Dunston Monster: Monster Savior

February 5th, 2010

a flash series part 6 of 8 by David G Shrock

See Dunston Monster Contents for series information or back to Part 5.

_________________________________________________

“We should take shelter. Wait out the storm.” Sebastian could barely hear his own voice over the river crashing around the rocks.

Tabitha yelled something about Roan. Holding up her hands, she indicated distance: close. They were already wet. Everything was too damp for a fire. Sebastian realized the town was their best chance. He offered to carry her. She refused indicating with the revolver that he should go first. He took the first step, a small one for him. Water spray attacked his trousers, the cold squeezing his muscles sending pins rippling up his legs. A stretch carried him to the next rock.

Loudest in the center of the river, the banks funneled the river’s roar.

Arms out wide, revolver in her right hand, Tabitha jumped to the first rock. A gust of wind sent her swaying, but she pulled herself upright. She gripped the revolver like death.

Sebastian wished she would put the gun away, or give it back. It was all he had of his father.

A stretch to the next rock carried Sebastian within two steps of the shore. Water splashed over his boot. He checked his footing. The rock felt slick. Looking back, he found Tabitha waiting on the rock behind him.

Sliding to the edge of the stone, making room, Sebastian turned and offered his hand.

Tabitha appeared frozen. Frost coated her hair. The fur coat was no longer black, more of a mottled white and gray with dark streaks. Her face appeared even paler, almost blue. Her demon eyes blazed.

As her foot left the rock, there was no question in Sebastian’s mind that her leap was short, and the frightened face told him, she knew it as well. He reached for her outstretched hand. Her boot disappeared into the river, and she dropped, her hand falling away.

Tabitha splashed face-down into the river, the current pulling her from the rocks. Sebastian stepped into the cold water and grasped her shoulder. He watched his father’s revolver disappear into the river. Gazing into the pleading eyes, into the hellfire, he saw hate and distrust. Tabitha expected him to release her, leave the monster behind.

Sebastian pulled her from the current’s grasp, the soaked coat weighing her down. He lifted her into his arms. Spotting a wall of rocks, he carried her into the protection from the wind.

Sebastian stripped the wet fur coat away, and removed his own coat. Wrapping his coat around Tabitha, he pulled her against the rocks. She shivered against him, and he squatted to get better hold wrapping his arms around her. They shivered against each other, and he kept his arms moving working heat. The river roared beside them, and the wind pulled at the trees. Snow fluttered in circles around them.

“I’m a school teacher,” said Tabitha, lips quivering. “Did I mention that?”

* * *

The cold latched on, gnawing, draining life. Snow stopped falling, the wind settled, but the air thickened its frozen grasp closing tight. Darkness swallowed the forest.

Each breath felt like needles. Knees buckled, but Sebastian charged ahead. He could only see a few meters, shapes moving within the darkness. Trees clawed at him. Elbows out, he protected Tabitha within his arms. Tucking down, he shouldered through branches snapping away. Thoughts of losing his cargo to the cold kept his feet moving, but frost clung to his back. He no longer felt his fingers. His heart pounded, and his lungs wheezed.

Feeling the ground drop away, Sebastian slid falling on his rear. He peered into the darkness finding shapes on either side, nothing ahead. He heard something, rocks or balls of clay, tumble through snow and leaves below. Recognizing the edge of a ravine, he stood scrambling back onto level ground.

Somewhere below, a creature snorted, likely an elk Sebastian thought.

His cargo rustled, and he looked down. Twin embers burned illuminated the fractal browns and golds of her irises much like the sun shining through the stained glass window at church—beautiful and dangerous.

“You.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “You rescued a monster.”

“Not yet,” said Sebastian. He tried smiling, but his face hurt.

The orbs shifted; Tabitha looked over. “A road.”

The road led downhill and the forest grew less dense. The patchwork of clouds allowed moonlight turning the snow bright. After the blackness, it nearly felt like daylight, and Sebastian quickened his pace. His legs complained, but he charged ahead nearly running. Little golden lights appeared in the valley, the lanterns of Roan lighting the way.

Sebastian charged the first house, and banged his fist against the door shaking the frame. Latch clicked, door swung open, and warmth spilled outside. A short balding man fell back from the doorway.

Ducking, Sebastian entered the home. “She fell in the river. She’s a school teacher.” He didn’t know why he added the last part. The cold talking he supposed.

