Flash Friday #15

The Last Berserker

This was the end, that much was clear. He was wounded seven times, warm blood flowing easily, soaking into the leather and cooling against the metal mail. His breath came slowly, haltingly. It was a pain, but not the final pain.

The walls of the narrow pass echoed with the well-ordered steps of the army. Even here, when marching through a pass littered with bodies, the levy Melrosh had trained was beyond anything that he had ever seen. But then, he’d always been the man to train up villagers.

Bracing himself against the stone, the berserker lifted himself up onto his feet. It was time. Inside him, the neka root was wearing off and the fur receded until it was not his skin but his warming clothing. The fur was always the last to go. It left with a pleasant shiver. He was going to miss it, but not the root which gave it to him. The memory of the bitterness made him shiver.

He walked slowly, his vision a blur. There was a large standing stone which he had picked out at the start of the battle, incase he would need it. A wise warrior knows his last battle, and the berserker had felt he would die here since he first saw the close pass.

His bloody hand marred the moss on the standing stone. If only he knew runes, he could make this his monument. The skalds would sing of his stone. Beyond the field of his vision a familiar voice called out, and the rhythmic marching stopped. Melrosh. The Wise, the Friend, the Butcher.

The berserker let out a groan as he rested against his monument. It was a good stone to die against. Battling against magic and charlatans was never glorious, it was almost always a terrible sight. Especially without magic of their own.

“Men, watch as the great Bear-Wearer Nall dies.” How many nights, how many nights had he drank beside that voice, each trying to outdo the other in the praise they heaped on the other. Too many to count, even had Nall known his numbers. And now there was only hatred. “The Breaker, the Beater, the Man-Eater, the Oathbreaker. This is the fate of all who break their oaths.”

The berserker laughed, silencing his foe. He could feel the army tremble as he laughed. “Yes, yes,” Nall bellowed. “Come and watch me die. Know that your works shall never eclipse mine. Feel the fear within you as you watch me die and know that you are a coward. Know that I have not betrayed my blood brothers like your master.”

“My blood brothers betrayed me,” the voice he had once battled beside called out. “They promised to name me king, to raise my right above all overs. They chose instead a child, born a bastard.”

“You know well as I that child is no bastard. He is the son of the God of Lightning, the king promised to restore these lands which we have so ruined. And he is escaping as you watch me perish, safe in the hands of the Golden Spear.” The last berserker laughed as the army ran by. Laughed and laughed until he could laugh no more. Nallsstone stood and stands still.    

The Quest #23

Already got back a rejection for the kids book. So that was a surprise. Imagine a world where all agents were prompt. I’m up one in the main quest.

I’ve made some posts here and there. Short form, long form. Thanks to the metrics I know that no one clicked on them. I’ve got to build up a habit of it. Oh well. Social media for writing feels like screaming into the void until I hear an echo.

The Quest continues! Thanks for reading.

Michael.

Flash Friday #14

Calling Home

            “Hey pops. I’m just calling in to check up on you. How’s your week going?”

Labored breathing came in through the line. David waited patiently. It had been a long time since the conversation had been lively. “Oh…David…thank you for calling me…It’s been a while since you called.”

It hadn’t. David called every day. “Well, you know, work is busy. I can’t always get the time off that I should. How’s your caretaker, pops?”

The line was quiet again. “David…you’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear as well as I used to.”

Yeah, that part was new, and it wasn’t going to go away. New routines were never pleasant. At least this one was not accompanied by shouting.

“Alright, give me a minute, pops.” David got up and walked out of his office and up the hall. His dad was waiting patiently on the line, humming a little ditty. David remembered it well. It was the one he sang when they were on the boat.

Suddenly it became very difficult to breathe, David leaned against the wall. He could see the waves, feel the swell moving under his feet, smell the salt of the sea. It was always fishing trips they went out on. They had never caught anything of note, though they had once hooked something so strong that it had to be a shark. Pops had kept the boat right up until recently, the boat hadn’t gone out for ten years.

It took a minute to collect himself. Once he had, he turned the corner and opened the door to the guest room. There, in a wheelchair facing the window, the withered form of his father watched the yard, the phone pressed hard into his ear. Mom couldn’t handle him anymore, but the thought of putting him into a home was enough to break him.

“David…are you still there?” The question took something out of the old man. David sat down in the chair by the door.

“I’m here pops. I asked if your caretaker was treating you well.”

“I can hear you now David…” The old man was so pleased. “Yes, my caretaker is good for me. He knows just what I like.”

Tears were running free over David’s cheeks. “That’s good pops. That’s good.”

