Flash Friday #22

Djinn

            Night fell on Mar-ha-shesh, and in the Apricot Palace silence fell. Tomorrow the host would march out the Sun Gate and win the Qvizartch-Sha-shen the great trading city of Na-ha-lamh. Wealth would be his, and the rich lands of the Begemot would be laid bare before him.

All things happened as the Qvizartch-Sha-shen desired them, all his actions succeeded. This war would be over before the seasons changed and war became impossible, for it was what he desired. The eunuch had seen the Qvizartch-Sha-shen’s desires manifest themselves as soon as he spoke them. Once, a great many years ago, he had heard a great and terrible voice speak, like a voice from down a well, great and terrible. It spoke in a voice so loud that all in Mar-ha-shesh heard it. The Qvizartch-Sha-shen’s Djinn.

Three wishes the Djinn gives to men, three wishes to whoever holds its jar. Held by a greedy man who could only ever desire more, held by a man who won at all he played for, who had forgotten all kindness, who took gold for its luster, not for his need, and who took women from their homes to satisfy his urges. Who took him from his home, enslaved him, maimed him that he might be trusted watching the women.   

All the Qvizartch-Sha-shen’s desires were manifest, but he was asleep, resting for his war. All the Apricot Palace was asleep, waiting for the war. It would be their last rest for some time. All were sleeping that night, except the eunuch.

The eunuch was his most trusted slave, his favorite, his nearest advisor, and he knew where the jar was hidden. He crossed the courtyards of wafting flowers and swaying sweet samrand trees. Hidden away in the darkness were singing Massu Massu birds. They were not native to here, but were gifted to the Qvizartch-Sha-shen when he first heard their song. It was beautiful to listen to. He was going to miss these gardens, they were the only good the Qvizartch-Sha-shen made.

Up a secret stair hidden behind a fragrant bush. Through the hall tiled with blue and amber, lined with doors behind which lay uncountable treasures. Gold was nothing compared with the treasure he sought. The guard, with studded leather armor and their great axes, watched him pass blandly. Had they known what he was about to do, those axes would be running with his blood.

Past them, to a great door unguarded. The Qvizartch-Sha-shen had wished that his Djinn would not be stolen, and so it could not be. But the eunuch was not there to steal the jar. He was there to use it.

He opened the great door and entered a barren room. It was made for treasures, yet all it held was the Djinn jar resting on the plinth, and the braziers which lit it. The eunuch stripped his robes and tied the doors closed. It would buy him time. Then he walked to the jar.

How many times had the Qvizartch-Sha-shen brought him here, to watch him marvel over the jar’s smallest detail, to listen to him claim the Djinn’s works as his own. No more. He did not wait, he was not awed by the tool of his slavery. He would break that man’s power.

He took the lid off and peered in. It was nothingness, perfect blackness. He could not even see the insides of the jar. Then a mist began pouring out, spilling over the floor. It did not smell of anything.

“WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” came the rumbling darkness. There was no form, no face, only smoke and nothingness. The walls shook and the guards shouted. All of Mar-ha-shesh would be able to hear him.

“Hamal of Elma-gal,” he whispered into the jar. The Qvizartch-Sha-shen had told him about this, about the Djinn needing his name.

“HAMAL OF ELMA-GAL, WHAT IS YOUR FIRST WISH.” The palace shook violently. There was banging at the door. Even if the guards broke through, this would all be done. Hamal knew what his three wishes were.

“I wish that no wish can remove another.”

“GRANTED.” The banging was replaced with dull thuds. The axes. They were too late. “WHAT IS YOUR SECOND WISH?”

He could put it away, close the jar right now, save his wishes for later. The Qvizartch-Sha-shen had told him so. But there was more work to this day.

“I wish that all human beings, those living and all those to live, to see me make my three wishes and understand why I do this, now, or when they turn ten years of age.”

“GRANTED.” The axes fell silent, the guards were viewing him right now, too disoriented to strike the door again. “WHAT IS YOUR THIRD WISH?” Part of the roofing fell in, rocked by the voice from the jar.

