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Broadway Fantasy Draft

January 29, 2015 by JamesFunfer

So I was listening to this record the other night:

…which got me to thinking about a few things. Specifically, how much I miss performing musical theatre (or theatre in general, really) and how much I’ve enjoyed various iterations of JCS:

The Broadway version:

The Movie Version:

JCSS

 

 

and the 2012 UK revival:

…you may think it odd, perhaps, for an out-of-the-closet atheist to be into something so heavily religious, but I have to say that one of the things that sticks with you when you are raised Roman Catholic is the lore. Things like the stations of the cross and the idea of angels are very deeply ingrained in the ‘western’ psyche. And mine.

Then you have the score: a rock opera inspired by various types of worship music, setting the stage for a fictionalized account of Jesus’ final week of life, including some heavily non-canonical interplay between Jesus and Judas Iscariot.

…seriously, if you’ve never listened to/seen Jesus Christ Superstar, do so. Now.

If you have, then you might know where I’m coming from.

Back to the point: my wistful daydreams of performing or directing have produced more than one fantasy concerning how *I* would stage a production of something like Jesus Christ Superstar.

…not that I have the requisite experience with directing. Or a musical director. Or a rock band slash orchestra at my command. Which is why I give you…

Ultimate Broadway Fantasy Draft 2015!

…I was going to make a Hockey: the Musical joke, but apparently it’s already a thing:

So here’s my imaginary production of Jesus Christ Superstar:

-We open on a dystopian science-fiction desert set which is somewhere between Woodstock, Mad Max and a Margaret Atwood novel (no sand though! One of my profs in university once told me that sand is a nightmare to clean up on a stage).

-Jesus, Judas and Mary are all played by women. (I guess we can call her Judith?) Jesus looks like a young Joni Mitchell, Judas something akin to Katniss Everdeen. Mary Magdalene is, in essence, Tina Turner.

-The Romans are an alien race enslaving humanity. They look like griffins:

…stay with me here, I’m going somewhere with this.

 

…no, really! The inestimable Neal Patrick Harris as King Herod (he was fantastic as Hedwig, by the way):

-Anna Kendrick as Mary, Idina Menzel as Judas (Judith?), Freema Agyeman as Jesus (can she sing? I like to believe so).

Freema

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Judas’ lament of practical matters vs. spirituality, Jesus’ views, these things become something else entirely in the face of a domineering alien presence. What is humanity’s place in the cosmos, and in the sight of god?

…but more importantly, David Bowie must reprise his role as Pontius Pilate:

…yes, I know that’s from a different Jesus movie. But it’s DAVID BOWIE! Plus he’d be in a griffin costume. What’s not to like?

So there you have it: my bizarre, imaginary contribution to theatre. It’s a game the whole family can play! What piece of theatre would you produce? Who would you cast, and what would it look like, if your budget was limitless? Leave me a comment!

Coming next week: a new short story and an update on Crystal Secrets. Stay tuned.

Posted in Music, Uncategorized | Leave a Comment »

Sneak Preview: Crystara

January 20, 2015 by JamesFunfer

As promised, here is Crystara’s first chapter from Crystal Secrets.

 

Crystal Secrets: Chapter 4

Crystara dreamed of deaths and desires, of a mother she never knew and a lover she once thought she knew. Sometimes her father chased her through the hallways of the Old Temple, screaming and cursing, clutching a whisky bottle. Sometimes he morphed into Jacoby. Worse were the dreams about Lenara, who merely shuffled after her, saying nothing, staring at her with milky, accusing eyes. In those dreams Crystara’s feet were made of stone, laden and heavy. The chase was as slow as a funeral dirge, but Crystara always woke up screaming when Lenara’s cold hand clutched the back of her neck.

When she awoke she would find herself back in her dungeon cell. Sometimes the cold tedium was worse than the nightmares. Crystara’s gaoler, a mute man with a club foot, took no notice of her cries. A thorough pilfering of his mind revealed that he knew little of what truly went on in the temple and understood even less than that. He was the perfect man for the job.

At least once a night Crystara dreamed about the gallows. Faceless men would lead her up to the wooden platform. She was always naked, and there was usually a crowd gathered to watch her swing from the rope. The mob would throw stones at her as they shouted, so loudly that Crystara couldn’t hear the charges being read by the executioner.

She always tried to struggle, but Jacoby was there at the front of the crowd. He had a crystal ring on his finger, and when he pointed it at her she couldn’t move. The executioner put the rope around her neck and drew the noose tight. When he pulled the lever and she felt her feet drop out from under her, Crystara caught a glimpse beneath his hood.

It was Keeper Orvin.

In moments of solitude the guilt crept into her heart. Lenara had deserved her fate, as far as Crystara was concerned, but what gnawed at Crystara was the look of shock she’d seen on Keeper Orvin’s face. In the nightmare she tried to tell him that it was an accident, but she was already swinging from the rope by then.

Crystara reminded herself cynically that Orvin was no less dead just because it was an accident.

She began to lose track of days and nights. From the hunger pangs she assumed they were only feeding her the same cold, bleak gruel once a day, but she’d forgotten to keep track of the first few days since she’d assumed her death was imminent.

The new keeper came to visit after five more bowls of gruel had passed her lips. The dove-white robes of office seemed ill-fitted upon him, hanging off his stooped, wiry frame.

“I took a look at your ring,” he said in his raspy tone. There was something about the way he looked at her when he held out the clear crystal band that made her flesh crawl.

“It’s not mine anymore,” she replied, glaring at him from the far corner of her cell.

“You’ll put it on,” he said, “or I’ll make you.”

Crystara didn’t budge. The man’s smile was sallow.

“Knights,” he called. From the shadows came three rough-looking men, dressed in travelling clothes. They appeared more like brigands than knights to Crystara, and as they approached her cell the stink of horses was almost overwhelming. One of them produced a key.

She shut her eyes and focused, rifling through their minds as the cell door swung open. Their task was not to harm her, simply to stop her from escaping and force her to wear the ring. Not even they knew what the ring did, and Keeper De’Cadomus’ mind was as iron-clad as it had been the last time Crystara had tried to read him.

The threat of the ring was bone-chilling in a way that a death sentence would never be. Without a crystal to defend herself with, Crystara knew that her only option was to make a run for it.

She managed to slide under the legs of the tallest one, but as she reached the threshold of the cell she saw one of De’Cadomus’ crystal rings glow yellow and she was thrust backward into the arms of the men. Crystara screamed and flailed but their grips were as firm as shackles.

She squirmed and balled her hands into fists, but the third knight pried her left hand open and forced the ring onto her big finger. The men unceremoniously dumped her onto the deepstone floor and left. De’Cadomus glowered down at Crystara as she stood up and rubbed her wrists.

“You’re a powerful speaker, Crystara, but you’ll never…”

Crystara clutched the ring and pulled. A crippling shock of pain shot through her body and she was forced to her knees. She bit her lip and tried again. This time the spasms sent her to the floor as she screamed.

“You fucking bastard!” She sobbed.

“Consider this insurance. You’re no good to me locked up all the time, but I can’t have you…”

Crystara leapt to her feet and threw a wild punch at the keeper. He stood his ground and the punch never connected. When Crystara’s fist got close to his face, the ring on her finger glowed deep amber and she was thrown backward.

“There are quite a few things Orvin didn’t teach you, it seems. The ring once bound you to a betrothal. Now it binds you to me. You will do as I say, or that crystal will cause you unimaginable pain. If you try to leave the temple, it will hurt you as well.”

“Fuck you,” she sobbed. De’Cadomus shut the door to Crystara’s cell and stared at her through the bars.

“A young mute orphan is going to come to work for the temple. The Church of the Great Crystal looks after the unfortunate of society…even lame mutes can serve the gods.” He gestured to the gaoler, who looked on passively. “This dumb urchin might believe that she can speak, but all people will hear are disturbing moans when she opens her mouth. Few will choose to even look upon her, for her face is misshapen and hideous.”

Crystara stared in disbelief at the ring on her finger. She’d never heard of crystals doing that kind of thing. What did De’Cadomus know? She wondered if she could read his mind when he was asleep. Had Keeper Orvin known those alignments, too?

“Should that ugly mute serve the church well, perhaps she will be allowed a small measure of freedom…but she must never forget that she belongs to the Great Crystal.” Again, stabbing pains shot through Crystara’s body and she writhed on the marble floor in front of De’Cadomus. “You may prove your loyalty to me with time, but only my death will remove your fetters. You may think yourself a killer, but you do not have what it takes to kill me. Simpering bookworm keepers and young ladies are one thing…”

Crystara strained to hear the word that he whispered as he stared at her crystal ring, but it was nothing more than a puff of air to her. She shook spasmodically as the pain coursed through her body, and tasted the tang of blood in her mouth. When the pain subsided, she opened her eyes. De’Cadomus was gone, and she was alone again in her cell.

Posted in Crystal Promise, Writing | Leave a Comment »

Sneak Preview: Prologue

October 19, 2014 by JamesFunfer

Paulo heard the sound of bells tolling far away. The pealing, brassy tones were muffled by layers of stone and wood. Deep under Crystus Hill, Paulo was surprised that he could hear them at all. He took another shuffling step and ascended a marble stair in complete darkness.

Every time he moved, the pain in his guts stabbed at him. Ignore it, he told himself. You are strong. You are the son of Maximus Longoro, an Emperor of Novem. The crystal can heal you. The nation is counting on you. You’re going to marry Racquela and…

“Ugh,” he groaned, clutching at his side. The thought of Racquela gave him strength and he kept moving.

The bells grew louder as Paulo ascended, filling the silence between his grunts and footsteps. He wondered how long it would take for somebody to find his corpse if he didn’t reach the top.

A stabbing pain from his wound brought Paulo to his knees. He collapsed on the cold marble stairs and tried not to slip on his own blood. Paulo thought about crying out for help. He didn’t know if anybody would hear him, or if the right kind of help would come. A lot of people wanted him dead, and his loyal followers were far away.

