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Before the Dawn

This is my entry for Chuck Wendig’s latest weekly flash fiction challenge, which asked us to write what we know, but with a fictional twist. Here’s “Before the Dawn” for your enjoyment.

My father wakens me before the dawn. I dress myself in the dark, preparing to go to work with skill born of endless days of practice. Within minutes I am ready, and I leave my bedroom to find my father seated at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee before him, a glass of orange juice at the seat next to his. I sit beside him, questioning him about the day ahead of us and what it might bring. He is tired, though he tries not to show it. Work has been hard on him for the past few weeks, more so than normal. It’s harvest season, and it’s nearly over.

I glance out the window and I can see the last traces of the second moon fading as the sun peers across the distant horizon. The red tinge of our world is barely noticeable in the larger cities like Valentine, but out here, Mars is still Mars,  and it still feels like home. My family and I have lived here my whole life, and soon I will come of age, but not yet. I find myself dreaming of Earth sometimes, but I am grateful for the opportunity to be where I am. My mind drifts to what a boy my age on Earth would be thinking as my father tells me that it’s time to go.

We climb into the truck and head north, toward the field that we finished cutting last night. Since the terraforming, wheat has grown better on Mars than it did in the last hundred years or so on Earth. We’ve got almost a thousand acres left to harvest, but our crew is great this year. Two of my uncles, my grandfather, and a small army of cousins will be reaching the field soon, but since it’s one that’s close to our house, Dad and I are the first ones there.

I stretch as I climb out of the truck. A cool breeze is blowing across the stubble, and I think about how wise it was to bring a thermal sweatshirt this morning. Dad is already starting his half of the pre-harvest tasks, preparing the combine for operation. The equipment that we use was manufactured here on Mars, assembled by my grandfather and his brother from pieces that were printed upon their arrival on the planet. It was the only practical way to get the necessary machinery to another world, and it was achieved using Martian minerals. The technique had proven itself on Luna, and had only seen improvement by the time the terraforming process was complete on Mars.

My side of things is relatively simple. As has been my job since I was thirteen, I prepare the grain cart and the tractor that pulls it. I pull our truck alongside the tractor, lining up the fuel tank in the truck’s bed with the  tank on the side of the tractor. Once the fueling is in progress, I grab a grease gun and a rag from one of the tool boxes and begin the hunt for the the various zerks that are found on bearings around the tractor and the auger on the grain cart. Dad likes to tell me that farming has changed very little since he was my age. The only real difference is in location. And a little bit of gravity.  Okay, quite a bit of gravity.

I jump up to the top of the auger, greasing the bearing there before dropping back to the ground. Greasing the grain cart takes about ten more minutes, and the fuel pump clicks off just as I’m finishing up. As I’m wrapping the fuel hose back around the pump, the rest of the harvest crew arrives to service their machines. A swarm of family members pours out of a handful of other pickups, quickly preparing the other four combines, the tractors and grain carts, and the semi trucks that will haul the wheat away.

As the sun rises higher, the crew piles back into their various vehicles to make the move to the next field. We’ve got a fifteen kilometer trip there, so we form up into a convoy with the combines at the front and the pickups at the rear. At the max speed for the combines, it takes us about forty-five minutes. Upon our arrival at the new field, my grandfather takes the lead with his combine, cutting a small swath in the corner of the field where the rest of the vehicles will initially park. Once he’s done, he begins to cut a path through the wheat at the field’s perimeter. My father and uncles and one of my cousins follow suit, taking the next header width in. As my grandfather finishes his first round, the hopper on top of his combine is nearly full. It’s a good sign of the quality of the wheat, a sign of a good yield on a field this size.