The man stood there, dumbfounded. A woman appeared from a back room. Taking charge, the woman ordered the man to fetch blankets and invited Sebastian to the fire. He set Tabitha down on the floor before the hearth, sat down beside her. Warmth scratched his face. The couple brought them wool blankets and water.

Looking over at Tabitha peeking out of a pile of blankets, Sebastian smiled. His face hurt, but not as much as the pain stabbing into his fingers. The firelight hid the hellfire. He liked her brown eyes better. “Now you’re safe.

_________________________________________________

Warning for the sensitive: The final two parts contain violence and blood. Coming Feb 11 & 12.

What Time? Series Introduction

February 2nd, 2010

Time is the great assumption in science, a mystery. There is no scientific definition or accepted theory. Time has been the subject of philosophical debate for millennia, and all we have are vague notions, psychological feelings, stories, and an assumption about the passing seconds. And time is so much fun for fiction.

What is time?

This series will explore the science of time in fiction including the Draco Torre stories and popular titles. The purpose is not to master physics, but to explore concepts within science fiction. Posts will be reasonably basic and include references to more detailed sources. Some of the topics we will explore:

  • paradoxes
  • time experiments
  • time travel
  • memory
  • perceptions of time
  • novels

Your comments are welcome in each discussion including sharing your favorite novels, topic requests, and thoughts on the current topic.

Contents

Look for new What Time? posts on the 2nd and 4th Tuesday of each month.

Science Definition

February 1st, 2010

These are foundational definitions for understanding science and science fiction stated here for the non-scientist. The most important concept here is that science theories are not facts.

Science

Science tries to explain the world around us in a way that we can understand. This applies primarily to phenomenon we observe indirectly like earthquakes and micro-organisms. We feel the earth quake, but we can’t directly observe the cause. Micro-organisms require instruments to observe.

Fact

A fact is an agreed upon definition, a recordable measurement, or a basic observation of our world. The definition of meter is a fact. The elevation of Mt. Everest is a fact.

Law

A scientific law generalizes observations to make predictions without explaining why. Newton’s Law of Gravity predicts falling objects and planetary motion, but does not tell us why.

Hypotheses

Like a guess. A scientist makes a guess based on observations before writing a theory.

Theory

A scientific theory is like a story trying to explain the observable science. A theory explains why. This story must include verifiable predictions. After predictions hold true, the theory is accepted. It’s still not a fact. Theories change as more knowledge accumulates.

Reality

We observe real things directly or indirectly using our senses. We feel earthquakes indirectly through direct shaking. We see galaxies indirectly using a telescope. This means that before telescopes, galaxies weren’t real. Long ago micro-organisms weren’t part of our reality.

One may argue micro-organisms and galaxies were always there. Sorry, they weren’t real then. This is the definition intended in posts on this blog.

Science Fiction

Science is crucial to the plot of a science fiction story. The science may be nearly fantastical, loosely implied, but it should be based on science and important to the story.

Simply including spaceships does not make it science fiction.

Star Wars is a fantasy or space opera. Some include space opera and other sub-categories under the sci-fi genre, but may also fall within the realm of fantasy, depending on how you look at it.

Here at DracoTorre.com, science fiction must include science as part of the plot. Otherwise, we may call it fantasy even if the fantasy contains science, which we could call science-fantasy.

Learn more: Pandora’s Hope: Essays on the Realities of Science Studies by Bruno Latour.

Dunston Monster: Sinners

January 29th, 2010

a flash series part 5 of 8 by David G Shrock

See Dunston Monster Contents for series information or back to Part 4.

Tabitha

Tabitha

Snow blanketed the forest, large flakes flying sideways turned tree trunks white. The storm arrived before the sun trapping the land in twilight. Wind bit Sebastian’s face and threatened to rip his hat from head. With one hand he held his hat while he tucked the other under coat, fingers pressed into armpits for warmth. Every few strides he switched hands.

Tabitha walked behind, the revolver tucked within her folded arms. Frost stuck to her entire right side, hair frozen against her cheek. Under the darkened sky, her eyes held a soft glow. In darkness those orbs simmered like burning coals.

As the narrow road descended, winding through the forest, the roar of a river grew. Rounding a bend, the river came into view splashing over rocks into a pool. Water lapped up onto the end of the road. On the opposite side, the road continued.

Jaw unhinging, Tabitha set her cruel gaze on the river. She shook her head.

