James Funfer

Well, it’s been about two weeks since Crystal Promise was published. The excitement hasn’t completely worn off yet; check with me again after the first book signings. Although sales and marketing for an ‘indie’ author are a bit of a grind (and I know not to expect miracles or instant recognition), I’m very lucky to have friends and family who are not only supportive, but in some cases like to play agent. Even as a more outgoing writer than some of my peers, I’d much rather be dealing with fictional characters than selling myself. However, I might have some ideas in the near future that will do both things. Who wants to see me do a video blog?

I might need a musician, though.

I’m also going to be blogging some fiction on here that directly relates to Crystal Promise. If you like the novel (or are planning to read it), this is the stuff for you! Just a little something to fill in the setting and give some extra background for those who are interested. Currently the title is Tales of the Crystal Speakers.

The month of August is going to be a busy one for me. My first book signing (including consignment deal) is at Indigo/Chapters in CrossIron Mills (the big Balzac mall, between Airdrie and Calgary, Alberta) on August 19th, from 12-5 P.M. I have a news article and possible radio interview upcoming…these will, of course, be put up on the blog.

I wrote some fiction today, as well. Just an idea (among many) that I’ve been toying with. Please forgive me ahead of time if it seems familiar. Just a little something to work out some writer’s block with Crystal Empire.

***

            I think it was a garden once. The wooden frame, like everything in this yard, is overgrown with weeds and brambles. I only found it by stumbling over the lumber with my boot, very nearly falling face-first into a patch of briar thorns. My machete will cut through a lot of things, but I don’t have time to chop up old rose bushes when there’s a whole street of houses to go through. The house is my primary concern, along with the possibility of fruits and vegetables in the back yard.

I hack a path through the weeds and beechwood saplings to trace the border of what I hope is a small box garden. The house is to my right, two stories tall. There is a small glass enclosure attached; I think it might be a kind of greenhouse. It could be promising, but there’s also a good chance that it’s barren. The garden is more likely to yield hidden food.

The frame ends underneath a crabapple tree. Ordinarily such a find would be worth an hour of fruit picking, even if the fruit is tiny and tart, but although the Pacific winter is mild and damp, it’s winter all the same. Any fruit the tree has borne this year has already been picked or is rotten upon the ground, just like the odd pear-shaped fruit at the other end of the yard, brown and soft upon the branch. I don’t think it’s a pear tree though – the ones that I’ve seen, down south, are much bigger when they bear fruit of the same size.

I kneel down and begin sifting through damp weeds and lush grass, thankful for the thick gloves that protect me from rose thorns. Beneath the hardy forest plants, I am rewarded. There are deep green leaves of various shapes, and the soil is still soft despite years of neglect. This rocky island ground, I have discovered, is usually unyielding.

I shrug out of my backpack and grab my trowel from its place in a side compartment. Then I set to work digging, looking for edible roots and stalks. After a few minutes, I have achieved a bit of success. There are small potatoes and a healthy amount of kale. My mouth waters but I restrain myself. The kale will taste better cooked, perhaps with dried berries.

There is a sound in the brush behind me and I realize that I’ve kept my guard down. I wheel around on my haunches and un-sling my rifle in a practiced motion. As I pop the safety off, I stare down the barrel into the placid black eyes of a doe. She munches on leaves, unafraid, though her ears are perked and alert. I am metres away.

I lower the gun. Meat has been plentiful; it’s greens that I need. I don’t have the time to deal with an entire deer carcass, anyway. I let her eat and turn my attention back to the garden. I hear her wander off after a few minutes, and I am again alone in the overgrown yard.

I gather as much as the garden will offer. Not enough to fill my backpack, but enough for at least a meal or two. The interior of the house promises more unless it has already been thoroughly scavenged, and though I will likely find no foodstuffs, there could be other interesting treasures within.

I check the sky. Grey, dull, threatening to rain as always. It’s impossible to tell the position of the sun, and I haven’t found the right parts to fix my watch yet. There are two more houses on the street to check. Still, there’s enough light for me to decide that I don’t need to hurry just yet.