They sat there in silence for a while. David trying to get control over his tears and pops watching the garden. He had evidently forgotten the conversation. He liked watching the garden more than anything these days.

“Alright, pops. I guess I’d better get back to work. Can I call you tomorrow?”

The old whitened head nodded softly in the chair. “Okay, David. Call me tomorrow.”

David got up and went out to the hall to cry.

The Anatomy of a Writing Session

I’ve written a page of fiction every day since 2019. These days I try to write a thousand words a day. I thought I would write a little about writing before I write tonight.

Typically, I write as the last thing I do during the day. It takes a moment to cut off all distractions. That usually means that I will write a sentence or two, then distract myself. Then write another one. Slowly, I will tune out the distractions and get to it.

The first hundred words are always the slowest. The brain has to witch from scatterbrain to focused brain. Each daily writing segment is its own story, even if it is part of a chapter I’ve been writing. Getting into the day’s story is part of the process.

By the time hit two hundred words, I am in it. From there until I hit about seven hundred, it is smooth sailing. I write quickly and without much distraction. This is also why the right music choice matters. One song flowing into the next, no too much jarring sounds.

I once watched a video where a Buddhist monk explained why they chant om while meditating. He said that it keeps the monkey brain occupied. He then explained that monkey brain was the part of us that the world trained to be aware of our surroundings. It’s always ready for a tiger to attack.

Listening to music occupies monkey brain. Mozart is perfect for monkey brain. He just sits slack-jawed and starry eyed at Mozart, and I can write happily. If I listen to Beethoven, then that drags too much of my own attention and I sit slack-jawed.

By the time I get to eight hundred words, the creative burst is slowing. Words come slower. By the time I get to the last words, I am ready for bed. The story sinks into the murky recesses of my mind, where I think about it until the next day.

Thanks for reading,

Michael

Flash Friday #13

Dog Pile

The old man sat facing the fire. He didn’t even glance at the ever-growing pile of money.

Fool. Three years of planning, three years of scrapping together a team which could steal this much money. Trustworthy guys, the sort which could steal twenty million and not take a dime until they were safe. The kind of guys who were still bringing in bags full of cash.

It was all Skins could focus on. He’d never seen so much money, not unless you counted the old man’s mansion. But that wasn’t money, it was property. They’re different. Or so it had been explained to Skins. He’d never understood why someone would want a teak fireplace rather than a fast car and some blow. Those were freedom, this is an expensive fire pit. You can have fire wherever.

Skins turned back to the pile of money. Lord, he was nearly salivating. One of those millions was going to be his. He could see it turning into a hot rod in his mind. That and cocaine. The old man had cut him off for the job, despite the good work which Skins had done in building the team. Now it was over, no restrictions any more. Maybe he would spend some of that money on a ticket to Brazil, where he’d never need to see these guys again.

Gunney brought in the last bag. All there, all there. Skins had counted and recounted every dollar bill. Yes, that was all of it alright. Half was going to the boss, but then, it was his money. Taken from the company he founded for kicking him out. The rest of the crew crowded round.

“All here, boss,” Skins said in his reedy voice. Even he recognized that it was not the most pleasant thing to listen to. He used it to his advantage, most people were willing to agree with him just to get him to stop talking.

The boss didn’t move, caught up in watching the fire. That was all well and good for an old man, but the sooner Skins was on a plane the better. With as much deference as he could muster for a man who had used him as a whipping boy for the last three years, Skins approached the high-back seat.

A stench he’d not noticed before began washing over him. It was atrocious. How had he not noticed it? The smell of rain had filled the hall, as well as the hickory wood. The new smell was death. Skins knew it well.

“Uh…boss, the money…” Skins could feel the gang start to tense up behind him. They all knew the boss, he wasn’t a patient man. Skins rounded the chair to find the old man, his eye’s glazed over. Blood soaked his clothes. The boss was unmistakably dead, shot in the chest. How had Skins missed it?

“Boss is dead,” he said back to the gang. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Jumpy as his guys were, they were about to overreact. “Take double your share and get out of here. Now!”

“Who killed him?” Gunney asked. Leech was already scooping up bags, Lane close behind him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Skins roared. He could see the cocaine evaporating before his eyes. “Just grab double and go.”

Leech was already at the door. Skins threw himself at the bags, he wasn’t going to lose his piece, not now. Gunney was still arguing, but none of that mattered, not anymore. The rest were grabbing what they could, slipping on loose dollars, wrestling. It was only a matter of time before this went wrong.

Screw it, Skins thought. Enough was enough. Better to have one million than be dead with two. He took off for the door, dollars trailing after him.

Behind him was the unmistakable click of a gun.

Oh no.

Shots rang out into the rainy night. 

