The Bard: Track 2 (PREVIEW)

Author note:

First read the introductory chapter: The Bard: Track 1 (Preview)

I will be posting 5 chapters out of the 27 total. This chapter takes place two years before the first one-- the only flashback in the book, two chapters long. Enjoy.

Track 2: The Human Fly

Wall fly, buzzing about the business of the wicked

Pricking like a thorny thicket

Agitating bites on their skin

By means of rage and annoyance, he exposed sin

“No way.”

“Really?”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Oh yeah.”

“No, I totally agree. One hundred percent.”

…

“So what did I just say then?” asked a high-pitched female voice out of the speaker.

“Something about a licensing issue,” Detective Locard guessed. “No? Okay, you got me, Christie. While I may have only been half listening, I do know that it’s bad and work related. That has to count for something… right?”

“Not really, but it’s whatever. My story was kinda boring! I can tell it’s because your mind’s caught up in a case. Can’t hate you for saving the world, now can I?”

“No, that you cannot,” Ed smirked.

“CUT THE CRAP, DETECTIVE.”

A short yet steely Japanese policewoman shoved her way through the huddled mass of Asian-Americans crammed into the shoe-closet sized apartment. 

“Aims, would you mind lowering your voice a smidge?” Ed asked sweetly. “I’m on the phone with my wife here.”

“Would you mind doing your JOB?” the policewoman barked back, hissing like an enraged alley cat. 

“Locard, you’ll address me as Captain Takahashi and nothing else. Don’t assume I won’t write you the hell up because we’re friends outside of work. My precinct, my rules. The rule you’re currently breaking is NO PERSONAL CALLS AT A CRIME SCENE.”

“Ed, do I hear Ami Takahashi?” Christie Locard asked.

“I’d say all of Chinatown hears Ami Takahashi,” Edison replied, smirking in the direction of the irate captain of the NYPD’s 4^th precinct.

MUSIC PROMPT FICTION #1

MUSIC PROMPT?

This is the first entry in my new flash fiction series called MUSIC PROMPT FICTION.

Most prompted fiction begins with a picture or a small scene, but my mind finds creative inspiration through music. I take a song and craft a scene out of it, capturing the mood and building upon its vibes. I suppose this is strange, but it's an excellent exercise nonetheless-- an enhancement to my writing. When I compose fiction I am constantly listening to music. I will shift songs or genres depending on the mood, backdrop or intensity I require for the piece. It must work because I never stumble into writer's block, and the effect is noticeable on the feel I get from read-backs.    

I've decided to harness this ability--or strange habit-- into material for my blog for your enjoyment. For each entry of Music Prompt Fiction I will loop a random song from my library--or one new to me entirely-- then write for an hour or so and post the results. Sounds fun, right? Here is the first result:

"PASSED IN THE FUTURE"

Röyksopp - Poor Leno

Keith Eldrick is to be the first time traveler. A man with no face. No being. No persona. This is to be his destiny. His mark. To venture into obsolete nothingness. To not return. Time is a one way trip, regardless of the direction you go in. That's why Keith was chosen. Unremarkable. Undesirable. Mute. Sullen. Uninspired. Human society is a cultured existence of absolute evolution. The the self-made modifications to mankind have bred out blandness. Keith was an anomaly. A man miraculously born by accident. An unexpected relic of a more 'human' humanity. The traveler felt it only proper to leave his time for another, for he'd never truly believed it to be his own time at all.

"Keith, you are aware of your only mission, correct?" a cold, robotic voice asked within his mind.

With a loud churn, the white pill-shaped capsule in the center of the vacant room momentarily expelled steam. The invisible nano-machines in the air immediately removed the vapor from sight. They emitted silencer waves to cancel out the time machine's unpleasant sounds.

Keith made no reply. He stood still and silent, just as he had done his entire life. Nano-machinery, sentient robotics and micro-computers performed all the menial tasks and physical labor in society. Mankind existed only to entertain itself and increase its understanding. Genius and excellence in ability were all but assured-- the norm. Unlike most children, Keith had be born without the aid of optimized genetics. Rather than a growth pod, his embryo developed in a human uterus. Being born regular made Keith useless. Impractical. A stranger in society.    

