[x]

Expedition Letters to GraceDear Grace,

You told me, back when we were visiting Peru and I was feeling down, that I would eventually find my calling in life. I write to you now to tell you, quite happily, that I have.

I can't explain much about it at the moment, only that my sudden absence from the university is for a reason. As I write, I am currently en route to New York City, to visit their museums and get a taste of the culture. I told you before how I wanted to visit New York while I had the chance, and now I travel with purpose.

I will say now, that while what I am about to do may seem strange to you, even mad, I can promise you that I am of sound mind and am d

avalanche.The Ogre rises up among its brother and sister peaks, the Monk and the Virgin, a craggy limestone buttress looming above most of the north-eastern part of the Bernese Alps.

The Eiger: 13,042 feet of sheer rock, cracks and treacherous ice-fields.

Many attempts to scale this uncompromising weather-battered mountain have been made over the years, but successful attempts didn't begin until 1938, with the brave perseverance of a team of four German climbers. As a twenty-year-old eager climber myself, I knew all the facts. The windswept North Face (Nordwand) was the height of all climbing careers when I'd been growing up. 1952 - the great year of

Wild Hunt :: LongmaLike any good story, this one does not begin where it began. It does, however, begin where it ends—at a funeral.

The village was not particularly big. Rather, it was frightfully small, and just as frightfully remote. That said, it was little surprise that every denizen turned out for something so important as the funeral of a good man.

—and it truly was each and every one: every man, woman, and child; every son, brother, and father; every maiden, mother, and crone. It was said even the dogs followed at the heels of their masters, even the songbirds gathered in the trees, and the livestock unable to free themselves from their pens

a shut in placeMeg's world is a world of uneven earth and blue skies, surface rock cracked and blown about by howling wind. She runs through wasteland, stumbles with purpose towards a wooden desk in the distance. She runs and runs, dirt and stones scuffing Mary Janes, but the writing desk is a finish line she can't reach.

"Why a writing desk?" her friend Alex says when she tells him about the dream. He emphasizes the question with a hand, waving the sandwich he's holding towards her before taking a bite.

She's left out details: how she is smaller, younger, a smooth-faced child with little hands dressed in her Sunday best instead of the twenty-one-year-old

Inferno's Touch -0-Prologue

"You are putting yourself in danger."

A metal door screeched in strain as a slim-fingered hand pushed it open. Sunlight streamed through the fluffy white clouds as a human form stepped onto the roof. The young woman walked forward, remnants of snowy patches crunching beneath her grey and purple sneakers. Squinting at the light, she moved to a nearby ladder and clung to it. Chills raked her body, igniting where her skin met the frosty metal.
Arriving at the top of the small overhang, the woman kneeled at the edge; the undisturbed snow clung to her jeans. Crisp winter air nipped at her cheeks and fingertips, furthering the cold that

The Clocksmith Chapter One The sun was not yet up, though the sky had turned the colorless hue that heralds sunrise. The tops of trees still budding could be seen as stark shadows against the sky, a testament to the light that would soon return to the world. From somewhere in the predawn fog, the forlorn sound of a train echoed into the dark station. Gradually, the rhythmic chugging of the engine's wheels became more audible, and the large iron beast came into view. The train came to rest in the station, steam blowing out of its smokestack.

"Pine Harbor!" the conductor shouted drearily, half-expecting no one to get off.

FFM21: The Dragon Thing For the third time in a week, Joey woke up crying in the middle of the night. It was a behavior that, like most children, he had left behind years prior, along with diapers and pacifiers and Elmo. It was only in the recent months that it had started again, infrequently at first but worse with every passing week. What made this night particularly notable was that, unlike the previous dozen occurrences, he could actually remember what he had been dreaming about.
"I was flying," he groaned into his mother's collarbone, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes. "I was flying over the mountains. I had these big wings, and everything looked reall

Pilgrim of the Year to BeThe night was crisp, and Doctor Jazz was making his rounds again.

His first visit was to Mrs Madrigal at the far end of the valley. Her triplets were feverish, so he calmed and soothed them with the medicines in his little black bag until they fell into a rhythmic sleep. He left their worried mother with a chill pill and instructions to bring them to the surgery in the morning.

Back on the path, feet pumping, heart thumping, cane tapping, he scaled the ascent to Beggar's Farm, where Mr Williams was feeling crotchety. The problem was minor so his work was minimal and the visit brief.