Seeing this, I slip my tractor into gear, driving across the stubble to line up with the now-extended auger on the combine, matching my speed to his as the auger begins to feed wheat from the combine into my grain cart. My cousins fall in alongside the other combines, and as each grain cart is slowly filled we peel away to transfer our loads to the semis.  When the semis are in turn filled, other members of the crew will drive them to a storage facility on the outskirts of Valentine, about twenty-five kilometers away. It’s a familiar operation, one we’ve carried out every summer for as long as any of us can remember. We stop in shifts to eat packed lunches in our tractors and combines, and the day goes smoothly. Soon we will have provided a good portion of the wheat necessary for the growing colonies.

Dad calls me over to his combine as the sun begins to set and Phobos and Deimos appear in the sky.

“Good work today, sonny boy,” he says.

Cooper

I’ll answer your questions, certainly. But I’m going to answer them in the manner that I see fit.

1.) Yes, I’m still alive. I don’t mean to be sarcastic, but would I be able to give this interview if things had ended differently?

2.) No, I’m not going to tell you who I really am. I used a pseudonym on the plane for that very reason.

3.) I love the internet. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean that I can’t use newer technology. The joys of anonymity are numerous. Besides, I responded to your message board post requesting an interview, didn’t I?

4.) Yes, the bills I was given were marked. You think I didn’t expect that? You’d be surprised at how easy it was to get overseas under yet another pseudonym, exchange the marked cash, and move on back in ’71. A few similar swaps with the right contacts, and I was a free (and very wealthy) man. Marked bills serve as one thing. A paper trail. If you know you’re leaving one, it’s easy enough to set a false path. Hell, I started one before I even left the states. $5,800 in marked bills served as a perfect distraction. Took their time finding those, though, didn’t they?

5.) The briefcase didn’t have a real bomb. Again, I’m not that stupid. Even with security standards as they were in the seventies, I wasn’t about to try to take a real bomb onto a plane. I wanted to get money, not hurt people. That stewardess actually gave a surprisingly accurate description, what with the “red cylinders” and whatnot. Good on her. She stayed pretty damn calm the whole time, too. I wonder what ever happened to her. Quite a gal. Shame I couldn’t have let her in on the whole thing, but too many loose ends get real damn complicated real quick. I’d have at least donated a few grand to get her out of the stewardess business, maybe help her get an education or something.

6.) I’m well aware that they’re still looking for me. It’s funny, honestly. Some people had been making me out to be some sort of Robin Hood. What bullshit that was. It was never for anyone’s benefit other than mine, though like I said, I wouldn’t have said no to tossing a stack of cash to that stewardess.

7.) If I’d known how things were going to go, I might have gone about it a bit differently. Picked a different night, tried to find a better route out. I did bang up my leg pretty badly when I landed, but it was nothing I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t plan to get caught, though, and I didn’t, so that’s pretty good overall.

8.) I suppose that someday I might let a memoir get published, let the feds know how I managed to dodge them for decades, but it’ll be a posthumous thing.  Oh well. I’m not anywhere they’re going to be finding me any time soon. Hell, by the time they realize where I really am, I’ll be dead and the money will be so far beyond their reach that it isn’t even funny.

9.) It seemed like a good idea at the time. Certainly caught the nation’s interest, didn’t it? Big media frenzy over the crazy hijacker, “Oh, he stole so much, how will we ever catch him?” Hmph. I was tired of regular life, see? I thought, as you kids would put it, that I needed to go big or go home.

10.) No, we can’t meet in person. Quite frankly, I’m tired of answering your questions now, so I’m going to go.

Sincerely,

The Real Mr. Cooper

Silence

In the dark there’s nothing but me
And my thoughts of what could
Have been,
And my anxiety and fear of what
Will be,
And my desires and my needs
And my tears.
It’s too much for any one person
To bear
But I know that you too carry
The weight
And so
In the dark there’s nothing but me
And silence.

The Writing Process

The writing process varies from writer to writer. There are no guarantees that this is what writing is like for you. There are no guarantees that my process even remains the same from one piece to another. However, this is a pretty good breakdown of how most of it goes for me.

1.) Get an idea.

2.) Decide if it’s a short story or if it needs to be a longer piece.

3.) Start writing. Get around two hundred words.

