2010 was a busy year for me in the software world, but I did manage to post a couple books to Smashwords and other places. I will continue to write fiction.

2011

This year and beyond, I will post most of my short fiction at www.KandyFangs.com, including going beyond the novella such as this week’s FridayFlash, “Quiet Storm.” This blog will be for news or posts on reading, writing, software, science, or technology. Look for longer fiction at Scribd.

My current projects for this year include:

• Kandy Fangs novella and other stories
• a novel featuring Torre
• iPad development
• Art

Donations

My fiction is free. If you enjoy my stories and feel like donating, you may do so by purchasing an ebook from Smashwords, Amazon, or another retailer. Your purchase also supports these retailers in delivering works by your favorite authors. See Books page for details. Find my ebooks at:

• www.smashwords.com/profile/view/dracotorre
• http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003ZMBRX4

Thanks for your support.

Dawn, the border between worlds. Photo by David G Shrock.

Dreams during my childhood filled my head with visions of wonder, adventures across the cosmos visiting other worlds, traveling back in time. Ghosts were my companions fighting zombies, trekking across ruined landscapes, and docking my spacecraft to orbital stations. Whenever a difficult question emerged, I worked it out with the ghosts by imagining the strange wonders of the cosmos. I made many friends, memories. I met many ghosts.

I still do.

Ghosts, haunting memories, take me where I never imagined as a child. They show me new ways of viewing life and the cosmos. Even while riding my bike across the bridge, looking at the city in Dawn’s splendor, the ghosts are with me pulling me into their land.

Ghosts whisper secrets. I call them ghosts, but they are not dead. They live, their memories burning into the fabric of the cosmos. Torre is one of them.

Writing is not my trade. A writer is not who I am. Telling stories is not a position or a service. It’s what we do. We share our ghosts. I’m a computer scientist with stories consuming my head.

I write for practice. I write for an audience of one, except maybe for Mom as well. Not for recognition, not for money, I never dream of my name on spines of books. Writing is hard. I enjoy visiting new places. Not writing. I write so I don’t forget. Practice improves my writing so I may tell their story with the honor they deserve. I write for them.

I write for her.

After years of exploring, sharing lives together, information builds into a river threatening banks. They want their story told. She needs her story told before the river floods the land washing away dreams leaving ghosts without a home. They need a place to call their own.

I tell their story so in the end, they have a place to stay, their own piece of cosmic fabric to remember them.

Remember her. I write for one.

I write for Torre.

___________________________________________

Why do you write?

a flash story by David G Shrock

Grunting, Sebastian Rhemus hefted the lectern. Even in his big grasp, the oak structure swung like an anvil and clomped onto the floor with a sound of authority.

“Is it centered?”

Sebastian peered over the lectern at the old man standing in the aisle between the pews. Using the man as a reference, Sebastian checked the alignment. “Yes, Father Young.”

Walking the aisle, Father Young waved his cane tapping pews. In his other hand, he held a lantern, the flame inside swirling. Tapping a pew, he stopped. Swinging the lantern around, he faced the wood bench and tapped.

Noticing the pew out of position, Sebastian stepped around the lectern and off the dais, boots thudding on the floor. Everyone expected a giant to help with lifting and reaching. While his father was away he was the biggest man in town.

“Margaret will throw a fit, you know,” said Father Young. He tapped the errant pew. “Everything has to be perfect for her wedding.”

Lifting the pew, Sebastian moved it into position, leg scraping the floor.

“Careful, boy.” Father Young raised the lantern.

Looking at the old man, Sebastian watched the reflection of the flame swirling within the black painted spectacles. He imagined colorless orbs hiding behind the dark lenses. Did the dead eyes see anything at all? Taking the lantern, he lowered the light watching the shadows creep up over the chasms making up the worn old face.

“I have one more task for you.” The old man smiled, the lengthening shadows twisting his face sinister.

Sebastian smiled even if unseen by the blind man. He recalled his father mentioning that a good priest was highly empathic. And Father Young was a good priest; nobody could mask their feelings from him.

