends that could be found at a waterpark and was now claiming Ocean Land as its own sovereign nation.

“Well, that’s just great,” said Todd. “Very funny, universe.”

Champion purred as he scratched her chin. He was grateful that she at least seemed uncorrupted by her new powers. She had always been a pretty great cat though.
The TV reported about a forty-foot parrot rampaging through downtown. So far, animal control hadn’t had much luck containing it.

“Somebody should do something,” said Todd.

Champion jumped off his lap and swished her tail. “You’re right. Birds are dumb.”

She sashayed toward the front door, but stopped. “I’ll probably need a ride, Todd. I can’t fly. At least, I don’t think I can.”

Todd grabbed his keys, and they jumped into his car. Champion sat in the passenger seat and settled down for a nap. Car rides always made her sleepy. “Wake me when we get there.”

He started the car and shrugged. If he couldn’t be a superhero, then sidekick wasn’t so bad. He pulled out of the driveway and headed off to save the day.

Yabba-Dabba-Worldbuilding (writing)

There’s no shortage of experts on writing a good story. Fantasy and science fiction is especially focused on the aspect of building believable and interesting words. This is pretty much entirely the wrong focus most of the time. While there are no doubt many folks who love to hear about the economic models of Middle Earth or how Cloud City floats, I’m willing to bet that even they don’t care that much if the story is interesting and the characters doing something worthwhile. Consistency and story logic is certainly important, BUT it isn’t nearly as difficult to make a believable and compelling alternate world as some folks would have you believe.

Don’t believe me? Well, you really should. I’m a professional novelologist. This sort of thing is kind of my job, and having ten standalone fantasy / sci fi novels to my name should count for something.

Fine! I’ll give you the secret to successful worldbuilding, but only because you asked so nicely.

It’s The Flintstones.

The Flintstones is some of the finest, most accessible worldbuilding in all of storytelling. It’s also a great example of storytelling intent as well. The show itself is pretty standard in its plotting and characterization (though that isn’t a weakness), but everything about Fred Flintstone, Bedrock, and the cast that surrounds him is flawlessly executed.

The skeptical among you might say that this is just a silly cartoon show. Or maybe not. If you’re a fan of mine, you probably have some passing appreciation for The Flintstones. But maybe you’re a new visitor who stumbled upon this site for entirely different reasons. Maybe your cat walked across the keyboard and just happened to type in this site, and here you are, compelled to read onward.

The first thing we must acknowledge is that The Flintstones is indeed mostly a silly cartoon show. It isn’t great literature. It isn’t television for the ages. It is, in many ways, a mostly forgettable sitcom with mostly generic characters who have just enough life to fill a half-hour with their wacky antics. But this doesn’t diminish the excellent worldbuilding at work here.

When you break it down, The Flintstones knows exactly what it is, exactly how its world works, and exactly what it is trying to do. You might say that the world itself isn’t believable, but that is wrong. The problem here is that many mistake Plausibility with Believability. This is not a plausible world, but by its own standards, it is entirely believable. Fred is part of a “Modern Stone Age Family”, and that phrase alone tells you everything you need to know about Fred and Bedrock.

So of course these cave people live in stone houses and wear animal skins, but they also have television and automobiles. They have appliances and household conveniences in the form of trained prehistoric animals, and Bedrock is a perfectly functional analogue of a modern day city. Fred’s attitude is less caveman and more beleaguered working stiff. And, like Homer Simpson long after him, he lives for the simple pleasures.

We don’t know how Bedrock was actually built, and caveman technology is a mystery. How the heck do you have TVs made out of rock, and what makes their cars keep going once they get them rolling? These would be legitimate questions if that was the point of The Flintstones, but that is most assuredly NOT the point. If it was, the show would’ve been cancelled instantly as writers bent over backwards to create plausible explanations for the implausible. Such efforts are either doomed before they start or a distraction from the characters and their adventures, which is what we’re really there for.

Seriously, does anybody actually wonder how they trained dinosaurs to function as draw bridges? Is anyone yearning for schematics for a working stone radio?

