Pale Heart

I’m working on putting out a short story that I kind of just came up with in the last couple weeks or so, and wrote up at a furious pace somehow.

Edit: You can now pre-order.  Comes out the 24th!

When a child says “I love you,”  it’s fundamentally different than when an adult says it. Their minds are yet unsullied, unburdened by the influence of adult relationships and the subtlety and sexuality they bear.  Children are innocent.  When I took in my young niece that night, perhaps it took me too long to arrive at this realization.

ph

I made this cover art myself. It’s nothing special as I’m no graphic designer or even artist. If you are or know an artist, I would love to get in contact to possibly discuss making more cover art for me. I even have an idea for a children’s book, but that’s a totally different animal.

I currently have the first draft passed off to my friend who is… judging it, as you might say.  Mother of Mars is still on track for final publication, just as soon as it’s presentable.

Sweet Dreams

This is another Writing Prompt from Reddit.

m93dtt7

My father always told me that I’d find my fulfilment as a woman if and when I found myself in bed with a man. My mother, in a huff, would add on a bit about making sure it was only the man I was married to.

When I grew older, I realized it was about sex, and not just being there to provide warmth for your partner. What a naive child I was, thinking that’s all my parents were up to in the wee hours of the night. I suppose looking back at myself and five siblings, both of my parents ended up fulfilled.

I eventually moved out to go about my own life, but some some dumb reason I had taken it to heart. Date after date, I would remind myself of the saying, and end up sounding like a prude when I turned down several advances with very clear motives. Some men stuck around for a few more dates, hoping to eventually get me to cave. “I’ll wait till we’re married,” Was always my firm response.

It wasn’t until several unsuccessful encounters later, I met someone. By this time, I was already putting it out there before they even had the chance to ask. Perhaps it was forward of me, but no man immediately used it as an excuse to run off. He said ‘that’s fine,’ just like some of the others, and I brushed it off, waiting for him to bring it up again.

Even after a few dates, it was never once brought up again. My insecurity, creeping up on me, brought me to do so instead. “Did you think it was weird what I told you, that thing on our first date?”

He paused for a long moment, thinking, fiddling with the food on the table before him. “You have to promise me you won’t leave me for this , but…” he took a deep breath. “I’m HIV positive.”

He told me that he too believed you should love someone before sleeping with them, but at the same time he couldn’t risk or bear passing along the virus to someone he loved.

I didn’t leave him, because already at point I had made it up in my mind that his simple companionship was better than anything I had ever had. It took me a few more dates to build up the courage to say so, but the look in his eyes when I told him reflected the same sentiment. A few weeks later, we were engaged

Before we could even think about a date for the wedding, he started to fall sick. The doctors told him they had no way of telling if he might get better with his condition. We made it up in our minds that the wedding had to be soon.

A dress was bought, a church rented out, and families contacted. His health started to deteriorate. By the time the day arrived, he could barely stand. However, stand he did as we exchanged our vows. Halfway through cutting the cake, he collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital.

Still in the dress, I found myself beside his bed, bawling my eyes out. Breathlessly, he told me to go and spend the night at hotel room we had rented out, the bridal suite all ready for us. At a loss for words, I decided to go there for his sake.

Exhausted from the whole ordeal, I collapsed into the silky bed covers, dress and all. I could faintly smell his cologne that had rubbed off on the fabric, the same scent he had worn on our first date. Curled up, I tried falling asleep with the thoughts endlessly crawling in my head. Before I finally drifted off, the phone rang. I picked it up, fearing the worst.

His voice drifted through the speaker, weakly. “Sweet Dreams, my love.”

Word of God

Being a writer can be hard.  I don’t mean just the time consuming part of thinking up a story, writing it down, flushing out ideas and actions, going back to edit, and getting it out to people.  That’s just the obvious stuff.

If you have a story with any sort of length; you have to be the expert on everything about it.