“Shatters,” Paulo whispered. A cry for help would have taken too much out of him. He was spending the last of his strength keeping a foot wedged on a lower stair, pinned there to stop him from sliding. The steps were steep, treacherous to the unwary. The darkness and Paulo’s growing dizziness made it worse.

Paulo pushed himself up and stood on shaky legs, leaning against the central column of the stairwell. He returned a hand to his gut to cover the wound, pushed his sweat-slick hair back from his face and braved another steep step. He was the heir to the Empire of Novem; he refused to die ignobly in a forgotten staircase, reeking of sewers and viscera.

I am not going to die, Paulo told himself as he took another step. Shatters, where is that door? This staircase goes on forever.

Other sounds began to mingle with the ringing of the bells. Shouting and wandshot were distant but audible. Paulo smiled wolfishly in the dark. He was getting closer, and so were his rebels.

Paulo’s forehead struck something abruptly. He nearly lost his balance, steadying himself against the staircase column. He searched frantically for a doorknob or latch, but the surface in front of him was smooth and featureless. His staircase to the temple had been walled off long ago.

“No,” he said weakly. The bells replied forlornly. Paulo’s legs gave out and he slid against the wall to collapse upon the final stair. Out beyond the walls of the Old Temple, brave men and women were fighting to overwhelm the army and take the parliament building. They were fighting, unaware that their future emperor, the salvation of Novem, was dying.

Posted in Crystal Promise, Writing | Leave a Comment »

The Nine Sons of Novem

October 16, 2014 by JamesFunfer

Good news! The sequel to Crystal Promise is now in the editing phase. I will be posting a nail-biter of a preview to this blog in a day or two. Today, I thought I’d share with you a parable detailing Novem’s caste system and class struggle. This and other ‘flavour-text’ style short pieces will be featured between certain chapters, and I will *potentially* be recording a pair of radio plays and uploading them to YouTube: Crystal Captain and Speaker for Hire.

‘The Nine Sons of Novem’

Once upon a time there was a wealthy duke with nine sons. One day, the duke brought his sons to the top of his tower and showed them the virgin, untamed land around the estate. He told them that when they became men, they would each earn an inheritance: one ninth of the duke’s wealth.

When the first son was a man, he used his inheritance to buy up vast parcels of land, and so he and his wife and children became farmers. ‘Thus will I feed my younger brothers,’ said he, for as the eldest, he was a responsible provider.

The duke warned him, however, that his brothers would take advantage of his generous nature.

When the second son came of age, he spent his wealth on tools of iron and went into the mountains, for as the second-born he naturally sought to become more successful than his older brother. ‘Here shall I find the riches of the earth,’ said he, ‘and my older brother shall feed me so that I may work uninterrupted.’

And the duke warned him that a nugget and a coin are not the same thing.

When the third son was old enough, he used his money to buy tools of crafting, for he looked up to his elder brothers who worked with their hands, but he had the heart of a creator. When the second brother complained that his hard work was going to rust, the third brother said: ‘I will pay you to work, brother, and I will pay the eldest to feed you, if I may take what you have and build to my heart’s content.’ And with the riches of the mountains he bought from his brother, he built a great city, and many people paid him for his houses, and so he became wealthier than his older brothers.

But the duke warned him that city walls do not protect against greed.

When the fourth son earned his inheritance, bandits came from the forest and besieged the city the third son had built. The fourth son asked the third son to build him weapons and armour, and then he went out and slew the bandits, and his brothers were thankful. ‘You must pay me,’ said he, for though he was brave he was also practical. ‘I am risking my life to protect your fields, mines and city.’

His brothers paid him to keep them safe, and he became wealthier than they, so wealthy that he had the third brother build him a fine fortress in the centre of the city.

Then the duke warned him that his brothers would not need him during a time of peace, and would become wealthier than he.

When the fifth son was given his gold, he saw how busy his older brothers were, and how they did not have time to enjoy the fruits of their labours. So he bought a horse and cart and offered to take their goods to the next city to sell.

By selling his brothers’ goods, he became wealthier than they, for he earned more gold in the sale than the goods were worth, and he brought back exotic things to sell. His house was larger than the fortress in the centre of town.

The duke warned him, however, that his younger brothers would find a way to outdo his wealth.

Now the sixth son was not hard-working or brave or cunning, but he had spent his childhood observing the world and he knew many things, and there came a time when his elder brothers’ goods no longer fetched a fair price, and all the brothers were in danger of losing their wealth. So they all went to the sixth brother and said: ‘you understand the world. How do we save our wealth?’ The sixth said: ‘why, we must create something new that people need.’ And he used his understanding of the world to make new things that were useful, and from his share of the profits he built a place where others could learn what he knew. For a time, he was the wealthiest of all his brothers.

The duke warned him, though, that not everyone understood the value of truth.

When the seventh son achieved independence, it was discovered that he was a crystal speaker. He took the knowledge of all his elder brothers and bound that wisdom into crystals. He went forth and conquered neighbouring nations with his power, and he had the wealth of an emperor, and he ruled over all his brothers.

But the duke told him that his fortune was forever fated to rise and fall along with his empire.

The eighth son, unlike his brothers, had no concern for material wealth. His share of the duke’s legacy was spent building a place of worship, atop the Great Crystal which spoke for the gods. Because not even the seventh son could understand the Great Crystal, the eighth son’s church became influential even beyond the borders of the empire, and thus became wealthier than the empire alone could ever be.

But the duke told the eighth son that the gods did not concern themselves with the folly of man.

Then came a time when the empire was beset by rival nations, and fell to their might, and the brothers and all they had built were reduced to poverty and ruins. Then the ninth and final son was given the ninth and final share of the duke’s estate. The ninth son looked to his elder brethren and said: ‘brothers, I shall use my wealth so that we may rebuild, provided each of you pays me a regular share of your wealth hereafter, and name me ruler. If you refuse, I shall take my wealth and leave you to ruin.’

And so the ninth son became the wealthiest and most powerful of all, without ever lifting a finger.

But the duke warned the ninth son that his brothers would forever resent him for what he had done.

Posted in Crystal Promise, News, Writing | Leave a Comment »

Sneak Preview

April 29, 2014 by JamesFunfer

As promised, here is a sneak peek at the sequel to Crystal Promise. Comments welcome.

***

Julio had forgotten how fresh the air could be outside of the city. Away from the smokestacks and grit and the smell of collective metropolitan sweat, he could feel life being infused into his lungs. On the open road, the wind burnt his cheeks and his lips curled up into a misshapen but honest smile. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled like that; it was worth the occasional swallowed bug.

Roberto had never driven a motorcycle before, but he took to it like he did every other skill he tried his hand at, making the tight turns and switchbacks of the mountain roads look effortless. Drago drove much more recklessly, spinning his tires to spit up dirt and gravel, showing off by lifting the front tire on occasion, and whipping by Joveday drivers in their family ‘coaches by hugging the shoulder of the road. Julio would occasionally yell at Drago to be more careful, but if the young man heard him, he didn’t listen.

They set out north from Captus Nove, avoiding the wide, main road known as Sundus Motorway – at Julio’s suggestion they took the winding inner-country route known colloquially as the ‘Old Mine Road’, passing through small villages and alongside scenic upper-caste farmland estates. The day was brisk, but they had lucked out; the clouds were fleeting and there was little threat of rain.

Along the way, Julio would shout out historic anecdotes to Drago about the townships they passed, or the landscape – here at this bluff the barbarian tribes of Denlandia were held off by a meagre force of well-trained First Empire soldiers led by General Abritus, there the greatest crystal mine ever discovered gave up its last shard during the Fourth Republic, putting thousands of miners out of work. Whether Drago was truly listening, Julio couldn’t tell, but Roberto would occasionally add asides or ask questions.

They stopped on a pastoral hillside for lunch, snacking on cheese, sausage and a healthy few swigs of wine. Below, sheep grazed, and a weather balloon floated lazily overhead. Roberto examined both engines and brought out his loccimetre to check the resonance of the engines’ crystals.

“Bet you I could hit one of those sheep from here,” Drago boasted.

Roberto looked up from his device and shook his head. “What, by pissing off the cliff?”

Drago rolled his eyes. “No.” He rummaged in his pack and brought out a small wand. “With this.” He twirled it in his fingers dexterously.

Julio frowned. “We’re not shooting a farmer’s sheep.”

“Jova’s sake, dad.” Drago shut an eye and levelled his wand at a grazing ewe in the valley below. “What’s the point of this trip, if not to have fun?”

Julio and Roberto looked at each other. Roberto raised an eyebrow, as if to suggest that it was Julio’s task to mete out discipline.

Julio placed a hand on Drago’s wand and forced the barrel to point at the ground.

“The plan is to have fun, Drago, but that farmer relies on those sheep for his livelihood. Why don’t we make some stationary targets?”

Drago shrugged. “Sure…gotta use something you old guys can still hit.”

Roberto put his loccimetre away and lit a cigarette.

“Fuck you, kid. I was dropping soldiers before you were a twinkle in P…er, your pop’s eye. Worst shot has to buy the wine when we stop for the night.”

“A completely fair wager to the man with one eye,” Julio interjected. “The man who hasn’t shot a wand since he had to switch to his left.”

Roberto pointed to a set of old fenceposts down the hill.

“There. We can set up some stones and wager for best shot. Spook the sheep while we’re at it so you can get your kicks,” he suggested, looking at Drago. “And I know for a fact you didn’t lose your balls in the war, Jules, so quit whining. You were far from the worst wandman in the company.”

Julio grabbed a fist-sized stone and pretended that he was aiming to throw it at Roberto’s head.

“Says he who was second best.”

“Who was the best?” Drago inquired as he lit a cigarette of his own.

“Corporal Bocco,” Julio and Roberto said at the same time. Rocks in hand, they began clambering down the hill to the fenceposts.

“One of only four from our company to survive the war,” Roberto remarked. “Along with us and Largo Mita.”

“Largo’s in jail now, did you hear?” Julio said. He picked his way carefully down the slope, dragging his hook hand along the dirt for balance.

“He’s always in and out of there,” Roberto said. He began placing the rocks upon the fenceposts. “’Liza will never hold him, not while the Noctra can pay for his release.” He put out his cigarette on a post and began backing away from the rocks, one pace at a time. “They have bigger rocks to crack than one picker goon.”