The river appeared passable for horses in better weather, but not by foot in the freezing cold. Wind biting his nose, Sebastian searched for shelter. Spotting a group of large trees on the left side of the road near the riverbank, he pointed. Tabitha nodded her agreement, and they bounded into the trees. Finding ground clear of snow beneath a heavy canopy, they squatted against the tree trunks protected from the wind. Sebastian took up two trunks. Wind squeezed between them finding his back. Tabitha snuggled between two roots of the largest tree.

Tabitha laughed. “No bridge.”

“We shouldn’t have come.” Cupping hands over face, Sebastian breathed warmth into his palms. He thought about returning, had insisted on it several times, but Tabitha had urged him on at gunpoint. Now Dunston was too long a walk in the storm.

Tabitha’s smile faded. “I told you. I can’t go back.”

Thomas had made it clear the conditions for a warm welcome: find the monster, return with Tabitha. He only had a name, Joseph Conrad, a killer, his father’s killer according to Father Young. Sebastian was hardly ranger material, held hostage by a woman. He felt small.

Looking over, Sebastian saw something that froze his blood. The cold could play with the mind, but he felt certain he saw true. He gazed at her open mouth gaping at the river. It was plain as the frost sticking to her dark hair. Her two top canines, slender and pointed, met the bottom pair, serpentine fangs. Realizing he stared, he pulled his gaze up. The embers burned like hellfire within her irises.

He recalled the warning. The monster appeared at night.

Two dead and one missing Thomas had told him. He had assumed Tabitha was the missing one.

Tabitha ran her tongue over pointed teeth.

“Are you?” It felt wrong, but he wanted to know about her. He wanted her to tell him that she was a person like him.

“A demon?” Tabitha giggled, sounding like a young girl imitating the devil. “Church boy.” She set the revolver on her lap, rubbed her hands together, and shivered maintaining a coy smile.

Sebastian shook his head. Her smile relieved him, but he frowned feeling guilty about asking. In all the stories elders told children, the monsters were easy to identify. Big teeth, strange eyes, or excessive size marked the monsters. Gazing at Tabitha, he wondered if there was some truth to those stories.

Taking a deep breath, Sebastian summoned courage. “Are any others in Dunston like you?”

Her smile faded. “Besides my brother? No.”

Sebastian nodded at the clue, the first victim was normal.

Tabitha flashed an evil grin. “Frightened?”

He nodded.

“You ought to be.” She held up the revolver. “I have the gun.” Lowering the weapon to the ground, finger on the handle, she hugged her knees. Her tongue licked over a fang. “Many of us don’t bite.”

Listening, Sebastian watched her eyes. He stared at those luminescent orbs feeling like a child gazing upon strangeness, and he realized how little he knew about the world.

“After the first.” Tabitha rested her cheek on her knee. “That’s when the monster talk started. Nobody suspected the two of us. Not at first. And when I saw you approaching the cabin, I thought you were him. Rhemus the Giant come to take me away.”

Breaking his gaze, Sebastian hung his head.

“What was he like? Your father.”

He felt like he knew little about his father, less since the funeral. “As a boy I imagined he caught train robbers, brought killers to justice. A hero.” Cupping hands, he blew into his palms. “Apparently he hunted people like you.”

“Demon hunter.” Tabitha frowned.

“My apologies.” Sebastian gazed at Tabitha no longer seeing a young woman. He had assumed she was the missing one, but he realized Thomas had demanded her return. Perhaps Thomas had only suspected Tabitha.

Tucking hands under his coat, Sebastian buried his fingers within his armpits. His fingertips prickled with pain. “What are you plans once we reach Roan?”

“Revenge.”

“A sin,” said Sebastian. He chuckled. “That’s what Father Young taught me.”

“We’re all sinners.” Tabitha wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them, and rocked on her heels. “The killer. Me. Your father. Young. My brother’s bad habit.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. There was still one missing: Sheriff Haas.

Tabitha snickered. “And you sitting there picturing my bare breasts.”

Chuckling, Sebastian felt his insides burn, and he coughed sending pain shooting through his chest. The cold attacking the moisture within his clothes could mean death.

Tabitha sat up and fondled the revolver, running her fingers over the barrel. “Does that make us all evil?”

Sebastian shook his head. He had to convince her to turn herself in, confess or testify. She must abandon revenge. Learning more about his father’s death could wait. “Not if we ask for His forgiveness.”

“Look!” Tabitha stood and pointed with the revolver. “A way across the river.”

Leaning over, Sebastian peered beneath the branches spotting a row of rocks extending across the river. They appeared uneven and too far apart for anyone but a man of his size. “It doesn’t look good.”