“I wish that all humans will have three wishes, that they ask in their life and that you will grant, without them needing your jar, and when you grant their wishes you will be silent.”

The jar was silent.

Thus the king fell.

Thus Hamal the Giver spoke to the Djinn and mankind gained three wishes.

Thus the world was broken.

End of a Chapter

By which I mean a book. Today, only few minutes ago, I finished recording my audio book for my epic fantasy epic poem, The Ring of Dain Thar Duin. This is, of course, not the first time I’ve recorded it, but a persistent audio problem convinced me it was better to redo it. That was a demoralizing decision, but probably the right one.

I think I’ve spent about a year and a half, maybe two, recording it, with the final five chapters recorded all in one go. Editing them down into a usable chapter will come later.

All that is left to record is a foreword and a little initial section I’ve called the artifice which serves to set up the piece as a found fiction, something that fits into our world. Once all that is set, I will be looking to put it on Audible and other platforms.

I’m glad I won’t be stuffing myself into a hot closet to record every week.

Thanks for read,

Michael

Flash Friday #21 (On a Saturday, oops)

Briefing

“Good day pilots,” the commander said, stumping into the room.

“Good day, sir,” they all answered. It wasn’t. A miserable rain pattered against the windows.

“I have the next assignment for this flight wing.”

Nes looked around at her comrades. They were exhausted. Non-stop sorties did that to pilots. Worse was the lack of success. That would drive anyone mad. Her comrades were holding their heads up, but they were unsteady.

“As you know, we are having difficulty luring them our of their caves. The kaijus seem to know that we can do damage to them when they leave their homes, and so will not exit the water where we expect them.”

The pilots nodded glumly. They knew this. She was the only one to hit the damned things in three months, and that had been with a reckless dive. Stupid, but it had worked.

“What do the Kaiju feed on?”

Another easy piece of info. Civilization. The things seemed hell bent on pushing them back into prehistory, roaming plains in loose groups looking for food. Electricity was a favorite food item. Someone gave the right answer.

“Exactly. Each has their own appetite, and can sense out their favorite foods from miles around.” He clicked a little button and the image of a grotesque monster popped to life on the screen. It looked like a sickly crab.

“We are losing. We need something to turn the tides, and we are going to start with this fucker. He eats rare books.”

A murmur went through the crowd. That was odd.

The commander held up a large, old book. “This is the Book of Kells. I don’t know who made it or why. The fuckers took that from me. It is the only copy in the world. We are going to tie it to a lure plane that will dance across the water until the crab comes out. Then we kill him. Is that clear.”

Excitement ran through the pilots. It was crazy, but the whole war was crazy. Nes had a sinking feeling.

“Who will carry the book?” someone asked.

“Captain Nes. Our finest.”

Yeah, this was all sorts of screwy alright. 

The Quest #26

One up none down. With resetting my query tracks, it looks a little daunting, but I know so much more than I did when I started on the quest.

I haven’t been querying much because right now most my energy is spent on finishing the audiobook for my epic fantasy epic poem, The Ring of Dain Thar Duin. I’m aiming to finish recording it all next week, and then spend the following months editing it all down to meet my one chapter a month plan. Once I finish, I am going to put it all on audible and other sites, I think.

That’s all for now. I will try to find more agents to query in the next two weeks.

The Quest continues,

Michael

Flash Friday #20

The Mosaic

Her practiced knife carved away the small blue tile in her hands until it was a perfect curve. Paula smiled. When she was just starting out, cutting away a piece felt dangerous. She wasted so many.

Now she could do this blind.

The little piece slotted into the eye of the dolphin perfectly, completing the section. She sat up and admired it. This was their biggest piece yet…and the last.

Paula looked over to the other side where Joanne built large seaweed columns. Paula had to admit that she was an incredible artist.

A clatter erupted behind her. Joan looked up, her eyes catching Paula’s then looking away. Paula turned to see Steve extricating himself from a ladder and buck that he had knocked over. He carried a big box of material in his arms.

He blushed when he saw the two of them looking at him. “Sorry, ladies.”