Roberto stood thirty paces from the rocks and held up a thumb.

“What do you think, kid?”

“Too close,” Drago said. “Unless we’re blindfolded.”

Roberto chuckled and stepped back another twenty paces.

“There you go. The enemy is no longer in spitting range. What kind of crystal have you got on that wand, anyway?”

“Brown,” Drago said as he twirled the wand again. “Heavy grade precision stone, Noven officer’s issue. Same kind of crystal they use for the telescoped longwands.”

Roberto whistled.

“Shatters, we sure coulda used some of those in the war. They gave all the browns to us engineers for trenches and fortifications, but I would’ve been sent through the orange on the spot if I’d tried to re-appropriate crystals without a commanding officer’s express say-so. ‘Course, that didn’t stop us from getting Pip to re-align all the damn time by the end of the war. But then we were losing, so the officers were ready to try anything. Learned a lot more about tactics and crystals from our losses than our wins, that’s for godsdamn sure.” He looked at Drago. “Well, highest ranking soldier gets the first shot.”

Drago smirked, levelled the wand and took careful aim. Julio could tell even by the young man’s stance that he was a practiced wandman.

“Trench warfare is a thing of the past,” Drago muttered as he pulled the trigger. With a deafening crack, the first rock exploded into powder. Shooting Roberto a satisfied grin, he handed the wand to him.

Roberto glanced at Drago, then examined the wand. He seemed to be admiring its craftsmanship. Julio leaned in to note that Officer Drago Andari had been carved into the barrel, and that the grip was a custom carved fit designed to fit Drago’s hand. The republic certainly seems to favour its officers, Julio thought.

“Some of us were hoping that warfare in general was a thing of the past,” Roberto replied as he lifted the wand. He seemed to take a while to steady his hand. When he shot, however, his aim was true, and Julio heard shards of the rock scatter into the grass. The nearby sheep made a few noises of alarm and sought out a more placid section of pasture.

“Nice shot, old man,” Drago said. He turned to him. “If warfare is all in the past then why is the republic hiring soldiers instead of more pickers and planters?”

“Because there’s a drought,” Julio replied as Roberto handed him the wand. “Farmers are out of work and pickers are striking. The Rundia Accord nearly took our military away entirely. The fact that they didn’t means that the republic wants to ensure we still have one so that an opportunistic nation doesn’t try to get payback for the Great War, not to mention access to our crystal mines.” Julio took aim. Even at the best of times his hands were shaky, and holding a wand made it no different. In fact, it felt shakier. He could see them up ahead, brutish Parsish soldiers in their winter furs storming the trench, screaming the abyssal screams of those who knew they were about to die.

Julio opened his eyes and lowered the wand. There were no fur-clad soldiers, only woolly sheep grazing in the distance.

“What makes you say trench warfare is in the past?”

“Come on, Master Vellize, you’re the historian,” Drago replied. “You always said that wars were a series of trials and errors when it came to tactics, and the brilliant generals were the ones who challenged the status quo of what no longer worked. Well, what did we learn from the Great War? We had all the best crystal technology, but we dug ourselves into the dirt and played back-and-forth until one side broke. It was all about numbers. Then the Dennish got clever and borrowed non-crystal weapons from the Eastern Empire, which had limited ammunition but fired rapidly. It was incredibly effective in entrenched positions, and especially against massed charges. So when Denlund was freed and we lost the Parsish front, we broke hard.”

“That was Longoro’s fault for fighting on two fronts in the first place,” Roberto argued.

“Sure,” Drago agreed. “He should have taken out Faxon or arranged some kind of treaty with them. But any general worth his rocks these days knows that the future of warfare is in multi-layered assault.”

Julio gazed at Drago, the boy he pretended was his son. The boy he wished was his son. He’d given the lad too little credit; behind Drago’s braggadocio was a keen mind. He must have inherited that from Ramona, Julio told himself.

Roberto raised an eyebrow.

“Explain what you mean by multi-layered assault.” Julio could hear the interest in Roberto’s voice.

“I will,” Drago said, “if you explain to me why we have more crystals than any other nation but we’re still dirt-fucking-poor. Economics was never my colour.”

“Rundia Accord,” Julio offered. “Our currency is undervalued because we have to make reparations for the Great War. Granted, we still need to trade, so we still sell, and the other nations are reaping the profits from cheap crystals. So the republic limits trade, which isn’t helping given the depression, and the Noctra sell illegally and make millions of dinari.”

“You know they’re in bed with the republic,” Roberto added. “On the clear side, it means the Noctra are probably stockpiling crystals somewhere for when this godsdamned depression ends.” He popped a cigarette in his mouth and prodded Drago. “Your turn. Multi-layered assault.”

Drago gave his usual half-cocked grin.

“Uh-uh. Jules hasn’t shot yet. No military secrets until I know I’m talking to soldiers.”

Julio tried to suppress his sigh. Only the draft had made him a soldier. Only a lifetime of duskblossom and whiskey and work had separated him from the war, and even then, when he closed his eyes at night, sometimes he returned to those trenches. He had spent his whole life trying to escape that uniform, but Drago wore it with pride. He wondered what Pietro would think of it.

He raised the wand half-heartedly and glanced at the stone upon the post. His depth perception had never been the same since losing his eye; it was difficult to tell if the barrel was lined up with the stone. He’d spent a lifetime developing his left-handed penmanship, but wandsmanship was a different matter. Julio hated to admit it, but somewhere deep down he wanted to impress the boy. He shut out the distant sound of booming scattershot from his ears and pulled the trigger.

The rock didn’t move, but somehow there was still an explosive noise.

“Oh, fuck,” Drago said. “Nice shot, Jules.”

“So much for not hitting the sheep,” Roberto said with a snicker. Sure enough, one of the beasts had fallen over in the pasture, and a bright red stain spread out from its head in a circular pattern – or, what was left of its head. Cautiously, the three men approached the corpse. All that remained of its skull was a bottom jaw and some bits of bone and brain tissue. Julio began to feel ill. An image flashed in his mind – Pietro’s body twirling, thrown into the air by scattershot, blood spraying in a spiral.

“Hey!” came an irate voice from across the field, “what in Jova’s name are you doing to my sheep?”

The rancher had appeared at the other end of the clearing, brandishing a woodsman’s axe.

“Shit,” Drago said. “Run!”

If it hadn’t been for his lame leg, Julio would have felt nineteen again. They scrambled up the hill to the bikes like they were storming the next rise – full of fear, full of life.

Posted in Crystal Promise | 1 Comment »

Why I Write

April 10, 2014 by JamesFunfer

For myself, of course. If I didn’t enjoy a task I wouldn’t do it (exception: cleaning house).

However, there’s something to be said for the power of the ego-stroke. If nobody tells you how much they enjoy reading your work and that they can’t wait for the next book, it can kill ambition just as surely as a lack of recognition at the office can affect your performance and engagement. For those of us not immune to the opinions of our fans and the general public, I believe that we write for ourselves and for others – fulfillment lies within the balance of delight in the process and the creation of something for others to enjoy. Like a gardener, we enjoy the planting season, but the warm fuzzies come from the family enjoying the fruits (and vegetables) of our labour.

 

 

Friend and fellow writer Carol Anne Shaw (of Hannah series fame) tagged me last week to pen a ‘Why I Write’ post. It’s easy for artists to forget, on occasion, that our process appears fascinating from the outside. I’ll skip the ‘silent anguish of staring at a computer screen’ part and talk about the things I like about writing:

WHAT ARE YOU WORKING ON?

Other than a couple of queries for a short story called The Winter Wife and my science fiction manuscript Chasing Lucifer, I’m currently focused on the sequel to Crystal Promise … which is, at the moment, untitled. We jokingly refer to it at my writing group as Crystal Something. I had a fleeting idea about holding a contest to name the book, but we all know how that goes.

Dub the Dew

Not pictured: “Hitler Did Nothing Wrong”

 

Since I’m not a fan of book II being dubbed “Crystal Meth”, I think I’ll wait until inspiration strikes before naming it.

Getting back on topic, the sequel picks up exactly where Book I of The Shattered Crystal series leaves off – in a steampunk-esque world reminiscent of depression-era Europe, the fallout of a series of arranged marriages has far-flung effects, further driving youths Timori, Crystara, Racquela and Jacoby into pandemonium. They find themselves at the mercy of the political schemes of friends, lovers, lower-caste led parties and a powerful church. The fabric of the nation of Novem, much like its centre of power, the Great Crystal, threatens to shatter. As ancient secrets about the truth of the crystals themselves comes to light, a new power may well come to rise.

HOW DOES YOUR WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?

I’ve always believed in the power of a character-driven story. While there is a fantasy element to The Shattered Crystal series, I was inspired by the historical events of early to mid-twentieth century Europe, as well as the kind of events that transpire in every teenaged romantic relationship. Instead of writing straight-up historical fiction or (so hot right now) urban fantasy YA, I went for a mash-up somewhere in the middle.

I’ve been told by fans that my characters are realistic and easy to relate to, and that the setting doesn’t seem outlandish or contrived. But don’t take my word for it.

WHY DO YOU WRITE WHAT YOU DO?

One could wax philosophical for quite some time about why artists ‘art’, but for writers I believe that we’re often drawn to whichever genre we prefer to read, and our work is peppered liberally with our unique set of interests. I love history, but I also love speculation … a “what-if” version of events is more exciting to me than working strictly through the lens of “what was and what is”. What if WW1 and WW2 had gone differently? What if the earth contained an alternate energy source that had been used since ancient times, pushing back the discovery of oil and electricity? What if you threw a bunch of teenagers into this world and see how they react to it all? Boom. Crystal Promise.

The original manuscript was written for a novel-writing contest (some of you may have heard this tale before…) and there were a few themes that I was very interested in exploring. As writers we tend to put a lot of ourselves into our work in some form or another, and given where I was at the time, the tribulations of young love needed to be examined. I wanted to express how messed up real relationships are – not just passionate, but complex and challenging and sometimes explosive. It’s cathartic, too, writing about what you know – it allows you to look at a familiar theme from an outsider’s perspective.