Every sort of fictional story exists in a universe where the events of the story happen.  I mean, certain fictional stories; especially historical fictions, could happen in this universe we call ‘reality’.  Maybe it did, is doing, or will do; maybe not.  But you know, it could.  For example, the Star Wars ‘Universe’ takes place a long long time ago in a galaxy far far away.  This could be our universe, and we would have known nothing about it had it not been for time/space traveler George Lucas to create the documentary.

Wherever or whenever this story of yours happened, you’re expected to be the all knowing being of it; god.  Even if something is not discussed, implied, or even relevant to the story, the author has both the right and the duty to supply any facts or details about it.

For example, J.K. Rowling could say that the Sun in Harry Potter Universe was in fact a copy made by wizards after the original Sun burned out, saving all living things on Earth. Technically it could be plausible because Rowling said so, and doesn’t interfere with any lore considered canon in the books or extended universe.  (Maybe.  I haven’t read the books in a long time…)

Some things of course are more mundane.  When is this random character’s birthday?  Oh; she’s a pisces like me.  I mean it doesn’t effect the story in any way, but at least I have peace of mind knowing we’re compatible…  Fans, am I right?

Which brings me to another facet of writing; the people who read it.  In high school, I hated books and reading because the teacher broke them down into mindless critique and analysis.  I still never learned the plot of Tale of Two Cities.  Authors write; some like Dickens add a bunch of subtle commentary in their words, and others don’t.  No, I don’t think Little Red Riding Hood has Communist undertones.

The point I’m trying to make is that people love reading between the lines, even if there is nothing explicit.  That’s where fan theories come from; that and wild imaginations creating narratives for characters that aren’t under the scrutiny of the narrator.

Technically it would be under the power of the Author to reject or confirm these.  Did background character A and B get together after the story ended?  I saw how they looked at each other that one time.  Or you know, just ignore them outright because you’ve moved on or they’re just impossible inane.

If you think this stuff is kinda cool, check out the TV Tropes Page I guess.

Gold

The value is in the purity;

It shines because it doesn’t tarnish,

And it’s malleable into any form you could wish it.

When they say that somebody has a heart of gold,

Perhaps they mean that they are able to resist being tarnished by the world,

and that they simply mold themselves to adapt to it.

The Longest Day of the Year

Outland: Chapter One

I’m searching for something.  I have no idea what it might be, but I’ll know when I find it.  Until I do so, I can’t let anything distract me.

Beep beep beep.

The alarm broke through his dream, interrupting his visions of fields of infinite pineapples, swaying back and forth in the wind; each growing neatly on their individual steams.

“Good morning, Gulliver.”  He mumbled.

“Good morning, Andrew.”

Pulling himself out of the seat, Andrew scooted up to the window and turned the crank, moving the shutters outside upwards.  The bright noon sunlight glared in his eyes, and he hunched back to avoid it.

Fiddling with the drawer besides him, he pulled out a foil packaged ration and tore it open before adjusting the seat to an upright position.

“How are the power cells looking, Gulliver?”  He asked before throwing the newly empty foil wrapper behind him.

“Eight-nine percent and rising, Andrew.  What do you think?”

“That’s sufficient I’d say.”  He played with the instrument panel, flipping the series of four switches downwards.  Behind the cockpit he could hear the linear actuators engage, humming busily before the panels could be heard clicking down into their locked position.

“We were headed south west, were we not?”  Andrew pondered out loud.

“Indeed.  Would you like me to set a course?”

“Please.” He slowly drummed his fingers on the armrest as the land rotated into view.  The sun sat just out of view to the west.

“Say, we’re about midway through summer now, aren’t we?”

“Indeed.”

“Have we reached the solstice yet?”

“By my records, we have still been slowly gaining a bit of daylight each day.”

“Hmm, good.”  He twiddled his thumbs.  “We must still have some time before it starts dropping off.  I’d like to reach the equator before then.”

“I’ll plot it out.”Continue reading “The Longest Day of the Year”