“What do you have?” Paula asked him, getting off her knees. She walked over to help him out. He gave her the box, which made her sag a little, then stepped out of the mess he had made.

“Caulk and some reds.”

Paula looked over her shoulder to the vast mosaic stretched out from under her feel. An ocean scene. Well, the caulk was helpful at least. She walked back to her place.

“I’m glad that you ladies aren’t fighting,” Steve said, tactlessly. “Isn’t it nice to just get back at it.”

It was. But that wasn’t something that Paula could say out loud. Not anymore. Too much had been said already. She caught Joan’s eye.

Funny. Spead ten years on the job with someone and you know what a they are thinking with just a look. Joan felt the way she did.

Neither had told Steve that this was their last job together.

The hours blended into one another as Paula built out the mosaic. They had been working here for weeks. Tonight was then end.

The end. Then she could walk away and do whatever she wanted for the rest of her life. Probably more of this, only with someone who respected her. Or by herself.

Joan and Paula both stood at the same time, finished just as dusk was setting in. As was their tradition, they stood side by side at the base of the peace and looked for any mistakes. Flawless.

“Well…” Paula said.

Joan grunted.

Paula offered a hand. Joan hesitated and for a moment Paula thought she wouldn’t take it. But she did. The pair shared a brief handshake and walked away to their own cars. Their masterpiece left behind them. 

A Rant

I thought I would write a quick rant this week. I don’t know if it will end up being quick after all, so let’s just hope. The rant is about a phrase I hate.

The offending phrase is “You can’t write that” or any sort of variation on that theme. This phrase is used all the time to describe rather mundane coincidences. It will be used by an announcer at a sports event when a sports team makes a comeback or when a player gets revenge on their old team or achieves some obscure and manufactured statistic.

It drives me crazy.

The reason I object to it is because yes I can. I can write that. I can write a Cinderella sports story. They make up half of all sports stories. Also, last minutes comebacks happen every week in sports. Last year, the Bears did it seven times. Ask anyone about their favorite sports story and I will bet that it has as underdog story.

The big statistics have all been placed out of reach for the average player and the average game, so they say ever more ridiculous things to make it seem interesting.

Writers can come up with any stat. Or any win condition under dire circumstances. Michael Jordan won in Space Jam when he was a cartoon. In some stories I come up with goblin names. I think I can write “And then they won,” or “the lovable goofballs made the shot and all the town celebrated.”

It is such a bad phrase, It never describes anything unlikely. It just gets shoehorned into moments that would do better off without someone talking nonsense. The phrase is one that I will never use n my writing or in my life. It’s terrible.

Thanks for reading,

Michael

Flash Friday #19

What Now?

Shang the Conqueror always took the messages alone. From all corners of his vast empire, messengers came with their news. Each time he heard their words, there were always two messengers there. Because Shang the Conqueror always killed one of them.

Tetuto had twice before delivered news to the mighty king. Twice he had watched as Shang took his blade and killed a man. Tetuto tried not to think about the faces of the men when they realized they were the ones to die that day.

Once more he stood before the haphazard throne of his master. This time, there was only one other messenger. Tetuto’s luck had run out.

Shang waved his hand. He was ready to hear from his empire. The deadly blade was there at his side. Tetuto could see his reflection in its well-oiled metal. The firelight coated him in red. At his side, the other messenger spoke his news.

Tetuto cursed himself for getting distracted. The other messenger smirked as he gave his news. They both knew that Shang was more likely to kill the messenger who gave him the news last.

When the other man had finished, Tetuto began. His voice wavered as he spoke his news. Shang stood up from his throne, heavy blade in his hand. Even as his death came forward, Tetuto delivered the news. He had wondered why the others who had died did the same. Now he knew why. There was a thin hope that if he gave the news the king wanted to hear, then his life would be spared.

Shang the Conqueror had reached the stairs, Tetuto’s life was not long. And then the mighty king missed the step and tripped, hitting his head hard on a table. Tetuto head his neck break as he fell.

The great king was dead.