HOW DOES YOUR WRITING PROCESS WORK?

I think of my writing process as “linear and organic”. To elaborate, I tend to write from beginning to end (very unorthodox, I know), and I work under a fairly loose framework. That is to say, I don’t make a firm decision about major choices the characters are confronted with until the very moment in question. In allowing a character to react ‘organically’ to a situation, they often surprise me. I believe that this, in turn, allows the reader to more often be surprised by these choices as well, and makes for a “true-to-life”, character-driven story.

Up next I’m tagging Wanda S. Paryla, author of Someday Always Comes

…and stay tuned for a sneak preview of the sequel later this week!

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Blah blah blog

December 3, 2013 by JamesFunfer

Hello, all. I’ve been quiet on here lately, mostly because I’m plugging away at the sequel to Crystal Promise. And renovations. And work. And tabletop RPGs. And the new XCOM expansion. I’m still hoping to have a rough first draft finished by the end of 2013, at which point I will have lots of sneak previews to share will you, as well as some other blog ideas that I’ve been kicking around. In the meantime, there are a couple of other things that I wanted to share with you. The first is my aunt and uncle’s blog, Cruise of the Confidence

The Confidence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you like travel blogs, this is your thing. They talk about the journey, but also the unique locations, sights and points of human interest, culture and history along the way. Currently they are in Mexico, and there’s a really great story about a statue posted on the 20th of November.

Second, there are a couple of webcomics I really want to share with the world. The first is Dresden Codak, which was introduced to me by one of the coolest people I know, David Baumgart of Gaslamp Games:

He's bringing sexy back

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He and Megan Seely were also nice enough to make the beautiful cover art for Crystal Promise.

Anyway. The comic has this great thematic blend of art and storytelling. If I do a webcomic or graphic novel someday, I will definitely be citing Aaron Diaz as an influence.

The other one I wanted to talk about is a little bit different. The other one is LARP Trek.

It’s sort of a blend of Star Trek fan-service, tabletop role-playing discourse and picture/caption-based webcomic all rolled into one. This explanation might do a better job than I will: http://larptrek.com/2012/11/25/ensign-set-a-course-for-larp-trek/

Somehow, it works. It’s really funny, and it makes you think. You might have to be a fan of either Star Trek: The Next Generation or tabletop role-playing games to really appreciate it, but if you’re like me and appreciate both, it’s a riot.

So. Just wanted to share some things that I love with you. Back to doing horrible things to characters that I love.

–James Funfer

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Radio Play

April 4, 2013 by JamesFunfer

It was a quiet winter here on the blog, but I’m back. I’ve been typing away at the sequel to Crystal Promise (yes, I’m still juggling alternate titles in my head…unsure about Crystal Empire) and setting up book signings and new consignment venues for the spring/summer.

The most exciting bit of news, however, is that my girlfriend Kim is going to be on the radio this afternoon! Tune in to The Zone 91.3 in Victoria to hear her talk about Crystal Promise, musical influences and being a teacher, and listen very carefully for the subtext of how cool and awesome she is.

I’m also doing a book giveaway for the month of May, so if you’re interested you can sign up on goodreads.com and enter for a chance to win a free signed copy of Crystal Promise here.

I have a book signing scheduled for the 18th of May at Chapters Chinook in Calgary. Stay tuned for information about prizes I’ll be giving away, as well as a special sneak preview reading of Crystal Empire (working title)!

In the meantime, here’s another sneak preview of some of the work I’ve been doing. As you may or may not know, the world of Crystal Promise is loosely based on early 20th-century Europe, but some of the technology is different. Back in the days before television, radio plays were a very popular form of entertainment, and the family would gather around the radio to listen to an episode of The Shadow much in the same way that we get together to catch our favourite HBO and AMC dramas (minus those who download, of course). I’ve been working on some pieces to weave into the narrative of Crystal Empire. Inspired by radio plays, science fiction and WW1 dogfighting, I give you Crystal Captain:

Excerpt from the radio drama ‘Crystal Captain’

Episode 10 – ‘Rescue from Stormspeaker Station’

Narrator: Welcome back for another thrilling episode of ‘Crystal Captain’, the adventures of sky-speaker Captain Corvelius and his daring crew of skyship fliers. I’m your host with the most, Marius Ghost, here to bring you the next hair-raising, mind-shattering chapter.

Narrator: Episode Ten – ‘Rescue from Sky Station Alpha’. Tension condenses in the skies above the downtrodden nation of Neonovus. An uneasy ceasefire has been called between Neonovus and the Alliance of Kingdoms, but as the prime minister of Neonovus negotiates with the power-hungry kings for a lasting peace, many mercenary fliers have turned pirate and joined with the most nefarious pirate of them all – Captain Belzegor!

Narrator: Captain Corvelius, eager to keep his brigade’s skills shiny and protect the innocent from piracy, led a daring raid against Captain Belzegor’s hideout, the infamous Stormspeaker Station. However, a trap had been set for the First Sky Brigade, and Alliance fliers, disguised as pirates, assisted the roguish Belzegor. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, our hero and his friends fought bravely, but just as the good captain radioed to retreat and regroup, his skycraft was hit by scattershot. The last his brigade saw of him, he and his wrecked ship were hurtling toward the dock of Belzegor’s nimbus-fortress.

Narrator: Our scene opens in a stone jail cell with no windows. The bars are cold skyiron, harder than any steel we know of today. When we last left our hero, the dashing, handsome and capable Captain Caius Corvelius of the First Sky Brigade, he had been taken prisoner by the nefarious leader of the Storm Pirates, Captain Belzegor.

Corvelius: Urgh…these bars…stuck tight. No way out. Curse you, Belzegor! You’ll pay for this. All I can do now is wait and trust that my men will come and rescue me. But wait…the lock. It appears to be supercrystal. I’ll just get my amulet, and…

(Cue dramatic music)

Corvelius: Shards! My father’s amulet! It’s gone!

(Cue Belzegor’s theme. Sound of marching feet.)

Corvelius: Belzegor. You fiend!

Belzegor: Fiend? My dear captain, you were defeated, true as Tybal. There is no cause to throw insults, though I can certainly understand your shame, ha-ha-ha! How it must shatter you, to know that your proud airship was scattershot down by the very man who slew your father.

(Cue dramatic music)

Corvelius: Spare me your lies, pirate. Commander Cassius, my father, is on a mission of secrecy for the republic. And speaking of my father, what have you done with his crystal amulet, you dirty thief?

(Sound of a heavy metal chain)

Belzegor: Oh, you mean this amulet? I think it is becoming on me, don’t you, captain? You poor wretch. It seems as though there is nothing that I cannot take away from you. Your skycraft, your father, your family heirloom which is the secret to your power…

Corvelius: I tell you my father is alive!

Belzegor: Oh, but I just love being the bearer of bad news. I know all about the commander’s secret rendezvous with the king of Moonpeak Mountain. But I’m afraid he may have been…waylaid. Ah-ha! Ha-ha-ha-haaaa…

Corvelius: You lie!

Belzegor: Do I, captain? Then tell me, why would I have…this?

(Cue dramatic music)

Corvelius: But…it cannot be! My mother’s ring, companion to the amulet. Where did you get that?

Belzegor: Where else but from your father’s cold finger. Mua-ha-ha-haaaa…

(Cue dramatic music)

Corvelius: Nooooooo! It cannot be!

Belzegor: Well, I have gloated enough. There is plenty enough for me to do…hunt down your sky brigade to the last man, use the power of the amulet and the ring together to control the kingdoms and destroy your petty republic once and for all, that kind of thing. After that perhaps I’ll conquer the stars, who knows? Goodbye, captain. I’d let you join your mother and father in the abyss, but it’s so much better to watch you suffer. Ah-ha! Ha-ha-ha-haaaa…

(Sound of footsteps)

Corvelius: Jova curse you! Father…can it be true? I cannot believe that Belzegor would ever best you in a sky-tilt, but sure enough, there was the ring. I have failed you, father. The sky-amulet and earth-ring were bequeathed to mother and father so that lesser hearts would not be tempted by their power…and now they have both fallen into the hands of the worst kind of power-monger. But how did he ever discover father’s mission?

A woman’s voice: Are you going to talk to yourself all day? Some of us are trying to rot away in peace and quiet.

Corvelius: Who said that?

A woman’s voice: You’re brave, captain, but not too bright and clear, are you? I’m in the next cell over. My name’s Marquela.

Corvelius: Well, my lady Marquela, at least I’ll have some company while I wait for a rescue from the First Sky Brigade.

Marquela: You’re going to wait for a rescue? But Belzegor is surely setting a trap for any fliers who approach the station.

Corvelius: We already fell into a trap. They will not hesitate to rescue their captain.

Marquela: Well some of us can’t wait that long. Don’t you have a hidden crystal somewhere that can open the lock?

Corvelius: I did. It shattered when I used it to replace the seventh sky seal of Samalus.

Marquela: I heard once that you have a crystal button on your coat.

Corvelius: Ah, yes. I used it to defeat a moon-beast last year.

Marquela: And?

Corvelius: The beast swallowed it.

Marquela: I see. Well, I suppose I’ll have to do everything, then. If I toss something in front of your cell, can you reach through the bars and get it?

Corvelius: Yes, I believe so. What is it?

(Sound of a crystal falling on the ground)

Marquela: This.

Corvelius: A crystal earring? Why didn’t you say so?

Marquela: I just did, captain. Try not to shatter it; it was a gift.

Corvelius: Such a gift! Who are you, my lady, to receive such adornment?

Marquela: Can we just worry about escaping first? Gods, captain, less talking and more speaking.

Corvelius: Just a moment, my lady. And…there!

(Sound of rusty hinges)

Corvelius: And now, your cell.

(Sound of rusty hinges)

Corvelius: You are free!

Marquela: Please, announce it to the entire station.

Corvelius: My lady, some gratitude may be in order.

Marquela: Yes, you are very brave, captain. Those crystal locks didn’t stand a chance.

Corvelius: They were supercrystal, I’ll have you know.