The Quest #22

None up, none down. I eliminated some of the no answers, so I consider those passes. I sent my first two queries for the children’s book I wrote for my nephew. Maybe I will find an agent that way. Sneaky.

This week a friend and I made up a Tiktok account to try and get some eyes. We also recoded some longer videos to put out else were. I hope I can explain the book and make an audience. I have my doubts that my audience is on tiktok, but you never know.

God, I hate social media so much.

I’ve started making reddit posts and will get over my hate to post onto twitter and bluesky.

Oh well.

The Quest continues! Thanks for reading,

Michael

Flash Friday #12

World Building

“The key to building a world is the structure,” Grand High Architect Vlgin said to the class.

Outside the thick windows the outline of a planet made in steel, vast bands of latitude and longitude miles across describing a world forty thousand miles. The awed class of students watched the megaproject. Their teacher was awed as well. This was the sort of thing

“You need to have a goal in mind. Here, we are capturing all the dust in the system to make a new world. World building is like an iceberg. Most people will never see anything other than the surface, the tip, if you will.”

As they watched a large asteroid was towed into view. 

“All the resources will be brought in to make this world. Naturally, this would take a long time. Millions of years even, but these days, time is nothing compared to our technology. Worlds bow at our feet. Pressure. It’s all about pressure and time and we have needs not in alignment with that.”

One student raised a hand. “How do you make the planet useful so quickly?”

The Grand High Architect laughed. “By manipulating the very forces of the universe.” He set his hands on a dial and ticked it forward just once. Then he brought it back to its original position. He gestured grandly to the window.

The class looked out.

There indeed was a planet. Fully formed with oceans and skies. Vlgin looked proudly over it all. He rested a hand on the dial. It slipped. Another tick later, the planet was gone. Every piece of it vanished. There was no dust, no rings. All of it was gone.

“Where is it?” the students asked.

Vlgin gulped. He didn’t know. “Um. Ta da!”

How to Steal

And why robots can’t do it right.

Art inspires art.

It doesn’t really matter what it is. The mere act of engaging with art will give you ideas. Books, poetry, painting, sculpture, film, fashion, theater, music, dance, crochet, whatever. All of it gives you an idea simply by engaging with it. Even a brief glance or listen will spark something.

Sometimes, that inspires an artist. It puts in you such a feeling to respond to it that you go home and sit down and give it a go.

Everyone’s first time making art results in a disappointment. It just isn’t as good in the world as it was in the mind. Sometimes that makes the inspiration fizzle out. Sometimes the embers are too hot to die.

If they burn hot, then you will come back. Again and again. You will refine your craft and become an artist.

So inspiration then faces a new question. Where does inspiration become theft? I will argue that it is binary. There is no fuzzy line. There is plagiarism and there is art. Nothing in between.

What’s the difference?

I read widely. I rad books of people who have broken in, the people who I hope to be some day soon. I read best sellers and barely sellers. Recently I’ve skewed towards nonfiction searching for ideas to put into my characters. I have a particular fondness for the classical world, when everyone who could write thought it was their duty to, so that we have books on exciting topics and banal ones.  

I frequently go to art museums to see if the paintings stir something in me. Sometimes I come out with an idea. Sometimes I just enjoy a day in a museum. I listen to music constantly. Exploring what people have said in other times and languages.

I take all of this, all the art I love and all the art I can’t stand, and I throw it into the back of my mind. That place is a compost heap, where things breakdown and become unrecognizable. They sit there, bump into one another, and break down.

Importantly, I put them in with my own experiences. Conversations that I have, memories of really embarrassing things I said or did, waiting in lines. All the ordinary experience of life gets tossed back there.

Then, when I need an idea for a story or character, I go to the compost and take a shovel full. My inspirations are in there, but so too is myself.

That is the line. If you can take your inspiration and put a part of yourself into it, then it is art. We are all working in a tradition, a history. Look through the sands of time and you will see your forebearers doing the same. It all goes back to before we were men.

And that’s just fine. I often laugh at the people saying their story is an original. I don’t really believe in this mythical original story. In our culture, there are only two stories. The Iliad and The Odyssey.

That’s it. Boil it down and any story reduces to these two books. The difference is the artist. The part of themselves that they put in the story.

Sometimes a piece is in conversation with another. It can be combative or constructive. There is no need to dig deep into the compost because you want to write about the stuff right on top. But that’s fine too because you bring yourself into it. Parody is art too.

Plagiarism happens when you don’t. If I made a painting of swirling blue and called it ‘Night of Stars’ to imitate Van Gogh, I would be a hack. Plain and simple. That was how he saw the world. It’s not how I see it.