Part of humanity's prenatal genetic coding included sterilization, ensuring sexual intercourse remained for pleasure purposes only. Only the poorest and most reviled sects of the species still gave birth in such a barbaric way. In fact, his trip down to Earth to make the jump into the past marked the first occasion in which Keith had ever seen someone else with imperfections. While the bulk of humanity resided in the massive habitation districts orbiting Earth and Mars, the genetically normal, irregular and retarded were exiled to the desolate wastelands of the Martian and Earthen surfaces. The only reason Keith hadn't been sent below was because his birth coincided with the Quantum Continuum Manipulation Project or QCMP on District 87-B-K-9775, "HAWKE." 

QCMP's were commonplace.While various other districts were experimenting with altering local time fields to pause and speed productivity, the HAWKE team's time manipulation research served solely as a novelty. HAWKE-QCMP's own creator fully acknowledged that reversed human time travel was a pointless endeavor that did nothing to further society. The individual undergoing reverse time travel would have no means of return-- essentially committing suicide. Worse yet, there would be no way to live, being restrained to the archaic technology of the past-- nor communicate. 

The primitive ancestors did not have access to the telepathic thought transmitter chip technology. Historical data indicated that touch and voice input had been the primary means of operating the old technology. Worse yet, the technology had no self-awareness and required constant human control to operate. To the majority of humanity, the past truly was an unpleasant place-- filled with discomfort, physical work, immorality and mortality. Even the ape-like surface dwellers lived better lives than those of the past.  

"We will now begin the cleanse. To avoid paradoxes, your organic material will be the only part of you making this journey."

The nanomachines erased Keith's clothing and removed all the technology integrated in his brain and body. Keith feel to his knees and gasped. He felt pain, and he felt vulnerable. He'd already received lifelong training to move and speak without the aid of machinery, but actually being forced to do so was another thing entirely. With his anxiety inhibitor removed, Keith began to feel apprehensive.

"SINCE... WE CAN... NO LONGER... USE... TELEPATHIC TRANSMISSION... WE WILL HAVE TO USE THIS... ROBOTIC SPEECH OUTPUT."

 "Ahh, ehh? Oooo?"

Keith played around with sounds, trying to form words.

"Afff... Affirmative."

"STEP... INTO THE CAPSULE... MANUALLY."

The young man staggered awkwardly. Without their enhancements, his muscled ached-- straining to support movement. The white capsule enclosed around Keith, submerging him in absolute darkness.

"TIME DESTINATION: 2247 AD... EXACTLY ONE THOUSAND YEARS IN THE PAST."

...

Taking it to The Next Level

So it seems like I've finally gotten the hang of this whole blogging thing. Since I'm writing four books at once, working a part-time job and freelance writing to pay the bills, it's just unrealistic to promise you daily posts. However, I will promise you updates every other day to every two days. The content is going to shift to a more fiction and poetry focus rather than the seemingly random variety that I'd posted previously. I shall still be posting opinion pieces and bits about technology (Google Glass: Futuristic... and Freaky) and general philosophy (How to Never Read Past How to) though-- don't you worry.


Kinds of posts you can look forward to:

- More short stories
 ex: The Gunslinger's Last Stand
LABEL: Shortstory

- More serialized novella chapters
ex: "Vermilion Years - 2: Unman"
LABEL: Novella

- More insight on creative writing
ex: Writing Recipes: Protagonist Pie
LABEL: Tips

- Tons more 'quality' poetry :P
ex: "When Life Finally Finds Me"
LABEL: Poetry


I have exciting new ideas for this blog, like musical writing prompts, sequential plot puzzles and much more. Creativity and out of the box thinking is my forte-- and the title of the blog. I'm unorthodox and okay with it, and hopefully you'll enjoy it too! I will be focusing on networking and drawing in a larger audience to create a bit of an interactive experience. With my writing, I want to create worlds for you to become lost in. Experiences that you will always remember and come back to. Thank you, all my regular readers. Though few, you have been a great inspiration and a source of encouragement.