Incidentally, this is why the Great Gazoo never meshed with The Flintstones. It’s not that he is any more or less believable than anything else. It’s that he’s a weird sci fi element in a stone age setting, which could work if he was a stone age future element. The Flintstones did have an episode where they traveled in a time machine made out of rock, so it’s safe to say anything goes in this setting, but only within the framework of its modern day cavemen sensibilities. The Great Gazoo sticks out like a sore thumb because a little green man who looks like he should be in an almost entirely different cartoon is always going to seem wrong.

It’s well established at this point that I wear my weird influences on my sleeve. I love old pulp and Saturday morning cartoons, and many of the greatest of those understand how to make a great world without mistaking drowning in details as storytelling. Duckburg and St. Canard might not be real places, but each has their own sense of reality. I don’t have a clue about the real world economics of Cape Suzette from Talespin and why air travel is the predominate method of cargo delivery. I don’t need to know. An explanation is unnecessary. Just like I don’t really give a damn how Drake Mallard makes his living when he’s not Darkwing Duck.

I really liked the Disney Afternoon, just in case that wasn’t readily apparent.

These shows might not be hard science fiction, but they still work at creating settings worth visiting that have some consistency, both visually and thematically. Darkwing Duck is a comedy show, an exploration of the standard themes of superheroes, and both a reconstruction / deconstruction of those very same themes.  Just as The Flintstones and Jetsons are two sitcoms set within the framework of their own subgenres. And if you think just because they happen to be cartoons that this doesn’t count then you’re dismissing the skill that went into creating them.

Certainly, worldbuilding can be more complex than these examples, but the important thing is that they NEED NOT BE. A character and their world can be compelling and wonderful without having to explain every little detail OR even the occasional big detail either. There’s no need to worry about where Batman bought the Batmobile. Just as there’s no need to worry about the workings of a wooly mammoth vacuum cleaner. These details are not the story. They’re not even great worldbuilding. And obsessing over them tends to distract from the characters themselves, and if we’re not there for the characters, we might as well be reading a history report and consulting an atlas.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Crush (short fiction)

Jago Jones and the Secret Masters

 

 

Billy Gauntlet wasn’t faring well in deathray sciences. His first ray had barely toasted some bread, and his pocket ray had melted in his hands. Jago Jones, on the other hand, was tops in the class so it came as something of a surprise when Billy challenged her to a duel in the arena.

Jago and Whisper were in the middle of lunch when Billy marched up to their table and slammed his metal fist into the table. Everyone in the cafeteria looked up.

“Jago Jones, I challenge you!” bellowed Billy.

Most everyone turned back to their food. Blustering challenges were an everyday occurrence at the Academy. You couldn’t fill a school with megalomaniacal geniuses without egos clashing. In a regular college, these might be settled with a volley of insults or a drinking contest. Never having been to a regular college, Jago didn’t know.

Jago looked up from her nutrient paste. The cafeteria staff was always experimenting with new recipes. This stuff tasted like cherry pie, provided that pie was dunked in axle grease before serving.

“Hello, Billy.”

He snarled. “It’s William. Lord William Gauntlet.”

“What do you want Billy?”

“Did you not hear me? I challenge you to a duel of honor.”

Jago stirred her paste. “Pass.”

Billy gasped. “You can’t choose to pass.”

“Sure, I can.”

Billy, his cybernetic eye flashing, grunted. “Are you afraid then?”
Jago laughed. “You don’t want to fight me, kid.”

“Yes, I do. I need the extra credit.”

“Then pick someone else. Someone you have a chance against.”
“I’ve chosen you, Jones, and you must accept.”

Jago looked into Billy’s eye. His real one. He was a cute kid, the half of his face that wasn’t hideously scarred. “Fine, Billy. But you asked for it.”

Grinning, he walked away.

“He likes you,” said Whisper.

“What? I’ve got ten years on him.”

“He likes you,” said Whisper. “Some guys have a thing for older women.”

“Then why challenge me to a fight?”

Whisper said, “When I was a little girl, there was this boy I liked. I’d slip into his room at night and think about breaking his legs at night just so I’d have an excuse to visit him in the hospital, maybe sign his cast. I practiced writing my name with a heart dotting the I.”

“That’s sweet, but I’m not here to sow my wild oats.”

She caught Billy glancing at her from across the cafeteria. He looked away, pulling his hood lower.

Official weaponsmith challenges involved leading the parties involved to their own separate workshop where they had an hour to cobble together whatever their imaginations and available parts could assemble. Jago only took half-an-hour and spent the rest of the time playing Candy Crush.