4.) Change narration style. Rewrite initial two hundred words.

5.) Consume caffeine.

6.) Take a break to play video games.

7.) Try to write again. Get fifty or so words down this time.

8.) Eat dinner.

9.) Consume alcohol, usually 1-3 beers or a White Russian.

10.) Lose all track of where I’d been in my writing.

11.) Watch TV instead.

12.) Get new idea. Decide if it needs to be written down tonight, or if it can wait til tomorrow.

13.) Begin again.

A Farewell

“I loved him, and I love him still. I can say those words without regret now. Losing Liam somehow gave me the confidence I needed to say what I should have said three years ago.

“I still remember the day we met. He was radiant, ostensibly searching for a text on medieval literature. I was living a terrible cliché, an aspiring writer working in a small, out-of-the-way bookstore. I knew the book he wanted immediately, and found it for him with minimal effort. He smiled and called me his hero (he told me that he’d checked two other stores first and, like most of our clientele, preferred to give his business to a local store rather than some website) and paid for his book.

“I felt a brief twinge of guilt as I asked him for his ID to run his credit card at checkout. It wasn’t our policy to do so at the time, but I wanted to learn as much about him as I could before he left, possibly never to be seen again. I told myself at that moment that I’d hit the jackpot. Liam Reynolds was six months older than me, and he lived close enough to my store that I could expect to see him come in again. Subtle stalking complete, I handed his license, credit card, and book to him, and wished him a great afternoon. In the wake of his ‘See you soon!’ I was struck giddy by the thought of how green his eyes had been.

“Fast forward a year and Liam and I had gone on three ‘official’ dates. He’d come back to the store once a week to talk with me, planning his visits around my lunch breaks so that we could have more time. He was going to grad school for a master’s degree in literature, something I’d never had the courage to consider since my BA had cost so much and done so little for me. I told him that I’d been interested in him since that first  meeting, and that his stopping by to share a cup of coffee helped me to get through each week. He told me that he’d heard about an unbelievable clerk at my store from a friend who was always looking out for him. He’d come in that first day just to see me…

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t be crying right now. We were so happy back then. Liam was a hopeless romantic, having spent most of his life at that point looking for but never finding love. When I agreed to go out with him, I was showered with more attention than I knew how to handle. Love notes written in a messy scrawl inside the cover of books he bought for me, flowers, home cooked dinners (always a nice change from my ramen and sandwiches and frozen pizzas). Then we celebrated our first anniversary, and he said he wanted me to meet his parents.

“I panicked. I’d never met a boy willing to take me anywhere near his family, but Liam wrapped his arms around me, kissed me, told me how much he loved me, and made me feel like all was right with the world for the first time since middle school. I was scared because I knew that my parents would never accept Liam the way his welcomed me, and not just because he wasn’t Christian and he had tattoos and a lattice of pale pink scars on the inside of each thigh that no one else had ever seen.

“But I went with him. He gave me courage then, just as he does now. We spent a full week with his parents that summer. I met most of you that week, and I couldn’t believe how willing you were to welcome a complete stranger into your lives, and I can never thank you enough for being for me after…after… No, I’m fine. I’m almost done.

“Liam would have loved to see you all here, celebrating his life. He told me that he wanted this when he died, that he wanted a wake. He said that the idea of a funeral was too depressing, and that he wanted his family and friends to remember the good times. Now I think he’d hoped we’d have been a little older before that happened, but life is like that. You never know what you’ll find around the next corner.

“The last time I saw him, I told him I loved him, and he gave me that Han Solo half smile he would always do, and said ‘I know.’ I think he knew we all loved him, no matter what he’d been through, no matter what we’d managed to say to anyone else. He wasn’t always strong, but he was always strong for me, and now we have to do the same for him. That’s all I have to say, other than this. I loved him, and I love him still.”