He paused at the farm gates to enjoy the cooler breeze of

Blue BloodAt the Comte de Guise's chateau, his wife turned forty,
yet again, ape masks are all the rage, frocks hand-
stitched in Paris, linen collars which pinch the throat.
On iron gates the Comte's coat-of-arms bears the rumour:
Il faut circuler. I've just drained a cup of Methuselah,
spot Dominique, circulating, ever with a different party,
and a little further off. The chef slices a crenellated
pie from which doves scatter. How swish! a jewelled
gorilla sighs through yellow teeth. There are benches
of fried oysters, treacle tart, porridge spooned up
by a proud garçon who'll answer only Oui or Non.
Then Dominique, glowing,

The Door of Our Cottage in the Western Night
They began on the beach, and a fire was raging upon the waters. A fire on one side of the world and one around the other. The earth had been unbruised, like an apple on a string, and then two stones had struck within a month, and everything had burned, slagged by deep space arrows. The wind was terrible. Everywhere was a howl with no direction.

*

There were a few lichen-like communities in damp places, where the sky had steamed by but seared little, lifted ravines and streams from the land, unwrinkled it, the dragon braille come growling. There were a few who had been underground, and a few in t

for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.

Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.

The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.

He mentions his wife
they'd been marri

Wyrmling Ghostwritenew millennium toothache
w feeder hand, aluminum
bubblegum knuckle muncher bumpin' phoenix plumage...
   & I rock the Rings, now!
supernova falcon flipper -
was-a-real-boy chicken shitter -
fist-fuck photon vision sifter -
  soullost, anon forgetter -
  so lost, rewind protector -
  dead princess bone collector -
  hopelessly tethered to the Ghosts, remember?
    Nah, man, I don't know any of the Ghosts by name
   but I've been following the will'o'wisps
    chasin' knowledge, speed & blame
    try

to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
china bowl):


     afternoon's slit of sun slips
     between thick curtains
     & woos you to ripeness.

     it chooses you
     not for flecks of honey-russet
     held low in your seam of shadows,
     nor your symmetry & swell;
     but because

     you slink in shade, sink
     behind green pear & clementine

     & cannot hide
     from each spear of light
     that ricochets
     through--

even now
     nested warm
     against these lips

     even now:
     a tea-stain stone
     hugging close
     the trashbin floor.

AnchorAn anchor had five minutes in which to reorient themselves. One.

I stared at the heavy steel loop around my thumb. My world was a sand castle, constructed by the subconscious in a vain hope that it would stand up on such a treacherous foundation. The ring was an unfamiliar weight and the foundation of my castle started to crumble. I did not remember it. The tide was ebbing in around my mind, whispering that my carefully imagined world was wrong. That it was lies. That the 'when' and the 'where' were pure fancy. I stirred in the nest of wires that poured information through my brain. There was a man with me, his bare back against min

FuneralFuneral

A funeral was no place to have an epiphany. Epiphanies galvanise people into action and the only action you could get away with in a church pew was discreet fidgeting. Even that was considered unseemly when a heart-felt eulogy was being delivered by the deceased's mother, as Mary was finding out to her discomfort. The priest was beginning to shoot her dirty looks.

But really, as epiphanies went, it was a brilliant one. She couldn't believe she had taken this long to realise it. She was fat. Plain and simple. Mary was much too fat. It explained everything. Her husband had left her for a skinny bitch because she was fat, the universit

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it was never
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that I couldn't think of what to write
that you weren't interesting enough
it was
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that you frustrate the hell out of me
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To The Joseph of The Year 2000To the Joseph of the Year 2000,
All right, listen up. I'm part of a community of writers on the internet, and every once in a while we come up with prompts that we can use to inspire our writing. The prompt this time was about writing a letter to yourself in the past, and I thought "That sounds fun!" So here it is. You won't ever read this, because time travel isn't possible (not even on the internet), but we'll ignore that for the sake of Artistic Expression. These are some things I wish I'd known back when I was you.
Section I or “What it means to be Joseph”
· You’re gay. I know, I know. Shock and horror, right? Whatever. You’re gay. You know it. Most of your friends know it. Your mom knows it. Even your asshole stepdad who you didn’t think was paying attention knows it. So stop pretending not to be. You’ll save yourself a lot of time and

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The Courier

by ~phoenixofthenet, Jan 10, 2012, 8:49:57 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Science Fiction / Introductions & Chapters

Eirik surveyed the impressive façade of the Temple of Myralo with concern, brow furrowed, fingers worrying the loose leather strap that kept his dagger in its sheath. It was certainly a pretty building. Everywhere he looked there was beauty to behold – from the intricately detailed vine-and-leaf patterns carved into the cloud-white exterior, to the elaborate mosaic of Prismeryl, Twin Deity of Beauty dominating the archway above the temple’s entrance.

Hanging next to the ornately wrought gate into the temple’s courtyard was a “Help Wanted” sign. It, too, was beautiful, written in a light script by a steady hand, and assuring any applicants that the pay would be more than sufficient. Eirik didn’t doubt it. If there was one thing the Prismeryllian priests and priestesses were known for (and there were many things they were known for) it was being as free with their pocketbooks as they were with their bodies.