She stepped into the arena. Shadowy judges sat behind giant podiums. The stands were half-filled with students who’d come to watch Billy get killed. He’d never been very popular. It wasn’t his ego or his bluster. These things were a given among the student body, but only appreciated when they were backed up by ability.
Billy pushed a contraption covered in blades and spines forward. He pointed at Jago. “Now you die, Jones!”

The audience chuckled, and Billy clenched his metal fist. He wasn’t a bad evil genius. He was just in over his head. Somebody had to be at the bottom of the class, and that someone was Billy. Jago almost felt sorry for him.

The buzzer sounded. Billy pushed a button, and his awkward blade robot hopped to its legs. Its many saws whirred to life as it swung its scythes wildly. It took a step forward, and its spider-like leg slipped on the tile. It fell over, impaling itself on one if its own spikes. Struggling to right itself, it flailed, slicing into itself and bursting into flame. The smoking, broken machine popped once before going still.

Jago removed a cube from her pocket and pointed it at Billy. Gravity increased around him, and he fell prostrate to the ground, unable to move. She stood over him.

“Better luck next time, kid.”

But there would be no next time. He was on the edge of expulsion as it was. This would be the final nail in his coffin. It was a shame, but no one had made him challenge her.

“Do you yield?” she asked.

“Never!” He struggled and failed to stand. “I am Lord Gauntlet. I cannot be beaten. I cannot be . . . ” He rose to one knee. “I will not be . . . defeated.”

Jago’s gravity amplifier burnt out with a small shower of sparks.

The buzzer sounded. The judges’ decision was a tie, which ultimately decided it ever-so-slightly in Billy’s favor by virtue of being able to hold his own against an obviously superior opponent. The disappointed audience filed out. Jago met Whisper outside the arena.

“You should’ve killed him,” said Whisper.

“Maybe next time,” said Jago.

“So why did you let him win?”

“He didn’t win. He tied. And I didn’t let him.”

Whisper, beneath the folds of the wrappings around her face, smiled. “Oh, you like him, too.”

“I don’t like him,” said Jago. “I’m not a five year old. I’m not going to let a boy win just because I’m sweet on him. My amplifier still has some bugs to work out. That’s all.”

Across the hall, she spotted Billy Gauntlet. He was handsome in a way. Not many people could pull off a cape. Maybe he wasn’t great at building deathrays, but he was always trying. She respected that.

Billy smiled at her. She smiled back. Then he snarled and whirled away with a regal flourish of his cape.

“Anyway, he’s just a kid,” said Jago.

Whisper said, “If you want, I can break his legs for you.”

“Don’t make me kill you.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to make puppy dog eyes at you so that you won’t, Jones.”

Whisper batted her eyes, and Jago, sighing, put her perfectly functional gravity amplifier into her pocket.

The Green Death (short fiction)

It was not the way of orcs to skulk in the shadows and strike at their enemies from the dark. The orc way was to amass an army and come knocking on their enemies’ gates, to break their bodies and their spirits, to conquer in glorious war. But even a people as bloodthirsty as the orcs saw the advantage in the occasional subtlety. They had one assassin among all their warriors, generals, warlords, and siegesmiths. One was all they needed.

Those who knew of her called her the Green Death, and it was whispered by some that she was half-orc, half-demon, that she could walk through walls, and had never taken more than one strike to finish her targets. None had ever seen her and lived, and yet, she was said to be as beautiful as the warmaidens of the Bloodfather himself.

The High Warlord sat in his throne room and waited. His most loyal bodyguards flanked him. None saw the Green Death enter the room, even though there was only one way in our out and all eyes had been watching it.

She stepped from the shadows. While she wasn’t an unattractive orc, her beauty fell short of legendary.

“It’s done.”

The High Warlord nodded. He didn’t ask for proof of the Queen’s death. It would’ve been an insult to the Green Death.

“Excellent,” he said with a smile. “Now, while the humans struggle to find new leadership, we will strike. It is only a matter of time until they fall before us as the elves and the rats.”

“And then what?” asked the Green Death.

“Then we shall conquer the dwarves and the golems and the savage tribes of the East.”