Shang’s blood seeped out and stained the carpet. Shang had no children or relatives. His conquests would last no longer. Just like that, the most powerful man in the world was dead.

Tetuto’s voice faltered. It was over. He had lived. He looked over at the other messenger, who looked at him in stunned silence.

“What now?” Tetuto asked.

The other man shrugged. “We run, and hope everyone else is too busy to grab the throne to find the two messengers who managed to kill him.”

Tetuto looked over to the corpse. “Let’s put him on the throne. That should give us more time.”

The other man nodded. Together, they lifted the body of Shang the Conqueror and moved it to the throne. They sat him down and took a step back. At once he could see that it had been a mistake. Shang’s brow was caved in, blood covered his face. Their hands were coated in his blood.

The door opened and a pair of guards came in. They took one look at the pair of them. Swords came out.

The Quest #25

One up, a few down. I didn’t get any rejections in the last few weeks, but I decided to go through my list and assume I got a no from everyone more than four months old. I mean, if they wanted me, they wouldn’t need nine months to make up their mind. Maybe doing that will create problems for me down the road, if I query an agent at the same agency, but I can worry about that once I get to it. At least then some someone will be giving my work more than a moment’s consideration.

So that’s a little bit of a reset on my querying.

Newest round of editing is going well. I have so far kept to writing a thousand words a weekday. I will soon be passing three hundred pages on the adventure book I’m writing. I am also getting close to finishing my audio book recording. From there I will be looking to put it on audible and other sites.

The Quest Continues. Thank you for reading,

            Michael Frutig

Flash Friday #18

Here Comes the Bride

I made it to the church just in time. Traffic was bad, and worse, I was a little scatterbrained. I had never been able to get that part of my brain to work. Oh well.

I came in running, everyone looking at me, but I managed to slide into a seat in the back row of chairs.

The sky was dark and a chill was in the air. Who get’s married at night? There’s no time for a party afterword. We were all missing dinner and I didn’t see any tables set up for later.

If they didn’t want me to eat with them, so be it, he could get a burger on his way home.

The groom walked up, said hello to people, then stood beneath a flowery arch. As I looked around, I saw a lot of people I knew. Old friends and people resembling the groom close enough that they had to be family.

No one from the bride’s side.

In truth, I didn’t know her well. We had been introduced once at a party ages ago. I also wasn’t that close to the groom. I had been surprised to get an invite. But hey, if someone wants you to be there on their special day, it’s good manners to show up.

There was some light music playing through a speaker. Frank Sinatra. I never really got the hype behind him. He just plain boring.

The music changed to “Here come the bride.” I stood and turned.

People screamed.

That was the bride alright, looking gorgeous in her dress without a veil. Crimson blood ran from her mouth, down her neck, staining her dress. She walked evenly, her head held high. Sharpened canine teeth like fangs.

I looked to the groom.

He looked terrified.

I ran. I wasn’t the only one to do so.

Just the only one that got away.

A Wave

We ride a wave. A great and roaring wave racing, but which will never reach the shore. The shore is behind, not ahead. To look behind is to remember, but not to see. The vast sea growing behind the wave hides where it was and will never be again.

We are, and never again.

Ten thousand generations have looked at the same stars, but the light I see was only ever meant for me. You will see a star with the same name, in a similar part of the sky, but it won’t be the star I see. It won’t be the light that crossed a vast ocean to reach me, here. Now.

We are here, and with us are millions whose names you will never know. We are all of us here. It is you who are missing. You, who walk the same streets we did, and sit and marvel at the great majesties of the world as we did. You missed us, but we are here.

The wave out ran us, as it will outrun you. For now you ride the wave. But the wave is fast, and one day you will slide off and sink into the sea. As we did.

We are here, behind the waves of the vast and growing sea of time. We are here, now, forever. You missed us. Be it by an inch or a mile, but you missed us all the same. It doesn’t matter; any distance is the same.

No matter how hard you look for us, you won’t see us. Because you are there, then. We are here, now.

Just a thought I had. Thanks for reading,

Michael