The back entrance is a sliding door, glass long shattered. The old pieces of glass crunch and pop underfoot, squishing deeper into the moss that has crept well into the carpet of the abode. The glass was probably broken by the earthquake that rocked this area a few years back rather than by looters; many properties had been reduced to little more than ruins, and although some structures survived mainly intact, none were completely undamaged.

I draw my revolver from my belt holster and step through the threshold.

I quickly survey the walk-out basement and listen for movement. There haven’t been any squatters in the area yet, but I’m not about to let my guard down. There is a kitchen off to my left, cabinets left ajar and empty. Ahead is a living area, complete with computer desks, couch, television and bookshelves.

All useless, except for the bookshelves. I approach with discretion, my eyes and gun barrel fixed on the dark hallway. Nothing stirs. The house is still and silent as a crypt. It could very well be a tomb of sorts, though I have seen no remains yet.

The bookshelves have not been ransacked. It is rare for me to find a place where anything other than food, weapons and basic tools have been looted. I scan the shelves with a tenuous smirk, looking for anything that could pique my interest. It is mostly fiction. I’ve been collecting enough stories to last me quite a while, and I don’t have room on my own bookshelf. The only space I have available is for practical knowledge.

Astrophysics – interesting, but not useful. Computer programming – boring and worthless to me right now. History – well, I’ve had my fill of history for a while. I find no medical texts, no gardening books, nothing about radios or chemistry or guns. I turn away from the bookshelf and head down the hallway. There are three doors – one on each side of me, and one straight ahead. All three are ajar.

The first door is the one on my right. Sure enough, it’s a bedroom, and as expected, it’s occupied. Bedrooms are usually where I find bodies.

To call them corpses, however, is being generous. Usually there’s little remaining but bones. It’s impossible to tell how this one died, but most of the skeletons that I find look as though they were curled up at the end. It suggests either fear or comfort in those final moments. I suspect the former – The Doom was not kind to humanity. I was told that it was terrible in every way conceivable.

The room has little to offer me. The corpse left behind a closet full of clothing for an adult male. The size looks like a good fit, but there is little of practical use that I don’t already own. I check the dresser, delighted to find cargo pants in my waist size in the bottom drawer. I stuff them in my backpack.

The rest of the house has nothing that I need. When I emerge from the front door, the clouds are drizzling. I zip up my hunting jacket and shiver. There are two more houses on the street, but I’m cold and tired and hungry, and it’s wet. I decide to head back home.

It’s a long street, long and lonely in this forgotten part of the world that is slowly returning to the wild. Human habitation is being overtaken. Weeds are sprouting through the many cracks in the asphalt. The blackberry brambles to my right have become a fortress around a standing abode, and I am reminded of the old fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty. With a sense of gloom, I tell myself sternly that the only things sleeping in that house are bugs and bones.

Fields that horses once paced are filled with shoulder-high grasses, where cougars hide and hunt the wild chickens and deer and dogs. Many of the poles once holding power lines have long fallen over, and the wires stretch across the road, innocuous.

I keep my rifle at the ready and shake out some of the damp from my hair. It’s growing past my eyebrows again. I don’t like shaving my head in the winter, but I don’t like how it gets in the way when it’s long. I remind myself that it doesn’t really matter what it looks like, so scissors will work fine.

Home is at the end of the street, hidden behind overgrown hedges in a gravel driveway. As I approach, I make a low whistle, punctuated by a trill at the end.

I wait.

I hear a quork in reply – it sounds like a raven. I round the corner of the hedge. Home is right where I left it. The truck and RV appear to be just another part of the scenery. Abandoned vehicles are just as common as abandoned houses.

Atop the RV, a gaunt figure in a long brown duster sits and smokes a cigarette. His face is shrouded by long silver hair and a tangled mass of salt-and-pepper beard. Across his lap is a scoped rifle. He grins widely at me.

“Hello, daughter,” he says in his rough timbre. “Did you find anything interesting?”

“Doom’s Daughter” – Scenes of What Remains