The Green Death took an ox leg off the Warlord’s table and bit into it. It was a slight to the Warlord to eat his food, but one he was willing to overlook.

“And when you’ve conquered them all?” she asked.

His brow knit. He didn’t understand the question.

“What of peace?” she said.

The Warlord and his bodyguards laughed.

“What of it?”

“How many endless wars do we fight? How many must we slay? How many of our own must we offer up to the Bloodfather?”

He said, “War is the way of life, our way, and yours.”

The Green Death took a drink of the Warlord’s beer. “Not mine. I bring death, not war.”

“There is no difference.”

“So the Human Queen told me.”

“She saw you?”

“We talked. She thought much the same as you. No quarter could be given. Laughing at talk of peace.”

“Yes, so you see that we have no choice but to defend ourselves.”

“I see rulers who imagine themselves surrounded by enemies. I see people of all kinds drowning in your bloodlust.”

“We only give our people what they want.”

“Maybe, but even I can’t kill a nation. I must focus my efforts. The tribes choose their leaders, but their leaders guide their tribes. If war is what the people want, then it should be your job to convince them otherwise.”

“Careful, Death. This borders on heresy.”

“Only borders? Then let me say it clearly. I’m here to kill you.”

“Your own Warlord?”

“Not mine,” she said.

The bodyguards readied their axes and stood before their Warlord.
The Green Death poured herself another drink. “It’s too late.”

The High Warlord gasped. He grabbed his throat as his face paled. He stood on shaky legs. “You betray your own . . . . ” He fell, tumbling down the short flight of stairs to the throne. He struggled to right himself, but could only stare at her. “You’ve doomed us.”
He exhaled one last pained breath before dying.

The bodyguards stepped forward.

The Green Death raised her hand, wagging her finger. “I’ll tell you what I told the Queen’s bodyguards. To whomever replaces your ruler, they shall find a way to peace. If the Bloodfather isn’t sated on the souls he’s already consumed, then I shall feed him more. Kings and Queens, Warlords and Generals. Let the well of souls be filled with nobility. Or let there be peace.”

“And if they don’t listen?” asked a bodyguard.

She stepped into the shadows, disappearing. “Then there shall be death.”

Corgon & Wilma (short fiction)

Stories said Corgon the Mighty was six feet tall with a shock of hair as red as fire and able to outfight a dozen bandits at once. As was often the case, legends weren’t entirely accurate.

Corgon stood before the Brigand Queen. “I will gladly accept your surrender now.”

The Queen sized up the ratling, all four feet of him. “Is this a joke?”

Corgon smiled. “I usually give my opponents a chance to walk away. It helps keep my conscience clear.”

“It’s true,” said the giantess behind him. “He is as compassionate as he is merciless.”

The Queen turned to one of her lieutenants. “Seriously, is this a joke?”

Corgon cleared his throat. “Are you surrendering or not? I’ve been contracted to slay a monster goat a good ride from here, and I don’t have all day to fritter away with you.”

The bandits laughed.

The Brigand Queen said, “Forgive me, but everyone knows that Corgon is as wide as he is tall. His eyes are black as death, and his hammer can crack mountains.”
Corgon twirled his hammer. “The hammer part is true. The rest . . . not so much. It’s why I hired Wilma here to record my adventures with more accuracy.”

Wilma waved. “Hello. Should I be writing this part down?”

Corgon said, “This part? No.”

The eight foot ogress rifled through her bag of writing supplies. “Don’t do anything legendary yet. I’m not ready.”

“I told you to get that stuff out when we first entered the camp.”

“I know.”

“Fresh out of scribe school,” explained Corgon . “She still is getting the hang of it.”

The Brigand Queen said, “I don’t know how you thought this bluff would work, but you no longer amuse me.” She turned to her largest and most loyal minion, a man of tremendous muscle covered in scars and war paint. “Kill them.”

Wilma was still fumbling through her bag for a good quill. She heard the minion’s terrifying cry and a crack of what sounded like thunder. When she turned her attention to the fight, it was already over. The minion lay sprawled on the ground with Corgon sitting atop his chest.

“Please, tell me you got that,” said Corgon .

“Sorry. Can you do it again?”

“I’ll just tell you about it later.”

“That’s not allowed.”

“What?”