It is a mistake to believe that Art is the Idea. The spark of inspiration is someone else’s art. Not your art. Having an idea is easy. That’s the brain’s job. Its job is to tell stories when bored. To come up with ideas.

The art is the work. The random faults and imperfections made along the way. It’s the It’s the struggle to make something that matters.

Therein lies the problem of LLMs. First, they can’t put any part of themselves into anything. They have no experience, hopes, or dreams. Fear means nothing to them. Nor does joy. So any piece made with them is simply a falsehood.

And since LLMs are trained on the sum of human art without the permission of the artists, all they are is plagiarism robots. They can only imitate, never add. They appeal to the sort of people who want to skip corners. Pump out garbage and flood the market until no one can see art anymore. Consume, consume, consume, then masticate and spew it all back. There is no art in telling a machine to make your story for you. A machine trained to steal but in the wrong way. The Plagiarism Machine takes ideas and gives nothing back.

Ideas are not special. Every idea I’ve ever had has been had by someone else. I have a fantasy epic poem. Tolkien did that. I have a cozy fantasy where characters try to solve problems as they work through their trauma. Not unique.

The uniqueness comes because I wrote them. Not a machine. Every single word I put down on a page. My love for oddballs and history. The idiosyncratic way I write. It comes from everything I have seen.

In essence, it comes from me.

That is the only way to make anything new. Because all the ideas are old and have been thought before. But I have never had my say with them yet.

That is how to steal. From everyone, all the time. Steal, but always let the theft be marked with your calling card.

Thanks for reading, Michael   

Flash Friday #11

Dark Magic

            Ferro fumbled with his spear, alone in the watch. Everyone else had gone off to drink tonight, which is why they weren’t responding to his warning cries. In the road, approaching him steadily, was a hooded figure. The night made it difficult to see exactly what they were wearing, but the occasional flicker of light from his torch clearly showed runes sewn into the robe.

A witch…or wizard. Probably the latter judging by the height.

Ferro shook in his boots. It was not a good thing to encounter either one when alone. They could turn him into a whole manner of unnatural things, or break his mind and make him a slave. This was war, no matter how calm it seemed here. True, he was a hundred miles from the fighting, guarding supplies with a company of ne’er-do-wells, but war was war, and it never did well to let his guard down.

The figure continued to approach despite his warnings, and the alarm continued to fail being raised. Ferro was against the wizard all by himself. Those were bad odds. His palms were beginning to sweat. It was strange that he wasn’t dead yet. Any wizard worth their salt could have killed him from five miles away, or further if they knew his name.

“This is your last warning,” Ferro said in halting breath. “Ferro of the Guard orders you to halt.” That was a mistake. The approaching wizard had no way of knowing his name, and now he had given it out for free. He was going to spend the rest of his days as a donkey, he just knew it.

“Shh.” The hooded figure raised a finger to their lips and tried to quiet him. “Listen Ferro.” The guard flinched. “I’ve had a bit too much to drink today and my head is killing me. Please don’t yell.”

The spear in his hand nearly slid out, it was so wet. His knees were knocking together. “Halt,” he whispered, as if being polite to a mage would spare his life. It wouldn’t, there were far too many stories about wizards and witches, and if even a tenth of them were true, he was a goner.

The wizard was upon him now, gently guiding the spear away with their hands. Ferro raised the torch. The wizard shied away. He couldn’t see their face, but they were still making the shushing noise.

“Could you extinguish your torch; bright light is terrible for me right now.” The wizard’s hand that was not on the spear tried to wave off the light. Ferro clung to the torch tighter.

“No,” he said in meek defiance. No one would ever hear his story, but the gods would know how he stood up to a wizard with only a spear and a torch.

The hooded figure sighed. “I didn’t want to do this,” they said. Ferro winced, expecting death to come for him in that moment. The wizard waved a hand and the light went out. Night fell over them. Ferro made a squeak. Hopefully the gods wouldn’t see that.

“There,” said the wizard. “Dark magic.”

The Quest #21

One up, none down. Haven’t started applying to picture book agents yet, but I have been scoping some out. I’ll have to make a query letter and research what they’re looking for. My story is a silly little adventure and doesn’t teach children much, but it is a fun read.

After a talk with a friend I’ve formulated a social media plan. Personally, I hate social media and think it is destroying the fabric of society. But it is unmatched when it comes to building an audience. Until everyone puts down their social media and go back to getting ads the old fashioned way (morse code and semaphore), I have to learn it and get good.

So I will be throwing myself into the hellscape for the sheer masochistic pleasure of it. Hopefully I will find the people interested in Epic Poems.

The Quest continues! Thank you for reading.

Michael