Still, he was reluctant. He’d always made it a point to stay away from what he called religious jobs. “Too many people in the faith business barter in ‘eternal salvation,’” he’d say, “and that currency doesn’t pay the bills or buy supplies.” Still, job opportunities had been slim since the war started, and he needed the money. As this thought crossed his mind, he felt the leather strap he’d been fiddling with come away from the sheath, and cursed under his breath. There was nothing for it. His gear was falling apart, his supply of arrows was running low, and he could feel the spots under his heels where his boots were starting to wear thin. He needed the money for repairs. With a sigh, he headed up the path through the courtyard.

The inside of the temple was, if possible, more impressive than the outside. This was due in large part to the presence of a massive circular dais which dominated the center of the chamber, illuminated from above by a brilliant blue-white pillar of light pouring through a circular opening at the apex of the domed roof. On the dais, eight statues showed handsome young men in various poses – some in states of repose, others participating in various forms of physical activity, but each one was designed to highlight the beauty of the male form.

A priest of Myralo appeared from behind the statue and approached Eirik with an easy stride and a knowing smile. “Welcome to the Temple of Myralo, traveler. I see you’re admiring our statuary; see something you like?” As he said this, he leaned against the statue and his loose-fitting robes fell open a little, exposing a hard-muscled but smooth chest. He was in many ways a living representation of the temple’s many statues – but then, any priest of Myralo would have to be.

“No, thank you,” Eirik said with an apologetic smile. “I’m here on business. Your sign outside—“

“Oh, you’re here about the job,” the priest said, his voice falling. “Follow me.” He turned, almost dejected, and led the way across the chamber. Eirik could understand his disappointment. The war had hit everyone hard, cliché as it might sound, and money was tight all around. He imagined that most people probably didn’t have the funds to devote to the more lighthearted distractions the priests and priestesses of Prismeryl were trained to provide.

“So, what kind of job is this?” Eirik asked, curious.

“You’ll need to talk to High Priest Elduin about that,” the priest said over his shoulder as he led the way through the semi-dark corridors. Presently they came to a set of richly engraved double doors, and the priest of Myralo knelt and knocked gently at the door.

“Enter,” came a voice from inside. The priest stood, opened the door, and gestured Eirik inside. The High Priest’s chambers were surprisingly understated compared to the ostentatious central chamber. Well lit by wall sconces at regular intervals, the room was sparsely decorated – a well-made, but not overly decorative desk cluttered with paperwork; a small sitting area with two chairs; a bookshelf. Eirik’s impression of the room must have shown clearly on his face, for the High Priest said, “Not what you thought it would be? You were expecting, perhaps, an orgy of young men writhing at my feet?”

Eirik sputtered out something resembling a reply, eliciting a mirthful laugh from the High Priest. “I can’t blame you. The elaborate decorations, the torches, the scantily clad young men – these all serve a purpose. Visitors to our temple are paying for an experience. But, thankfully, I am under no obligation to endure such excess in my personal space. Myralo appreciates understated beauty as much as he appreciates overt beauty. But, come. What brings you to the Temple of Myralo? Aldau, the priest you just met, is one of our finest. If he didn’t have what you were looking for, then you must be here for some reason other than entertainment.”

“I saw your sign outside. I’m here for work. I understand you’re in need of a courier.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Well, then I’m your man,” Eirik said confidently. “Eirik Fleetfoot,” he said, cringing inwardly as he extended his hand. Fleetfoot wasn’t really his surname, but he’d found out very quickly that the best way to get work was to sound more appealing than the competition. His real surname, Greenwell, didn’t sound like the name of someone who makes his living delivering packages swiftly and safely. Fleetfoot did. It was just terribly cliché.

“High Priest Elduin.”

“So, what’s the job?”

“We need you to deliver a package to our sister temple on the other side of the Mirror Fields.”

“What sort of package?”

“The contents of the package are of the utmost secrecy, but suffice to say the package contains a relic that is sacred to the followers of Their Beautiful Holiness.”

“I must admit,” Eirik said with a grimace, “I am reluctant. I don’t know if I feel comfortable being entrusted with something that you and your followers consider significant to your faith.”

“I understand your concern. But we’re willing to pay very, very well.”

“How well are we talking?” Eirik said. Whatever his other misgivings, Eirik understood business. Money was money, as long as he didn’t have to do anything too far outside of his ethical boundaries.

“Ten-thousand anbars.”

“. . . ten-thousand . . .”

“Ten-thousand,” the High Priest said firmly.