“The scribe’s oath is to only record what we personally witness. Otherwise, it’s hearsay and conjecture.”

“You can trust me.”

“Accuracy is important. I would think you of all people would understand that.”

“Fine.” He stood as the bandits closed in from all sides. “But be sure to watch this then.”

He dispatched the bandits, saving his most impressive maneuvers for those moments he was certain Wilma was watching. After he’d beaten a fourth of their number, the rest thought better of him and fled in all directions.

On the ride back to town, Wilma went over her notes.

“Be sure to include that part where I flatted three men with one strike,” said Corgon

“It was only two,” said Wilma.

“No, it was three.” He turned to the Brigand Queen, hogtied across his saddle. “Back me up on this.”

“Three,” she grumbled.

Wilma scratched out the old number as the town came into view over the horizon.

Nero and Newt (short fiction)

A Nameless Witch

 

The Witch with the Unspoken Name and the Mad Shaman met atop a hill to engage in a battle of wills. Their reasons were all their own, and as they stood across from each other, staring into the other’s eyes, their familiars sat by and waited.

Newt the demon duck pushed a pebble with his foot. “This is so boring.”

Nero the spirit wolf crossed his front paws and yawned. “Indeed.”

“Who do you think is winning?” asked Newt.

“Who can say?”

Newt scowled. “It’s not a very interesting magical duel, is it? Would it kill them to unleash a lightning bolt or earth tremor now and then. Just to give us an indication that something is going on here other than a staring contest.”

Nero raised his head and adopted the snooty tone of his master. “Nero, it’s simply not done that way.”

Newt covered the top half of his face and smirked. “Newt, you simply must learn patience.”

They laughed.

“Pretentious sorts, aren’t they?” said Newt.

“Comes with the magic. Or so I’m told.”

“Oh, that’s convenient. Always blame the magic for their shortcomings. Who can argue? If I had a fraction of their power at my disposal, I’d be a king. Mortals would tremble at my name, and how the land would run red with the blood of mine enemies.”

He cackled. Nero turned his head to one side and studied the duck. Newt quieted.

“Well, what would you do?” he asked.

“Power doesn’t interest me.”

“Oh, come now. Power interests everyone. Anyone who says otherwise is either lying or suffering from a woeful lack of imagination.”

“Ambition only leads to suffering.”

Newt quacked. “You’re no fun.”

Nero stood. His silver fur shimmered, and his deep black eyes gazed into Newt’s soul. The duck shivered. His feathers ruffled.

“Deer. I’d transform every last mortal into deer.”

“Sounds boring,” said Newt.

Nero grinned, baring his pristine white fangs. “Imagine it, a world full of prey, a hunt that goes on forever. To stalk and kill until the end of time itself.”

Newt smiled. “Say, that’s not bad.”

“I had a feeling you’d like the idea,” said Nero.

“Deer might get boring though. I’d make some of them boars. Big, nasty ones with giant tusks.”

“Bears with wicked claws,” suggested Nero.

“Dragons!” said Newt. “Fire-breathing ones with pointed teeth.”

“I’ve never hunted a dragon.”

“I killed one once. It was only a little one, but terrific fun.”

“I can imagine.” Nero paced in a circles and sat back down.

“Maybe we should fight,” said Newt. “Just to pass the time.”

The familiars took measure of each other. On the surface, the duck didn’t appear to be much of a match for the giant spectral wolf, but both saw beyond such superficiality.

“I don’t know,” said Nero. “Seems like a bother.”

“Well, we should do something.”

Nero’s ears perked up, and he turned his head toward the forest’s edge. A razorback as big as a horse emerged into the clearing and nosed the ground in search of food. The forest king’s powerful flesh bore the scars of many battles and many victories, and it moved with fearless confidence.

Nero asked “Should we?”

Newt poked his witch’s leg. She didn’t respond.

“They’ll probably be a while still.”

Nero raised his head and howled. His call chilled the blood of every living thing in ten miles, and the razorback bolted into the woods.

Nero bowed to Newt. “Please, after you.”

The demon duck and spirit wolf, both grinning, ran after their prey as their masters, oblivious, carried on their war on faraway astral planes.

Tea and Prophecies (short fiction)

Wren & Hess

 

Torma was just one of hundreds of oracles that called the city home. She made a decent living offering up glimpses of the future, so she wasn’t terribly surprised by the appearance of Wren and Hess at her door.