Marquela: Ah, a mighty foe, then, for the captain of the First Sky Brigade. My earring, if you please.

Corvelius: My lady, I still have need of it. Otherwise we are defenceless.

Marquela: (Sigh) Lead on, then, captain.

Corvelius: I was unconscious when I was brought here. Do you know the way out?

Marquela: I suppose I must do everything. Follow me.

Narrator: And so, our hero and the saucy but beautiful prisoner Marquela traversed the cold, damp dungeon of Belzegor’s sky fortress. Dear listeners, let us pray that the captain’s wits hold out longer than his luck, for he is armed with only a tiny crystal from an earring…

Marquela: Look out! Guards!

Corvelius: Ignatio!

(Crystal sound effect. Sound of fire. Guards screaming.)

Corvelius: Quickly, now. I think they may be alerted to our presence.

Marquela: Unless screaming in agony is commonplace here. Take this wand and I’ll take the other. I think this is the dock. Where is your ship, captain?

Corvelius: Grievously damaged, my lady.

Marquela: We must take one of their ships, then.

Corvelius: What? Steal a ship? Why, I’d be no better than they are!

Marquela: You fliers and your honour. We don’t have much choice, captain.

Corvelius: But I…look out!

(Sound of explosions)

Marquela: Look! Fliers! They’re firing at the dock!

Corvelius: My lady! Take cover here!

(Sound of explosions)

Corvelius: It is my brigade. Come, we must join the fight. The pirates are taking to the skies.

Marquela: But if you take one of their ships, your brigade will fire upon you, thinking you to be a pirate.

Corvelius: We cannot remain here, the dock is ablaze!

(Cue Belzegor’s theme)

Belzegor: Not so fast, captain!

Corvelius: Quickly, Marquela. Into the flier, go! I shall hold him off.

Marquela: But…

Corvelius: Go!

Narrator: As Marquela climbs into a ship, Captain Corvelius holds a tiny crystal in his hand, preparing to face off with his nemesis, who now wields the greatest power on earth and in the sky! Can Marquela survive against the First Sky Brigade? Will Corvelius avenge his father’s murder? Tune in next Joveday, same time, for the next thrilling chapter of Crystal Captain! I’m your host with the most, Marius Ghost, bidding you a pleasant evening, listeners…

(Cue Crystal Captain theme)

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jknfiEBZdRw

Posted in Crystal Promise, News | Leave a Comment »

Songs I Never Get Tired Of #1

October 29, 2012 by JamesFunfer

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q9hLcRU5wE4

Bat out of Hell

By: Meat Loaf

Well, this will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but to those who don’t…I’ll try not to spend this entire post defending Meat Loaf and Jim Steinman.

A Rocky Bromance: the early years

The tale of my love of all things Steinman began around 1989. I grew up in Alberta, but my mother’s side of the family lived mostly on Vancouver Island. In the summertime, we would take the Plymouth Voyager over the mountains to visit relatives. We only had a limited selection of cassette tapes, and for some reason avoided the radio (likely because on a long road trip, the stations would change frequently). Most of our choices were ‘Golden Greats’ tapes of ’50s and ’60s hits, a couple of ‘kid-friendly’ Disney tapes, and a cassette that had Hooked on Classics on one side and Jive Bunny on the other. However, there was one album we would all sing along to and never got sick of hearing. To cement the concept that Meat Loaf was a big influence upon my musical tastes, consider: at one point my family owned the Bat out of Hell album in three different formats: vinyl, cassette tape and CD.

The album opens with the ‘title song’, to a blaze of wailing Todd Rundgren licks, Wagnerian piano chords and free-flying tom-and-crash drums. I really don’t need to describe the song itself in full if you click on the YouTube link…but the impression I always get from that intro is summed up in a word that could describe a great deal of my musical favourites: epic. I find that word gets overused in the vernacular, but in this case it’s appropriate. Jim Steinman wrote epic music. Just look at his work with Bonnie Tyler or Pandora’s Box.

Now, one could argue that Steinman doesn’t write lyrics that carry the same amount of depth as some other artists, and I might be inclined to agree. That isn’t the point of this kind of music. Bat out of Hell (my interpretation) is a simple tale of a young bad-boy who loves a girl but needs to escape the deathtrap of Los Angeles, but during his pre-dawn motorcycle escape, he can’t get the girl out of his mind and crashes and burns. Or maybe it’s about a one-night stand where a guy convinces a girl to sleep with him (or is that more of a Paradise by the Dashboard Light thing?). The point is that the music can be grandiose in scale, but still carry a simple story that many can relate to (although admittedly with Meat Loaf, I imagine that men relate to it better than women…)

What makes this song my ‘Number One’ when there are so many soul-touching, world-changing, genre-bending songs out there? Familiarity, and a delight in the simple things. It’s a song that I will never get tired of, and I’ve heard it hundreds of times. I always hunger for new music, but there’s joy to be found in nostalgia. And hey, (yes I just started a sentence with a conjunction; deal with it) 43 million copies worldwide says something.  This contemporary review (yeah I pulled it from a Wikipedia footnote, deal with it again) says it best: “It may elevate adolescent passion to operatic dimensions, and that’s certainly silly, but it’s hard not to marvel at the skill behind this grandly silly, irresistible album.” Actually, the wiki article is really interesting if you have a moment.

Just like the world’s slow-boil reception to the album, my love for Bat out of Hell grows stronger as time goes on.

Posted in Music | Tagged | Leave a Comment »

Short Stories and Long Contests

October 23, 2012 by JamesFunfer

Well, I didn’t expect to be returning to Calgary so soon, but I was invited for another book signing at the CrossIron Mills Indigo for their Christmas kickoff. The staff there are fantastic to work with; I’m really excited to be returning! Barring any major changes, the book signing will be on November 16th from 6:30 – 9:30 P.M.


View Larger Map – in case you’re wondering where it is. Google Maps got it right this time instead of telling me that the store was smack dab in the middle of Airdrie.

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, for those of you who think I’m having keyboard problems) is starting up right after Halloween, and I’d highly recommend it to anyone who has ever considered writing a novel but isn’t sure how to begin. Personally I had more success writing a big chunk of words on a manuscript in the month of January with the now-defunct (but still all great friends!) community of Vicious Writers, but the process is the exact same. NaNoWriMo is really big now, drawing hundreds of thousands of novelist-hopefuls across the world, and they have a big community of support (and a great website, to boot!). It’s kind of like the slogan from Ratatouille:

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JPOoFkrh94&feature=related

‘Anyone can cook’. Or, in this case, anyone can write. The point of NaNoWriMo isn’t to create a masterpiece in a month – the idea is to develop the habit of producing regular work. It could take you places. Crystal Promise started out as a fifty-thousand word manuscript for a novel-writing contest.

Speaking of writing contests, my good friend Jessica reminded me about CBC’s short story competition. The deadline is November 1st, so you still have a week to submit something! There’s a $6000 grand prize (including publication) if that’s any incentive. Plus, 1500 words is a lot less daunting than 50,000, I’d say.

Switching gears, I received my very first fan-art a while back, and I’m excited to share it with everyone. It might not seem like a big deal to some people, but for an ‘indie’ author, it’s quite the ego-boost. This is Racquela and Timori, drawn by the talented Amanda Myers:

A cute couple

Posted in NaNoWriMo, News, Writing | Leave a Comment »

Consignment, Career & A Preview

September 29, 2012 by JamesFunfer

I hide behind my words

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, the journey to Calgary, Alberta is over and done, and I’m back home on Vancouver Island. My book signings at Indigo and Chapters were very successful, and I’m grateful for the assistance I received from good friends and the amazing staff at both locations.

You may be wondering…what now? Will it be a quiet year or two until the sequel is ready?

Currently I’m working on some consignment options here on the island, as well as expanding online interest in Crystal Promise. The Funferblog will still be active as I plug away at the sequel, and I’m still mulling over what to do with Chasing Lucifer.

It’s a long road, working on becoming a career author.

I was going to write a long-winded essay about the importance of characters & motivation with regards to plot, but it kept coming out sounding like a rant, so instead I’m just going to give you a fun preview of what I’ve been working on: an excerpt from The Shattered Crystal, Book II: Crystal Empire (working title)

***

It was no bigger than his hand, but at that moment it was Boy’s entire world. Its legs were proud and straight, knees together. Its body was smooth and well-worn, but it held a resolute grip on the tiny black longwand in its hands, brought to shoulder level and ready to dispatch any threat. The paint had worn off most of its face, leaving a pair of black eyes that spoke of grim determination, of old battles hard-won.

Its uniform was an old one – not the blood-red of the imperial soldiers or the dull grey of the new republican army, but a sun-faded New Kingdom blue. Boy didn’t know anything about uniforms or Noven politics, but he spotted a tiny painted medal on the tin soldier’s left breast, and he knew that he was holding a man of exceptional courage.

The tin soldier marched across the warped wooden floor, to a drum beat that nobody else could hear. He was drilling, preparing for battle. Boy decided that the soldier’s name was Leo. Leo meant lion, Bruno had told him once, and lions were brave.

He could feel the eyes of the other children watching him as he played with Leo. They were talking about him in a gaggle of voices, but he kept his eyes on the tin soldier marching across the floor. He didn’t want to look at them, because then they might come over. Boy wanted to play by himself.

Leo was shooting at imaginary soldiers coming up over the crest of the bump in the floor. In Boy’s mind they had green-and-mustard uniforms and funny metal helmets, and they yelled threats in a strange gibberish language. Leo remained undaunted. He stood his ground and aimed carefully, shooting them down as they came.

“Oh no, there’s more of them.” Boy had to speak for Leo because Leo didn’t have a mouth. “Better use my crystal grenade. Boom!”

“Hi, soldier,” a girl said. Boy froze. Standing beside Leo was a cloth doll covered in dirt smudges, wearing a red summer dress. Most of her hair had fallen out, and the stitching was loose on one foot, letting a bit of puffy cotton stuffing poke through.

Leo didn’t speak, so he had nothing to say to the doll. He continued shooting at the oncoming soldiers.