________________________________________________

Continue to Part 6.

Poetry is Ordinary, Prose is Sublime

January 25th, 2010

.

I hear no words,
I see them instead.
Musical vocals
to my ear,
lyrics are dead.
Poetry is ordinary
Prose is sublime.

Don’t call me on the phone. Write me a message. Never listen to speeches, I read them instead.

My Personal Poetry Challenge

I’m not a poet. I’m not a writer. I tell stories. (See “Why I Write.”) My technical papers and essays tell stories. Until recent months my understanding of poetry could fill a matchbook typed in 12-point font. Now my understanding of poetry might cover a paper cup, if I was inclined to scribble on a paper cup.

Soon after joining #fridayflash, comments appeared mentioning poetry in “Ghost Curtain,” “A Grave Giant,” and “Darkness Was Her Dress.” In “A Grave Giant” comments Mark said, “I’m curious as to whether you also write poetry?” No.

I write how I write (tell.) Not until I wrote “Mother Dove” did I consider rhythm and rhyme. I wanted rhyme in the dialogue supported by rhythm.

After “Mother Dove” I became curious. Could I write a poem?

I began my study with familiar poets: Frost, Whitman, Poe, Dante, Homer. I tried new sources: Ashberry, Baudelaire. Four things I dislike in poetry:

  • Unimaginative content.
  • So laden in metaphor mud, I must dissect it like a riddle.
  • Primary goal is constructing pretty words, nearly no content.
  • Very passive writing: expresses weakness, lack of confidence.

I also suspect that English is a horrid language for poetry. English is clunky and cumbersome. Listen to Italian. Beautiful. Don Quixote is a fantastic read in Spanish, the English version is digestible.

I set a goal to write the best poem I could within a week. The result is a stew of unimaginable horror dipped in toxic syrup.

Poems I Love

I’m a visual person. I draw pictures. My stories are full of imagery. This is not to say I like visual poetry, but there is something visual. I don’t hear lyrics. I hear music. The poetry I enjoy tells a story with rhythm. Yes, I see rhythm.

So few of them, I can easily list the poems I enjoy.

Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe.

Rhyme is nice, but look at the rhythm, structure, and story. This poem is visual, active. It rolls off the tongue. Incredible.

.

The Raven” by Poe.

Visual, very active. And the story is a hoot.

Bitten” by Amy Taylor

Go read.

Done? Okay. Taylor’s style caught my interest. Her other poems are similar in structure, but “Bitten” has something special I couldn’t identify at first. The weakness: story lacks imagination, a familiar romantic vision of vampires (metaphor*.) The strengths: Amy Taylor writes bold. Look at those visuals! Rhythm and images meld together. Taylor has an ability to control pace and rhythm using a symphony of line breaks, commas, and word choices, a style throughout all her poems.  So, why do I like “Bitten” over her other poems, some of them with better stories? I spent nearly a day studying Taylor’s structure.

Look again. “Bitten” visually has bite. Look at the shape. The visual layout supports the images brewing as the reader consumes the story. Notice the timing of your eye movement as you read. That’s music! This timing harmonizes with the rhythm within the words. This piece is a set of visual signatures complementing pace, rhythm, and imagery. If Amy Taylor could accomplish this same harmony with a stronger story… I would breath it in, drink it up into euphoric bliss!

Conclusion: I see poetry, same as a story

Amy Taylor asked readers to give their interpretation of “Pegasus.” I cheated, in a way. I read poetry like I read anything else. Each metaphor has multiple interpretations, too many for my taste. I saw the author’s intention near the end once I spotted a common set of metaphorical meaning. It’s like mathematics!

I see the story.

Read the first paragraphs of The Gunslinger by Stephen King. It’s active, visually beautiful, elegant prose. And one hell of a story start.

Want to write a great poem? Start by telling your story with confidence. Write well. As long as poets sacrifice quality, write with weakness, care only about form—for me:

Poetry is ordinary. Please, tell me a story.


Tell me your story. What do you hear? How do you see?

I appreciate your views even if you prefer your poetry ordinary.

*When I refer to romantic vision of vampire I mean the popular modern view introduced by Bram Stoker including metaphors for passion, s3x, violent er0.ticism. The romantic movement began with Vampyre by Pilodori.

____________________________________________________

I thank the following for inspiration, resources, and increasing my knowledge:
Ad Astra, The Bricoleur, Mindspeak, Odds and Ends and Scattered Bits

Thanks Amy, Mark, Carrie, and Megan. You write fine poetry.