“What’s this then?” asked Torma. “It’s not inspection time.”

“We’ve had a complaint,” said Wren.

Torma, her left eye a milky white, her face creased with wrinkles, sighed. “People love to complain about their future. It’s not my fault if it isn’t always to their liking.”

“No,” replied Wren, “but when you tell a young bride her husband is going to die on their wedding day, and her father just happens to be a wealthy friend of the chancellor and the chancellor gives the Tower a call, we end up here.”

They regularly visited Torma. They all knew how things worked. Hoops had to be jumped through. Steps followed. The test must be taken or her license revoked.

“What do I have in my pocket?” asked Wren.

The old oracle gazed into the distance. “I see three demons, one broken in twain, made by mortal hands. Each a thin servant of the flame. Each harmless until struck by a careless hand. They die, consumed by fire, so that men might live.” She smiled. “Is that right?”

“You could’ve just said three matches,” said Wren.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Why don’t you simply lie to your customers?” said Hess.

“I have my ethics. No one is making them come to me. If they want to be told their tomorrows will be an endless series of wonders until they die, happily, in their sleep then they should try the oracle down the block.”

“You don’t have to lie,” said Wren. “You just don’t have to tell the whole truth.”

“I never do,” said Torma with a grin. “For example, I didn’t tell that bride that she too would likely be dead very soon. As would myself. As would nearly all of us in this city. I didn’t tell her to pack her bags and flee for her very life. And why did I not tell her this? Because she might have well taken my advice, never filed her complaint, and you never would have come to visit me.”

“If you wanted to talk to us you could’ve just put a call into the Tower.”

“I did.”

Oracles came in all styles and talents. Most were good for minor predictions. Some might get a flash of something bigger now and then. Torma saw the future with staggering clarity. Her accuracy and honesty worked against her. People didn’t visit the old sage unless they were prepared to learn the truth.

Wren, appreciating honesty, didn’t mind Torma. Hess, being a fatalist, had no problem with her either. They sat with the oracle. She had some tea waiting, one with honey, just like Hess preferred.

She sipped her tea. She would give them the information when she was ready and not before. She had no family. She was just a lonely woman who most people avoided. Wren and Hess were the closest thing she had to friends, but it was a friendship that had saved the city from disaster more than once.

“What’s this about the city?” asked Hess.

“A collective of rogue necromancers who mean to sacrifice every soul in the city to their dark gods. Yet another disaster waiting to be thwarted. But there’s always one, isn’t there? Now, would either of you like to know the day and hour of your death?”

“No thank you,” said Wren.

“Suit yourself. Lovely weather we’ll be having next week.”

They chatted with the lonely oracle for an hour, and afterward, she gave them a slip of paper with an address written on it. “I’d hurry if I were you. Until next time, constables.”

With an enigmatic smile, she closed the door.

“Funny old bird,” said Hess. “I wouldn’t worry though. I’m not due to die today.”

“Oracles aren’t always right. Not even her.”

“So does that mean you don’t care if she told me the day of your death as well?”

“No, but keep it to yourself,” said Wren as they walked into the night to save the city from one more little disaster.

Stains (short fiction)

He met the old woman by the river. She knelt by the water, beating bloody clothes against the rocks. She’d wring out the fabric, dripping streams of bright blood into the water.

He’d seen her before. Many times. But he’d never had the nerve to approach her. As dusk settled, he came closer.

The old woman kept her back to him as she hunched over the water. Her long black hair kept him from seeing her face, but her dirty gown clung to her bones and her hands were withered and claw-like.

“So you finally come to talk,” she said. “I didn’t know if you ever would.”

“My mother’s dying,” he said.

The woman laughed coldly. “I know.”

“They say the old woman of the river–you–know the secrets of life and death.”

“They are not secrets you want to know, boy.” She turned her head in his direction. Shadows clung to her face, and all he could see was her crooked teeth. “Run along now. It’s not good for the living to enjoy the company of the dead.”

“Please, she’s all I have.”

The woman dipped her hands in the water and rubbed them together. “Then you have nothing.”

“I’ll give you anything you want, anything I have. I’ll do anything.”