Eirik was stunned. Ten-thousand anbars. That would be enough to repair all of his gear and pay up a few debts. Hell, that would be enough to buy all new gear and repay all of his debts with a couple thousand anbars left over. Recovering himself, Eirik cleared his throat. “Couldn’t you save a lot of money and hire a local to transport it? Or just send one of your priests?”

“Well, there’s an issue with that. You see, the road across the Fields is . . . not safe. Prior to the war we had a regular contingent of Imperial guards who patrolled the road, keeping it clear of wild animals and protecting travelers. In recent months, however, the guards have been withdrawn to help in the war effort, leaving the road susceptible to encroachment by all manner of hazards.”

Eirik frowned. “What makes you think I’ll fare any better than your priests would?”

“My men aren’t fighters. They’re trained in a very specific set of skills, and those skills don’t include transporting sensitive goods or fighting off wild animals.”

“Fair enough. So, what sort of hazards will I be facing out there?”

“Oh, nothing you can’t handle I’m sure. Sunshell Crabs, Razordogs – things like that.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Eirik said. But still, he thought, why pay so much for such an easy job?

“Good. Do we have a deal?”

Ten-thousand anbars. Ten-thousand. Ten. Thousand. “Yes. Yes, we have a deal.”

“Good. Then sign this,” the High Priest said, unrolling a scroll and indicating a line with an X next to it.

“What’s this?” Eirik said, suddenly suspicious.

“Just a simple contract. You must understand, we must protect our interests. This contract states that if you die on the journey, you are solely responsible for your death, and we are under no obligation to make any sort of compensation to your next of kin or immediate family. Also, should you fail to deliver the package, or should the package or its contents become damaged in some way en route to the Temple of Prisma, you forfeit any claim to your payment.” The High Priest, previously cordial, almost flirtatious in his bearing, was suddenly all-business.

“Fair enough,” Eirik said warily. After giving the contract a once-over, and ensuring himself that he fully understood its contents, Eirik signed.

“Excellent. We’ll prepare the package for you tonight. There’s an inn located in the town. I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming and that your tab is paid for,” he said, his demeanor once again friendly. With a gracious bow, the High Priest sent him on his way.

Back outside, in the glaring white light of the noon-day sun, Eirik gazed out across the shimmering plains of the Mirror Fields. He couldn’t escape the nagging worry that he’d made a mistake signing that contract. He took a deep breath and blew it out in frustration. “I suppose I ought to find this inn,” he said to himself.

The Courierby ~phoenixofthenet

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Science Fiction / Introductions & Chapters

This is the first part of a short story I'm working on. It's the first piece of prose-work I've worked on in a while, having devoted most of my writing to poetry in the last couple of years. I've had a lot of people asking me if I'm going to write more to this, and the answer is yes. There's a lot more story here than what I've written down, and I've been making steady notes on what comes next. So far I have enough information to get him through this scenario in the desert, but not much more than that. We'll see what happens.

Fun Fact: Because I could not for the life of me figure out how to indent in Sta.sh Writer, I just used the spacebar on every line that needed indenting. Tedious and stupid. Sta.sh Writer shouldn't be as difficult to use as it is if the staff wants us to take it seriously.

EDIT: Oh my goodness. A Daily Deviation. Thank you so much `Halatia for the suggestion and ^lightningmonkey for the feature. I am deeply appreciative.

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-01-23

The Courier by *phoenixofthenet is a great example of a successful introduction to a story, easing the reader in gradually and engaging the reader into its world. ( Suggested by `Halatia and Featured by $wreckling )

Critique by `apocathary Jan 13, 2012, 7:13:59 PM

Firstly, double-spacing after periods will drive most editors up the wall. It's an antiquated practise that practically no-one uses any more. Save yourself the headache of having to edit them yourself and just use a single space. Just a heads-up there.

"Hanging next to the ornately wrought gate into the temple’s courtyard was a “Help Wanted” sign."

I don't think 'Help Wanted' quite fits in the fantasy context. When I read 'help wanted' I think of a diner. Maybe if you just say that there was a note/parchment/scroll advertising work?

"The High Priest, previously cordial, almost flirtatious in his bearing, was suddenly all-business

I don't think you need that hyphen there.

“Fair enough,” Eirik said warily.

If this is to be his catchphrase, then fine, but if not he's said this just a few dialogue lines before, so perhaps consider changing it up.

Other than those little nitpicks, this is really good mate. I'm keen for the next bit!

...what are you still doing here, get writing!

What do you think?

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=heronwolf Jul 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Very nice. Can't wait to see what's next.

~phoenixofthenet Jul 26, 2012 Student Writer

Thanks!

*TheTerrorOfTheDeep Jan 23, 2012

Great story! I need to watch you to catch the next bit. I loved the concept of the whole thing, the priests and there purpose, and you had just enough detail so not to bore the audience. You execution was great and I look forward to more!.