Two Years of WordPress

The Swords of The Ancients is two years old today! Two years ago, I started this blog to help facilitate the crafting of my first novel. Since then, I’ve written upwards of 30,000 words toward that goal and developed my main characters considerably. I’m nowhere near where I would like to be in terms of progress on this particular project, but I’ve found that through various connections I’ve made since beginning this blog, I’ve found a great deal of inspiration. I thank you all, my wonderful readers. While I’d probably still continue this just for my own sake, it’s nice to know that you’re here.

It’s time for some intense reading. We started the Winter Reading Program at my library a few days ago, and so the challenge is to make it through eight books over the course of eight weeks. I’ve already knocked out a book on the making of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. I’m reading a bunch of the collected editions of DC’s New 52, but I’m trying to avoid counting those toward my eight, just for the sake of getting caught up on my backlog of books. I am almost two hundred pages through The Casual Vacancy right now, and I’m really enjoying it. A full review will follow as soon as I finish. I’m going to try to get through some classic fantasy pieces now as well, such as The King of Elfland’s Daughter and The Worm Ouroboros, both of which have been recommended by V. I’ve also added The Well at the World’s End to my to-read list, since it served as an inspiration to Tolkien. There’s a few books I’ve been suggesting to patrons at work at the library recently, and so I’m considering tossing some rereading in as well, with Dune at the top of that list. So many books… Goodreads has been very beneficial in keeping track of them. If you’re a reader and you don’t have a goodreads account, I would highly recommend setting one up. It’s free, and it’s a great way to track what you’re reading, what you have read, and what you want to read, plus being able to rate and review books you’ve read.

I’m going to let you go for now, dear readers. I owe you some new stories, after all. I’ve been issued a challenge by Chuck Wendig. 1000 word flash fiction based on photos of some absolutely incredible and surreal real world locations. Feel free to take part. Entries are due by the 25th.

Excelsior!
(Note to self: Create a catchphrase that’s better than Stan “The Man” Lee’s)

NaNoWriMo Wrap-up

Well, NaNoWriMo has come and gone, as has No Shave November, and I’ll tell you I was a lot more successful at one of these than the other. I barely made any ground in my writing this time around, and I am not going to make excuses. I didn’t sit down to write every day, and that’s all there is to it. There’s always next year for NaNo, but I’d really like to get more writing done in the time between now and then.

The big advantage of my attempt at NaNo this year? I got a lot of planning done. It’s been a few months since I put a good effort toward Aurellis, the novel I started last NaNo. Arsus and Rime are being very patient with me, though they’ve been changing up their stories a bit of late. More on that, and new microfiction soon!

Community

Do you read magazines targeted at writers? I read a couple of different ones in my job at the library. I’m not about to claim that it makes me a better writer, but it does help me find some inspiration from time to time. I don’t only read magazines, though. I read blog posts by fellow writers. I follow them on twitter, published or otherwise. I do try to avoid books on writing, but that’s another matter altogether.

There’s an incredible community that is present in the writing world. We’re competition, yes, but we’re also the support network (yes, we have a support group for writers, we meet wherever there is booze). Without this community, I would have given up on my dream of being a writer a long time ago.

There are three things that I’ve learned that a writer must do in order to be successful.

1.) You have to write. I know it might seem self-explanatory, but we have a tendency to get caught up in the distractions of every day. Social media, research, the siren song of google and the endless labyrinth that is tvtropes. All of these things can keep us from doing what we need to do, whether it’s putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard (and both of those analogies began to sound dirty inside my head the minute I typed them, damn it). I know that I personally am over a week behind on NaNoWriMo right now because of various concept changes and plot shifts and other things keeping me from doing just what I set out to do.

2.) You have to read. It’s been said time and time again that reading is the only way to learn how to write. Find your favorite authors and read their works, early and late. See how they evolved over time. Study how they create characters and build plot events; how sentences are structured and how the story is shaped. Learn what works for you as a reader. Find the authors you don’t like, see what missteps they make so that you can avoid them.