“You shouldn’t say such things. Anything is a terrible lot to do, and you never know who is listening. It is unfortunate to know that the universe is indifferent to your suffering, but it is terrifying to know it might notice.”

“I have some money.”

“What use have I for money? What use have I for anything you might offer me?”

She reached into her basket and removed another bloody garment. “Leave me to my task.”

“I’ll wash your clothes,” he said.

The woman paused. “You know not what you offer. My sins, unforgivable.”

He dared step closer. “Will you save my mother if I do it?”

She stood. Her bones cracked with every movement. She moved toward him, snapping and popping with each step. Her face was only a bare skull, and her breath stank of worms and pond scum.
“Don’t offer this to me,” she said. “You don’t understand this bargain.”

“Can you save her?”

“I can, but the price is too high. So she lives another decade or two. Is it worth the price?”

“It’s worth any price.”

“Once, when I was a girl, I found the crone by the river and offered my bargain for what I desired. She did the worst thing she could.” She wrapped her icy fingers around his throat. “She gave it to me.”

“Please. She’s my mother.”

A bug crawled out of the woman’s hair and into her eye socket. “If it is your wish, then I must honor it. She shall be spared. She shall live another thirty years, but she will never see her son again. So it is done, and may you one day be forgiven for the sins you have taken on.”

A frozen wind shrieked through the trees. The woman vanished.

He knelt down beside the river and dipped the bloody clothes into the water. His hands were soon just as red as the current ran crimson, carrying away stains that could never be cleansed.

A Belated Update

It’s been said, more than once, that I’m not all that great at promoting myself. I am, first and foremost, a writer. I like writing, and everything else about this job, it isn’t always as exciting to me. If I had my druthers, I would just stay home, write, and collect checks. But that’s not how it works, and it’s not as if I hate promoting myself. I’m just not great at it. But I do have stuff coming up and some updates to give. Let’s get to it.

 

I’ll be at SAN DIEGO COMIC-CON in July.  It’s very cool news because I’m going as an invited guest. I even have a spotlight panel on Saturday, July 12th, a Q&A session moderated by my fellow DFW Writers Workshop writer and author of Tracked from Penguin, Jenny Martin. I know how big SDCC is, so I don’t expect a large audience for a lowly mid-list writer such as myself. But if you happen to be in the area and are lucky enough to have tickets and have an hour to kill, I’d love to see you there.

(Speaking of Jenny Martin, her new book Tracked is out, and while I haven’t read the whole thing, I’ve heard a lot of it at our workshop and can say it’s a great book. I hate to resort to such simplistic descriptions as X meets Y, but it’s Hunger Games meets Fast & Furious. Jenny is just getting started on her career, but I have a feeling she’s headed for big things, so check her out.)

 

I’ll also be at the DFW WRITERS CONFERENCE later in July. My writers group, the DFW Writers Workshop, has been putting on this conference for a few years now. Among the speakers will be Charlaine Harris (author of the Sookie Stackhouse books as well as many, many others) and Kevin J. Anderson (author of so many books I couldn’t even begin to list them) as well as agents, editors, and loads of guest speakers. I’ll be there in my own capacity, more as a member of DFWWW than as a writer, but I’ll be doing something official too. I don’t know exactly what yet. But it’s a great event, and if you happen to live in the area, you might want to check it out.

 

In writing, I’m currently working on the second CONSTANCE VERITYnovel. As you may or may not be aware, I’ve moved to a new publisher (Simon & Schuster) with a three book deal. The Constance Verity trilogy will be my first trilogy, and features Constance, who is a combination of Doc Savage, Imperator Furiosa, and just a regular person trying to live her life. Like much of my work, the series has its roots in classic pulp sensibilities but with my usual dash of ordinary life added as part of the mix, and I’m hopeful it’ll take off like a rocket, leading to my inevitable fame and fortune.

The first novel isn’t due out until next year, so you’ll just have to be patient, Action Force.

 

I’ve also been writing a ton of shorts, as you’re no doubt aware. If you like them, perhaps you’d consider becoming a contributor to my PATREON page. Your call, of course, and I certainly won’t be upset if you just choose to enjoy the stories. No obligation on your part at all.