“Quick, let’s escape to my house,” the girl said as she made the doll prod Leo with a filthy, fingerless hand. “You can protect me with your gun.”

Leo backed up. He didn’t talk to girls. He didn’t talk to anybody. Boy shied away and pressed his back to the wall. Bad things happened when he spoke to girls.

“Are you going to live here?” the girl asked. Boy bit his lip and chanced a glance at her.

Her round, rosy-cheeked face was dirty and she wore a ratty old patchwork dress. She looked remarkably like her doll, except that she had hair – lots of it. The dark curls were almost down to her waist. Boy stared at her wordlessly. Leo took a bold step forward on the floor and bowed to the doll.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Leo,” he said. He didn’t want to admit that everybody just called him ‘Boy’.

The girl’s eyes widened suddenly. “Drop the toy,” she said.

Boy frowned and tightened his grip on Leo. She wasn’t interested in him; she just wanted to steal Leo away.

“Drop it now,” she urged. “Bernardo is coming.” A shadow passed over Boy and he turned his head to see a taller, older boy staring down at him.

“That’s my toy soldier,” the other boy said as he pointed with a fleshy finger. Boy clutched Leo to his chest protectively. He’d never owned a real toy before. He looked to the girl for support but she was staring at her shoes.

“Give it back,” the taller boy insisted. He clutched at Boy’s wrist and tugged. Although Boy was not as big as the other child, he kept a firm grip on Leo. Boy shut his eyes tightly and an angry moan escaped from his lips as fat fingers dug deep into his wrist. With his other hand, Bernardo tried to pry open Boy’s fingers.

“No, it’s mine!” Boy screamed. The tug-of-war continued.

“Stop it, Bernardo!” The girl had to shout to be heard over Boy’s screaming. “If Matilda hears, we’ll all get a beating.”

Bernardo wasn’t convinced. Instead he turned his attention to the girl and sent the back of his fist across her face. She fell to the floor and wailed.

Leo had to protect her. Instead of pulling away, he suddenly lurched forward. Bernardo was caught off-balance and lost his grip as he fell. Boy landed on top of him. Clutching the tin soldier like a weapon, he bludgeoned Bernardo in the face. Bernardo punched Boy in the mouth, but he barely even felt it. All around him, children were screaming, crying or staring – in his peripheral vision he could see them all, an audience to Leo’s righteousness. A good soldier protected the weak.

Posted in Chasing Lucifer, News, Writing | Tagged | Leave a Comment »

Songs I Never Get Tired Of #2

August 31, 2012 by JamesFunfer

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VF0BlXP-0Y

Ghost Love Score

By: Nightwish

What’s better than heavy metal power chords, double bass drum pedals and wailing flanged guitar solos? Add a classically trained lyric soprano, a brilliant composer who often uses full orchestration and a bass player/lead guitarist bromance. Call it ‘Opera Metal’ and watch bands all across Europe and America follow suit, leaving behind guttural screeching for something much more melodic, powerful and epic that probably started with Iron Maiden.

Nightwish, the Tarja years

A lot of people tell me that they don’t like heavy metal music. To them I say this: have a listen to any of these albums, and then tell me that you still feel the same way. This isn’t your dad’s heavy metal (Black Sabbath, etc.) … having followed them for years and seen them live (with new singer Anette Olzon), I can tell you that you’re going to see and hear something more akin to an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical than the kind of thing that makes Christian right-wingers hurl accusations of satanism.

I could talk about their fantasy novel-inspired lyrics, or the internal drama that led to the split with the incredibly talented Tarja Turunen, or their ultra happy and energetic stage presence (yeah happy isn’t a typical heavy metal trait either – they really are trail-blazers) but let me boil it down for you: you know the part in action movies where there’s epic ‘modern classical’ music with operatic chanting and it sends shivers up your spine as the hero engages in a climactic battle scene? That’s what it feels like every time I listen to Nightwish.

Ghost Love Score still makes me feel that way. I listen the whole ten minutes through every time it’s on my playlist – and it’s the most-played song on my iPod. It can instantly summon an epic movie montage into my imagination.

I might not wear a heavy black trench coat in the middle of a blazing summer anymore like I did in my high school years, but I still have a little bit of an inner goth deep down somewhere…and he loves the simplicity and thrill of electric guitars and orchestration (kind of like this), epic stories of angels and demons, elves and dragons, and something that is just a little unabashedly unapologetic and over-the-top.

So give Nightwish a listen, and see if you get a chill up your spine.

Open your miiiiind

Posted in Music | Tagged | Leave a Comment »

Islands in the Grass

August 28, 2012 by JamesFunfer

I see glimpses of what I’m running from

In rows of houses all shaped the same

Stretching further every year

Trying to catch up with me

 

Fences in between

Say ‘stay out of my Eden’

Islands in the fresh-mowed grass

Nations of white collars

 

I pass a youth with sullen eyes and a lip ring

He is embarrassed by the man with the toe shoes

Embarrassed to be seen with his parents

He walks apart from them, feigning isolation

 

I feel his jealous gaze as I dash past

A boy who yearns to break free

As I have

Tearing away from the endless avenues of 2.5 storeys and 2.5 children

 

Freedom is the hill on the edge of town

A stack of topsoil, the kind made for bikes and sleds

The kind that summons nostalgia

The kind that will soon be swallowed by a themed community

 

It is a place where I can survey the town that I escaped from

And look to the beckoning mountains beyond

Where houses don’t grow like weeds

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Prairie Autumn

August 24, 2012 by JamesFunfer

           

            Autumn arrives early on the Canadian prairies. I can feel it on the wind, like the scent of cool foothills air that summons me back to bicycle races through hills of dirt that will one day become new housing developments. For the moment, the mounds of top-soil are perfectly suited to my black-and-yellow BMX. That dirt isn’t there for lots, it’s there for an aggressive tire tread, spokes spinning as I jump off the precipice and imagine, just for a moment, that summers such as these will never end.

I can see it in the sprawl, department stores rising up from the earth to swallow the farms where cows and prairie dogs once roamed. The sight summons me back to school supply shopping, packages of pencils like minds waiting to be filed down and sharpened, binders as empty as a promise to apply myself. There is an autumn of promise to a city, and a chill rises in my spine when I see the rise of franchise and enterprise. There is nothing nefarious to the changing of a season, but there is something sad.

I can smell it in the air, the warning scent of winter to come like the snows that tumble in September here, like the winter coats stuffed underneath Halloween costumes to make us comically puffy versions of ninjas and ghosts and princesses, like the golden pathways that crunch underfoot, once barren, soon to be a packed down white-and-mud mixture. This ominous, chilly scent is a push, reminding me as I search for a coat that I haven’t worn in months why I left this place of May snowstorms and August hail, of frozen Octobers and brown Christmases and springs that never happened, cold giving way to a baking summer heat with no segue in between.

Uncertainty, that was the push, I remember it now. This unpredictable, mutable landscape drove me away like a tempestuous lover. If there is a soul to a place, if there is meaning to be found in that confluence of memory and scent, season and intent, then perhaps I learned the truth and that is why I fled. It’s that feeling of sadness when a cloud passes over the sun during a picnic. It’s having nowhere to run for shelter when those fierce winds tug at your jacket.

It’s an infrequent but familiar scent summoning a picture to mind – a time and a place long gone. Those bicycle summers and toboggan winters are in the realm of memory, and like pencils ground down to stubs, they offer me nothing that I need. Perhaps the landscape has shaped the sprawl and not the other way around – in a land of washed-out colours and oft-bitter weather we shelter ourselves with the trappings of society, the surroundings of civilization, the changeless buildings of material comfort.

Or maybe we see what we want to see, feel what we want to feel. All I know is that the chilly breeze of a late August storm on the prairie no longer smells like Home.

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Book Signings and Tales of the Crystal Speakers

August 17, 2012 by JamesFunfer

Well, things have certainly been picking up since the release of Crystal Promise. I did a book signing disguised as a barbecue, and sold more copies than expected. I ran out, actually, which just means that I needed to order more copies. Nothing wrong with that. Here are some delightful pictures of what I’ve been up to:

In other exciting news, my first public book signing is this Sunday! Here’s the facebook page for the event. The signing will be at Indigo in CrossIron Mills mall, Balzac, Alberta. I will be signing from 12-5 P.M. Check out the sweet poster I’ll be using:

That’s Author with a capital ‘A’

I’ve also been promising some work that ties into the setting of Crystal Promise. Now bear with me, because this is a very different style of writing from the novel itself…but you might just get a glimpse at some familiar characters, for those of you who have read/are reading the novel. In a perfect world, I’ll be updating Tales of the Crystal Speakers once a week. Here’s the first installment. Feedback would be greatly appreciated, as I haven’t written anything quite like this before.

***

                Jules,

                I finally tracked it down. Mother had it hidden away in the attic with the rest of my childhood literature, behind some really awful paintings done by one of Father’s old friends. This is the one I was telling you about! I used to stay up all night fantasizing of becoming a heroic speaker, riding into battle brandishing a crystal sword. The dreams we dream as children die hard, don’t they? I must have convinced myself to continue working with crystals even after I conceded that I had absolutely no gift for speaking.

                I thought that you might enjoy the book for an entirely different reason. It’s a collection of Noven legends, some going back further than the First Empire. What may fascinate you is that the legends often reflect the cultural attitudes of the time in which they were written. You would know better than I, but I’m certain that some of the earlier legends were penned by later authors – I don’t think there were chevaliers in the First Empire, but one writer seems to believe otherwise. Your old academy colleagues likely know the specific legends that I’m talking about. I know ancient history isn’t your area of expertise, but you’ll thank me when you’ve read the stories. They are, in truth, a study of Noven culture.

                The other part that I find really fascinating, and I’m certain you’ll notice this as you go through these stories, is that the attitudes toward alien cultures change drastically between legends, and over time. Do you suppose it’s a reflection of the prevailing social attitudes of the period, or more of an indication of the author’s beliefs? I know a lot more about resonance than I do about race and religion, so I’m hoping you can provide some insight into this little piece of Noven curiosity that I grew up with.