3.) You have to live. Not like breathing and heart beating (though that generally is a prerequisite for numbers one and two above, and anyone finding out about a writer not being alive and still putting out new material should notify me right away). You have to experience things. Without channeling a certain amount of your own life into your characters, they’re going to come across as flat and boring. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing science fiction and have never been to another planet, or if you’re writing fantasy and have never fought a dragon with your bare hands (or in some cases, your bear hands). Everything you do can be turned into an aspect of a story. Did a conversation you had make you laugh? Recreate it in a setting-appropriate manner between your characters. Did you walk home from the bar in the dark last night? Take what you can remember of that walk and channel the emotion of it into your work in progress.

Thank you, fellow writers, for being part of the community that has taught me so much over these last few years. You’ve been great.

NaNoWriMo: Round Two

November of 2012 marks an important point for me. I’m going to be attempting my second National Novel Writing Month. Last year, though a failure in terms of actually reaching the goal of 50,000 words, was still a great success in that I poured out over 30,000 before losing steam at Thanksgiving.

This year, a lot of things have changed. I’m now working two different jobs, and my overall amount of free time for writing has been greatly reduced. There’s also a lot of uncertainty thus far about what this next attempt will include. I’ve been debating several ideas, and even today I shifted completely from one genre to another. Never mind the fact that I’m still in the process of finding a (semi) permanent new place to live. All of this could be occurring this month.

Did I mention that this month is also going to see the release of Halo 4, James Bond: Skyfall, Wreck-it Ralph, and a host of other games and films I want to play/see? Dethklok and Trans-Siberian Orchestra concerts? Thanksgiving with my family? Christmas shopping? Dungeons and Dragons campaign to finish running? A presidential election? Okay, now I’m just ranting. Point is, it’s a busy month. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got less than five hours to crank out my 1600 words for today. These 200 or so don’t count.

Hallowe’en

My entry for my Hallowe’en Writing Challenge is here. Thank you participants, and Happy Hallowe’en.

“The Last One”

The fire had died down too much during the night, but it couldn’t be helped. I’d been in desperate need to rest after three straight days of running from them, and Marcus had been caught by them partway through the second day, so there was no one to share the watch. His screams had followed me, even into sleep.

As soon as I woke, I scrambled for a handful of twigs, leaves, and sticks to rekindle the flames, knowing that they were the only thing that would really keep them away. Once the fire was beginning to burn in earnest, I checked the gun I’d managed to grab from the facility guard’s body, a Colt 1911. “Only four rounds left,” I sighed as I checked the magazine. The .45 had been effective against them so far, but there were so many of them. Only one of us, me, now that they’d gotten Marcus. I sighed again, managing once more to hold back the tears that had threatened for the last day and a half, and chambered a round.

“He’s gone. Get over it. Get up, and get moving.” I added a small branch to the fire, watching as the flames kissed and embraced it, growing larger and brighter. As I listened for footsteps in the distance, I reflected on the past few days and marveled at how quickly everything had fallen apart.

We’d joked  for years, about how we couldn’t wait for it, and how our lives as video game geeks had prepared us for this exact situation. Well, let me just tell you that nothing, and I mean nothing can prepare you for the sight of your best friend being swarmed and eaten by those…things. We said that we’d make it through together, and now…I put my first three bullets into their heads. The fourth went through Marcus’ eye when I realized he wasn’t going to get away, when he realized what would happen if I didn’t.

The fire had scared them away, we didn’t know why, and I still don’t. I had the Zippo Marcus had given me for my eighteenth birthday, even though I didn’t smoke. I told him his habit would kill him. He said my nagging would be the death of him. Well, we were both wrong, but he was closer.

A crack of a twig breaking snapped me back to the present. They were here. I’d not gotten the fire started in time, and now they were here. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered, grabbing the burning branch in my left hand and the Colt in my right. They were getting closer, surrounding me, but there was no way in hell they could know what my plan was. I knew I wasn’t going to survive, but I was going to take as many of them with me as I could. I fired my first three shots as they came into view. I dropped my torch into the dry leaves and raised my gun to my head.