On the other hand, I’m toying with writing an original novella, releasing it weekly segments as part of the shorts. One featuring WREN &HESS, who seem to have become breakout characters among the bunch of recurring ideas that keep popping in these stories. In fact, if my Patreon page reaches $200 a week, I’ll do just that. So if you love Wren & Hess and would like to read a meatier story with our two favorite overworked Constables then maybe spread the word.

In the meantime, Wren & Hess, Jago Jones, Ernie the Hero, and Super Janine (as well as plenty of standalone characters and spinoff stories) will continue to come your way. All I ask is that, even if you don’t feel like contributing to the Patreon page, you spread the word. Tell your friends. Let them know. I don’t write these stories for myself, and the more people reading them, the better I feel.

 

So that’s the update. Thanks for reading, and thanks for continuing to read. This humble novelologist can’t do it without you.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

 

 

Ladies’ Night (short fiction)

Super Janine

 

Dementra, Warrior Queen of Galadron, sat on my couch, applying nail polish. “And then, the Lords of Chaos challenged me to a battle to the death for my crown. Can you believe that? Of course, I had no choice but to accept, and it was glorious. I strangled the lives from them with my bare hands. Just to make a point. Then I took my King to the bedchamber and made savage love under the waning light of the four moons.”

“I can totally see you doing that,” I said.

Dementra chuckled. “And what of your love life? Have you bedded any interesting consorts lately?”

I held up a pair of movies. “Steel Magnolias or Rhinestone?”

Dementra examined her painted nails. “Are the Steel Magnolias any relation to the Iron Rose Society?”

“Not at all.”

“Then it makes no difference to me.”

“You’re not really into the spirit of Dolly Parton night,” I said.

“I’ll admit it confuses me that you choose to honor someone with no martial prowess.”

“Stallone is in Rhinestone.”

“Ah, yes, the tragic warrior of Philadelphia who ended the Cold War with equal parts physical might and poetry. Let’s go with that then.”

“You do know Rocky isn’t real, right?” I asked.

“I’m not an idiot. He’s a mythic archetype, like Hercules or Calamity Jane.”

I didn’t correct her. Otherwise, we could be here all night. Dementra had acclimated to our culture. Meanwhile, the one time I’d gone to Galadron, I’d nearly started an intergalactic war by asking to excuse myself to use the bathroom.

Someone knocked on the door. I expected the pizza guy, but it was only Henry.

“Hello, ladies,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. But I brought beer and chocolate.”
The pizza guy arrived just behind him. While I was paying, Henry took a seat on the couch. “So what are we watching?”

“Rhinestone,” said Dementra. “It’s Dolly Parton night.”

Henry made a face. “I thought it’d be more action-y. Given that you’re not exactly the most girly pair I know.”

I dropped the pizza on the kitchen table. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on. You can’t be offended by that. Dementra here comes from a planet where everything is fighting everything else all the time. And you . . . I’ve never even see you in a dress. Some of us on the team thought you might be a lesbian. Not me. Your hair isn’t short enough.”

Henry might have been one of the good guys, but he was also a real jerk. His ability to see the future didn’t stop him from staying stupid shit because he didn’t care.

“What are you doing here, Henry?”

“Dementra invited me.”

“It’s Ladies’ Night,” I said.

“That’s a bit sexist, isn’t it?” he asked.

The main difference between superheroes and villains wasn’t respect for life or freedom or any such credo. It was self-control. Everyone was irritated now and then, but when you could lift a city block or shoot lasers from your eyes, you had to learn to keep your irritation in check. It wasn’t always easy. Doctor Explodium always claimed that it was someone trying to sneak eleven items in the Ten Items or Fewer line that had inspired his plans for world domination. There were times when I wanted to chuck that annoying person on their cell phone in the movie theater into the sun or to crush my neighbor’s dog for barking at three in the morning.

I opened the pizza box.

“I would’ve gone with 9 to 5, myself,” said Henry. “Now that’s classic Parton. Could you grab me a slice while you’re at it?”

I pondered the perks of supervillainy, and in the myriad possible futures from this moment, Henry must’ve spotted one that ended with me punching every thoughtless creep in a rampage of sweet, sweet vengeance, starting with him and ending with my passive aggressive mother.

“Never mind. I’ll get my own,” he said as he cleared a space on my sofa for me. “Sit. I’ll grab you a beer.”

Smiling, I sat and started the movie.