                In other words, we are going to have a long chat over cigarettes and wine after you’ve read the book. And please don’t try to return it – this would make a great addition to your collection. Happy birthday, Julio.

                Your brother-in-arms,

                Roberto

Tales of the Crystal Speakers

Maker, Seer, Reader, Feeler, Speaker

Written by Ammar bin Tammuram

Translated by Doctor Giorgio Perglioni

Praise be to God, the Just and Almighty, and blessings to His servant Jova the Father of Novem.

It is recorded in the histories of times past that once, in the olden and bygone days of the Noven Empire, five heroes set out from Captus Nove one morning, riding north. The good, wise and faithful Emperor Jovus, first of his name and blessed of Jova, chosen by the Almighty God, beloved of all his people, had commissioned the heroes to be sent forth on a mission of peace. For one day Jova the god of Novem sent a message to his people through his magical crystal. War was written in the stars, and Almighty God saw this, and so he told this to his servant Jova. And so it was that the good keeper of the crystal, consulting with Jova, advised the emperor that dissent was stirring in the far corners of Titania. Thus did Emperor Jovus gather together the five most powerful heroes of the Empire – Sundus, Arai, Horu, Bel’Yama and Muda.

When they did set out from that great city, riding in the front was Sundus, astride a swift stallion as golden as the sun of the desert. Tall and strong was he, with a mane of dark curls about his handsome warrior’s face. Now Sundus was a native to Captus Nove, having been born in the heart of the empire to a father who was also a powerful warrior, and all his brothers were warriors also. It was well known in that city and all the empire that he was the greatest of military commanders. Countless were his victories against the barbarians and infidels who would spread lies and filth against Almighty God, and legendary was his skill with his hands. It was said that such was the faith of Sundus that he could but touch the earth and it would shape itself to his whims. In this way did he once save a besieged town from barbarians by commanding the very ground to build for him a high wall with turrets. Another time, Sundus commanded a tree spirit to create for him a bow and arrows, and with them he hunted down, to the man, a group of bandits who had stolen a merchant’s gold.

But the greatest of Sundus’ weapons was his sword. It was shaped of the purest crystal, cut from a sliver of the Great Crystal itself. It was a mighty gift from Jova, bequeathed unto Sundus for his enduring faith, and for slaying the ten thousand demons that once lived on the Island of Fiends south of Novem. The sword burned bright with the holy fire of Almighty God, and could cut through the armour of any man.

The next person behind Sundus was Arai, riding a mare as white as the stars. It was said among men that Arai was the most beautiful of all God’s creations, more lovely even than the fabled Princess Alayisha from the enchanted Teardrop Kingdom. However it was also true that no man had ever looked upon Arai’s face, thus it was not known if she was truly the most beautiful. She was garbed all in white, and one could see only her dark and mysterious eyes. A soothsayer from beyond the Southron Sea, Arai was a priestess in service to Almighty God and sworn to chastity. As she had been selected from birth because of a prophecy, never had she removed her veil in all her life, except to bathe when she was alone, and thus it was that only Almighty God had ever looked upon her face.

When Arai was young and serving in the Temple of Virgins, it happened that she had a dream. And in the dream Almighty God came to her and told her that her destiny was to serve the Emperor of Novem, who was a good and wise man, and that if she served him well one day his empire would submit to the glory of Almighty God and thus be spared the fate that befalls all heathens. Thus did Arai travel across the sea from the Eye of the World and become Emperor Jovus’ greatest diplomat. Many a time did she advise the emperor of the future through her dreams that were sent by Almighty God, and sometimes the lesser gods as well.

Riding after Arai came Horu, who was atop a mighty roan warhorse. Horu was wild and terrible to behold, for he was Parsi, and he came from the furthest northern reaches of the mighty Noven Empire. Hair covered his body, shaggy and red, and his face was ruddy, with a jutting jaw that held sharp teeth like a beast. Horu frightened men, for he had the strength of ten of them, and he never spoke, for it is known that Almighty God cursed the Parsi for refusing to recant their worship of beast gods.

Now Horu had once been a hunter, but one day when he was chasing a deer in the forest he heard the Voice of God speaking to him, and he was afraid. Almighty God beckoned for Horu to enter a nearby cave, and there did He appear to Horu. Then He told Horu that only by serving Him could he enter Paradise, for if he remained a simple hunter, away from the sight of God, he was doomed to live but once, and his body and soul would return to the forest. Horu could not reply, for the Parsi had been cursed, but God knew the hearts and minds of all men and so he gave the gift of knowing minds to Horu.

And so Horu travelled across the forests and hills until he came to Captus Nove, and he bowed before the emperor. The emperor’s guards wanted Horu slain, for he was filthy and barbaric, and could not honour the emperor by answering questions that were set to him. And when the emperor said ‘why have you come before me?’, Horu merely bowed lower, trusting in Almighty God to deliver him and show the emperor that he had come to serve. But when Horu still did not reply, for neither could he write words, the emperor ordered him slain. But Horu was mighty, and he knew the thoughts of each man who attacked him, and so he knew how to defeat them. And when all the guards were dead, he stood again before the emperor. And when the emperor saw that Horu would not kill him too, he bid Horu rise and said ‘now you shall be my guard, for you seemed to know how to stop any man from killing you, and so you shall know how to stop any man from killing me’. And so for many years Horu served as Emperor Jovus’ bodyguard, warning the good ruler of treachery, and dispatching any threats with arrows shot using his eyes as keen as an eagle’s, or with a good spear thrust using his arms as strong as a bear’s. And no assassin came close to dispatching the emperor in all that time.

Next behind Horu came Bel’Yama, and she was descended from the magical fairy folk who lived on the Isle of Fae which was far away and outside the empire. But she had felt in her heart one day that she must serve Almighty God, for although the fairies are descended from demons, they too were once angelic beings created by Almighty God, and God in His wisdom and mercy decided that Bel’Yama deserved to be forgiven for the fall of the angels and so He softened her fiendish heart, and gave her the gift of feeling all men’s hearts. And so it was that she could do no wrong, for in feeling all men’s hearts, she could feel in her own heart Almighty God’s plan.

Bel’Yama rode a grey mare, and her hair was the colour of a field of wheat, and her eyes were as pure and deep blue as a mountain river. She dressed in the colourful swirling fabric of the fairies. She carried no weapons, for so big was her heart that she could do no harm to any living thing, not even a field mouse. But no man would lay harm to her, for she was so beautiful and looked so innocent that men would lay down their very swords before her. But although the fairies are known for bewitching and seducing men, Bel’Yama did no such thing, for she felt deep within that one day she would find true love.

Last of all the heroes was Muda, the Dortian warlock, and he rode a lithe and ill-tempered stallion as black as the night. Muda wore a heavy, dark cloak and his hair was white as bone. Upon his hands were many rings, all of which held crystals, for Muda had the ability to speak to a crystal and bind it to his will. Although there were many speakers in Novem at that time, Muda was the greatest of all of them, for he could command many crystals at once, and make them do most anything that he desired. And no matter where he was in the world, he could speak through the Great Crystal, and thus he was always in contact with the keeper and the emperor.

It is well-known that the Dortians are thieves and liars and whores and demon-worshippers and infidels, and although Muda served the emperor, he was also still a Dortian, and in his heart there was much darkness, for he was not in the sight of Almighty God, or even any of the lesser gods of Novem. And Horu knew that Muda’s mind was filled with thoughts of glory for himself, and Bel’Yama knew that Muda’s heart was filled with hate, and Sundus knew that Dortians were not to be trusted. Arai’s dreams of Muda were disturbing and confusing, and she could not make sense of them, but she knew that one day it would become clear, and that one day Muda would be an enemy. But she knew also that until that day he would be needed as an ally.

And so he rode with them, going north.

At length the heroes came upon the mighty river that had once divided Novem from the rest of Titania, before the days of the empire. Arai looked and saw that the bridge across had been destroyed, and she pointed this out to Sundus.

“Who could have done this?” Sundus wondered.

“It is as I have foreseen, and as I feared,” said Arai. “Already our enemies move against us.”

“We must act swiftly,” Sundus decided, for he was the leader.

“But what shall we do?” asked Mudi.

“And where shall we go?” wondered Bel’Yama.

“And how shall we cross this river?” inquired Arai.

“Worry not about the river,” said Sundus, and he dismounted his horse and touched the earth, and a great bridge of stone came forth to span the rushing water. “And we shall not know what is to be done until we know where it is that we shall go. It may be peace or it may be war. We may need stealth or we may need force or we may need magic. Almighty God in His wisdom will guide us when the time comes. It may be that we will need all of these things, and courage and faith, too.”

“We know not even who our enemies may be,” added Arai. “For we have only a portent of the future.”

“And we must first know the hearts of our enemies, to know why they have become evil,” said Bel’Yama. “And so too must we know their minds, to know what their plan will be,” she added, speaking for Horu.

“We should strike now,” suggested Muda, “and destroy our enemies’ plans before they go to seed.”

“No,” said Sundus. “For we do not know which corners of the empire harbour treason and which do not.”

“Then we should travel to all the corners, and speak with their leaders,” said Bel’Yama, “and see what is in their hearts and minds.”

“And urge them to peace,” said Arai. “For surely they will see that Almighty God will smite them down should they choose to oppose Novem.”

And Sundus saw wisdom in Arai’s words, for the priestesses of the Eye are more pure than any others in the world, which makes them the closest to God, and thus the wisest of all.

And so they crossed the bridge together, and through the forests and over the mountains and into the land of Nilan, which was a land faithful to Almighty God. But the heroes did not know that there would still be dangers awaiting them there.

Master Vellize’s Notes – from chat with Doctor De’Morci at Captus Nove Academy

To discuss with Rob

-Text is heavily religious, assumes Noven gods as ‘lesser’ than Mosind god. Typical of the occupation period, but suggests Mosind tolerance for outside religions. Certainly can see a hierarchy of cultures – Mosind above Noven, Novens more respected than Parsi, Dortians seen as no good, as usual.