- B

"Missy"

We're more than just lovers
We're heroes to each other
and we'll keep on saving till we die
My nothing appealed to you
You shouldered my stress
Loving last to those who loved best

This is much less song than truth
Recorded for the ages
In case time needs proof
A trace of our intimacies
Marks of kisses never seen
Outside of our beautiful bubble

Your arrival made my survival
And your smile made my day
Creating a feeling that still lacks a word
Our silence is so unbelievable
Our conversations unforgettable
All mistakes, no longer regrettable

I've said I love you before
I've kissed other lips
Good-nights and I miss yous
I've held other hips

Yet, none, I'd contest, now still exist
I never knew so much meaning until our meeting
I never knew sorrow until, "see you tomorrow"
I always laughed
Now I sigh.

They say love is cliche
It's been done before
All the movements, orchestrated
You and I, we do it more
I write from my heart now
Yet the beauty seems contemplated

With you, dreams become certainty
With you, passion finds purity
I never want to make sense anymore
I want to make love
I want to make a life

In such a short time, our problems had a name
The game, life, suddenly felt real
The wounds started healing
The big fish came in reeling
The truth hit the ceiling
This is what they tell me is a win.

You are the wind in my locket
The sails in my pocket
The sense to my curse jar
My one true angel
And a story book ending unfolding

I don't care what anyone thinks of these words
If they say these lyrics lack merits
Judge me for meter, throw me demerits
I don't care what anyone says
What anyone thinks
Whether they question my rhymes
Or "question my existence"

As sure as your red lips and gallant green eyes
The current color of your hair and the makeup you wear
The problems we have, are no longer lonely
The lives we live, no longer phony
This is my passion in words
My love given a script
If you love it
I love it

I look forward to being thanked with your tearful kiss.

The Vermilion Years: Chapter 3

Click here to jump to a list of previous chapters!

Atelier

 As I watched a pack of sand wolves gnaw the flesh off the impaled unmans, I felt a fell wind brewing. We needed to keep moving. Curiosity compelled me to dig through the cartographers' stash of supplies. A wireless telegraph machine turned on its side stood out to me. It had likely been toppled during an interrupted SOS. Rather than suffer idly through Fleurette’s incessant snoring, I decided to scour the camp for any clues that might explain what exactly occurred and who ordered them to make a map of the area.

My search turned up a relatively new carbon monoxide converter, which I stowed in my pocket. It looked to be a relatively strong CMC at that, able convert any camp into a safe haven filled with breathable air.  I’d already gathered the cartographers came from affluence due to the presence of liquor. I needed something else.

A shimmering package resting in the corner drew my eye. Luminescent fabric covered the unopened crate. The box looked to be some sort of a gift. I ginglerly tapped the colorful container with the tip of my claw. The moment my nail touched it, the container unfolded and began expelling hot steam. A projector whirred and lit up, rendering a three dimensional image of a tiny girl in an extravagantly frilly dress. A recorded message played. the lagging rather annoyingly, the audio played out of sync with the child’s lips.

The Instagram Complex

I caved. I joined the one social network that I said I'd always avoid. The e-mecca of superficiality-- the watering hole for the vainest inhabitants of the internet. As many of you may have guessed, I speak of Instagram. This is my analysis of that experience.

For those of you who are out of the loop (or have priorities) Instagram is the hot, erm, new-ish social networking site that encourages you to share your photographs with random strangers in a quest to gain likes that matter about as much as the points on Who's Line is it Anyway. You use hashtags with one word descriptions of what the image is in order to get your profile and picture noticed-- ultimately to gain followers. Essentially, it's an amalgam of Facebook's liking, Twitter's conciseness and Flikr's pictures. Kinda shallow, really... at least first glace.

The Gunslinger's Last Stand

"Step outside."





The words hung in my mind like a lynched outlaw hanging from the rafters of an old western mission. I'd heard various two word tall orders since I posted my manifesto on Facebook... since I channeled my pain through my gun. 

Drop it.

Hands up.

Stand down.

Remain still.

I think this was the first pair of words that wasn't shouted at me. Somehow, it made his words more threatening. The grizzled Texan channeled Heston-- gritting a cigar in his mouth while he stroked his unshaven chin with his gasoline stained fingers.The mechanic wasn't a native Montanan, a fact made clear by the faded confederate flag plastered across his sweat-soaked wife beater. While I'd faced off with many a fighter on my journey to Canada, this man had a gruff aura about him-- an unbreakable confidence.