-Reflects typical attitudes of the time, but view of First Empire wildly inaccurate. Parsi territories were never fully conquered; most emperors didn’t want to waste resources on a war over land that they viewed as worthless (agriculturally). Reference to ‘fairies’ normal, but most experts agree ‘fae’ more of a reference to Faxon. However, Faxon also never conquered by empire.

-Many other legends refer to readers, which we assume today to be either a myth or a lost art. However this seems to be the only one that links them to the Parsi. Difficult to track down veracity, as Parsi remaining on Titania have little ties to their old culture (and most unwilling to share such things with scholars).

-Seers also either lost art or complete legend, although many historical figures across cultures claimed to have portents of future. Queen Celesta famous Noven example.

-Only legend in existence which refers to a ‘Maker’. Perhaps a reflection of Noven feats of engineering in First Empire? Must discuss with Rob.

-Text written in original Mosi much more poetic, similar to Sand Tales. However, verses difficult to translate and preserve both meaning of text and flow/rhythm/rhyme. Only one modern Noven scholar ever made the attempt, working off of reunification translation. Master Alaric Di’Passi. His translation removed most references of Mosind god. Dr. De’Morci offered an excerpt of said translation Rob might find interesting:

 

Sundus in the lead did ride

Stallion yellow as the sun

Blade of crystal at his side

Noven army’s chosen one

 

Long of limb and wide of arm

Warrior’s brother, warrior’s son

Shielding Novem from all harm

Countless battles, always won

 

Heathens trembled before he

Those opposing Jova’s throne

Sundus’ faith, legendary-

Power to shape wood or stone

 

Greatest hero in the land

Saving towns from heathen’s blades

Walls he built, with just his hands

Gift from god to whom he prayed

 

-Might be interesting to Rob that one of the greatest Noven generals, Leridus, rose up from the ranks of the warrior caste and was initially an Immuni engineer, before he was promoted to Century and then Commander. Engineers were indispensible to the legions, especially during the northern campaigns. De’Morci thinks that Sundus’ legend might have some small basis in the life and times of Leridus, who was a popular folk hero, especially amongst the lower castes.

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Novel News and Some Fiction

August 7, 2012 by JamesFunfer

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

Posted in Crystal Promise, News, Short Stories, Writing | Tagged , | 2 Comments »

Songs I Never Get Tired Of #3

August 1, 2012 by JamesFunfer

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvFH_6DNRCY

Clair de Lune

By: Claude Debussy

There are plenty of nocturnes and songs to the moon out there, but the top two contenders in terms of popularity have got to be Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and Debussy’s Clair de Lune. While I love both pieces, Clair de Lune will always hold a special place in my heart.

It was the winter of 2010, near the end of January. I was working on the tail end of a fifty-thousand word manuscript for a novel writing contest that would eventually become Crystal Promise. The manuscript was written on the heels of a bad breakup, from a lonely basement suite without a kitchen that was hastily moved into (and out of). I was a sad bachelor then: typing away in my old housecoat, dishware stacked on the extra shelving units around my computer (again, no kitchen), a big empty space behind my chair that should have been filled with pets, furniture, a television, something. Usually I left only to work or to pick up bachelor chow from the 7-11 – there was a deal on two hot dogs, and the nacho cheese was free. When I was hungry from a long day of working and writing, I’d pop by for a couple of those and at least one bottle of coca-cola before descending back into my dungeon to type away in my underwear.

I was truly a study in tragicomedy.

The day before the contest was over, I was fifteen thousand words short of my goal. I was lucky enough to be off work that day, but I was scheduled to be in on the last day of the contest, so I knew that I had to make the 30th of January count. I awoke at 6 A.M. and began to write. I left the house twice on hot dog runs, but other than that I stuck myself in front of my computer and coaxed out words. I was amazed to discover that there is a sort of second wind in writing. When you know how far off your destination is and you have nothing to do but go forward (or give up), feats of mental endurance are possible. Perhaps to some career writers fifteen thousand words is all in a day’s work, but to the struggling hopeful it seems like a mountain.

When I got struck by writer’s block, I was just shy of the peak. There was a berth of about eight thousand words between me and the end of the novel, and I didn’t know how to finish it. The time was approaching midnight and I had to work the next day.

Mentally drained, I shrugged into my parka, stepped out into the frigid January night and lit up a smoke. I set the iPod to shuffle. Clair de Lune began to play as I stared up at the full moon and contemplated the past few months, my future, and the ending of the story.

There is a compelling draw to a bright, round moon. I don’t necessarily subscribe to the theory that people act crazier during a full moon, but humanity has been following its course through the night sky for potentially millions of years…for as long as we’ve had the ability to tilt our heads up and wonder, at any rate. Debussy must have channeled that somewhat. After all, he wasn’t the first composer to create a ‘nocturne’, but in the wistful lilt of his uniquely impressionist style, something unfolds that we can all relate to. Clair de Lune speaks of melancholy, loneliness and beauty – of contemplation and desires unfulfilled. The tremulous rise and fall of the notes are like aching highs and lows – an unrequited love or a struggle for greatness. Periodically the melody will return to a place of quiet reflection…one stares at the moon and begs the uncaring, watchful orb to give reason to the follies of the night.

Yet the yearning never ends. Even the last chord of the song seems to be reaching for another note, one that we never hear. But in that reaching, I found an ending to my own story.

The most important thing about classical music is that it is a discipline of moods and interpretation. Without words, there is no absolute – there is only melody and accompaniment, and whatever the listener decides to contemplate as they enjoy the composition. Perhaps a title like Clair de Lune has influenced the way in which many people listen to the music, but I am certain the epiphanies achieved while listening to this masterpiece are as innumerable as the stars.

…okay, maybe not literally. There are a lot of stars out there. But there is only one moon, and I believe that most of us have gazed upon in it a contemplative fugue at one point or another.

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Songs I Never Get Tired Of #4

July 26, 2012 by JamesFunfer

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QE2joQsWXJg

Ahead by a Century

By The Tragically Hip

Alright, so this blog post needs to start with another big confession: I never used to like The Tragically Hip.

There, I said it. It’s off my chest. Judge all you like, but when I was younger there was something about Gord Downie’s voice that just bugged me. Maybe I just didn’t get it – there’s so much to like, after all. The lyrics are rife with poetry and metaphor, Canadiana and melancholia. It’s bluesy and alternative, with a unique sound that Canadian musicians are still emulating.

What do you mean, ‘don’t like my voice’?

Whatever my problem was, there was one song that I had a soft spot for, one song that I did like from their Trouble at the Henhouse album – Ahead by a Century. It’s mellow and catchy, and more than a little nostalgic. To me it’s a song about young love, one that is sundered by a flash of premonition (or perhaps a mistake). Now, Hip songs are sometimes really difficult to deconstruct (at least, to me) and there are entire forums dedicated to analyzing the lyrics. To me, that’s one of the greatest things about them…they’re vague enough that you can find your own meaning if you like. Gord Downie had this to say about his songs: “The inspiration for my lyrics? I couldn’t even hazard a guess. It seems observations have become a bit of a hobby, and I am fortunate to have the luxury of time to hammer these things into songs.”

Band member Paul Langlois had this to say: “I think the whole band is kind of ambiguous anyway… I think the same with lyrics, there are a lot of snippets and mini stories within bigger ones. I think Gord likes to leave it ambiguous and I think we all prefer it that way too…”

It’s like that line from their song Poets. Maybe they are just the epitome of vague. Either way, I’m glad that I got over my initial dislike, and I’m proud to consider them a part of my national culture. They’re pretty high up there on my list of bands that I need to see live.

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Songs I Never Get Tired Of #5

July 9, 2012 by JamesFunfer

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZC6c75x8D_Q

From What I Once Was

By: Neverending White Lights

Sometimes, in the depths of depression when you feel that your life is at its worst, the only short-term remedy seems to be an ultra-sad song that you listen to on repeat. That sense of inescapable, repetitive melancholy perfectly encapsulates my relationship with this song. However, instead of digressing into a morose, autobiographical anecdote, I’m going to talk about Neverending White Lights.

I seem to have a thing for one-man armies, as evidenced by my interest in bands like CellDweller. Like CellDweller, Daniel Victor plays all the instruments and writes the music. However, the real genius is that most Neverending White Lights songs feature a guest singer, yet the albums retain an intended sense of unity, and it all sounds like it was produced by one ‘band’. Some of my favourite artists have collaborated with Daniel Victor, including Raine Maida and Dallas Green.

Raine Maida

…and this is why musicians get all the ladies

I’ve also spoken before about my jones for concept albums. Neverending White Lights represents a culmination of concepts – one theme, a unifying sound and many artists. Heck, the albums are even referred to as ‘Act 1’ ‘Act 2’ and ‘Act 3’…

I urge you to give Neverending White Lights a listen. The first album, pictured above, got me through a tough time. Just don’t expect a lot of happy tunes in there.

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Songs I Never Get Tired Of #6

June 29, 2012 by JamesFunfer

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JU5LMG3WFBw

Hammer to Fall

By: Queen

What’s not to love about Queen? Freddie Mercury’s incredible voice and theatrical style, Brian May’s clean and wailing flanged guitar sounds, a capella vocals, and a band that understands the soul of rock ‘n’ roll. I could go on for pages and pages and still not even scratch the surface of this band’s legacy.

Damn, but I want that jacket

Everybody seems to know and love Queen; I’ve even seen self-professed homophobes disregard the knowledge of Freddie Mercury’s sexual preferences because the band rocks that hard. It’s the kind of music that transcends genre preferences. I’ve seen dyed-in-the-wool country music fans get up and sing along to Bohemian Rhapsody at the karaoke bar.

True to my generation, my first exposure to Queen was thanks to Mike Myers, despite the fact that my father had a couple of Queen albums on vinyl at home.

Party on

We owned the album (pictured above), but probably only really paid attention to the first track. Further exposure to Queen was thanks to the Highlander movie, and once a band had its hooks in me like that, a quick trip to Napster often led to a download of a band’s discography.

So why did I choose ‘Hammer to Fall’? There’s just something clever about using the cold war as a metaphor for the struggle of life and the inevitability of death. While not as innovative as many Queen songs, it still rocks, and to a writer like me, once in a while it inspires.

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