Lifting his cane, Father Young pointed at the back corner of the nave. “There on the table,” he said. Lowering the cane, he tapped the floor as he walked. “Found it by the door this morning.”

Setting the lantern on the table, Sebastian looked the box over. Yellow parchment, folded on the sides, hugged the box. Across the top faded print spelled his name.

Looking at Father Young, Sebastian found a straight face. Why did someone deliver the package to the church? Everyone knew the Rhemus house stood at the edge of town.

“Well.” Father Young tapped his cane on the floor. “Don’t hold us in suspense.”

Slipping knife from belt, Sebastian set the blade to the parchment. Glancing over, he watched the lantern light blazing on the dark spectacles. The priest hid his own emotions well, and the dark glasses made reading his face impossible.

“My father isn’t coming back,” said Sebastian. Pressing the blade, he cut into the parchment. The world was a dangerous place, and sometimes travelers never returned.

Always dreading this day, Sebastian slowly ripped the parchment. He had expected a wood box with fancy carvings bearing his father’s possessions. A flimsy package covered in parchment seemed a sacrilege. And delivered home, not left on the church doorstep. Tossing the parchment aside, he removed the lid.

A revolver rested in a cradle of straw.

“Your father was a hunter.”

Sebastian felt the dead eyes burning into him. A chill spilled down his back, and sweat poured from his head.

Father Young clenched his teeth. “A killer.”

Reaching into the box, Sebastian touched the hardwood handle, the cold steel barrel.

Tumbling out of the old weathered hand, bullets jingled onto the table bouncing against the package. “He murdered more than a dozen of my kind.”

Sebastian watched the face harden. The old man lifted the spectacles. Instead of white orbs, Sebastian found golden jewels bursting with dark currents radiating from the center. He stood frozen, staring at the strange eyes.

“Only one question,” said Father Young. “Are you a child of God or your father’s son?”

Glancing over at the bullets, the gun, Sebastian shook his head. What did his father hunt? Men with strange eyes? Looking back at the priest, he studied the gold orbs. They appeared menacing.

Father Young stood strong, gripping the cane like a weapon.

Listening to his own beating heart, Sebastian stared, uncertain about any of this. He saw inside the strong creature, the frail Father Young, the old man that always looked after the town, the same man planning to conduct a wedding in a few hours. How could anyone take a life based on a rumor or a strange pair of eyes? He doubted his father ever did.

Realizing he had made his decision, he took in a deep breath calming his heart. Looking around, he noticed he stood alone. On the table, beside the bullets, an envelope waited.

Opening it, Sebastian found a letter of recommendation from Father Young for admission to university. A prize, it seemed.

At Margaret’s wedding, another priest presided in Father Young’s absence. Everybody had questions, and a few had their own ideas about where Father Young had gone. Sebastian simply shrugged whenever someone asked him. He knew the town had seen the last of Father Young.

The Rhemus house was short two giants. University called.

I began micro-fiction writing earlier this year without any experience in flash fiction after a review of other authors as noted in my previous post. There are many Twitter stories from writers, veterans and beginners, told in their own streams or in Twitter publications. Some stories I don’t understand, and others I might find amusing for subject matter over quality. (See my favorites.) And a tiny few hit the sweet spot: well written lasting impressions with broad appeal, the rare gem. I continue to hone my skill at conciseness.

The editor of @Nanoism, Ben White, searches for the story with “staying power.” See the guidelines for complete details, or try one of the other Twitterzines shown on the right under Microfiction. And read some of their selections to see if your story fits.

This week two of my stories appear in publications: “Lunch Swap” in @Picfic and another school related story in @Seedpodpub.

A selection of my recent attempts from my Twitter feed on the path to the rare gem:

“After erasing the board, Jon took chalk from the mechanical hand. He wrote, “I will not build robots to do my punishment.” #vss ” Posted September 4th, 2009.

“Hearing Jill’s vacation story, Bill crumples his paper. He writes a new story, none of it true. Ms. May has strict rules about plagiarism. ” Posted September 3rd, 2009.

“Quiet, cat-like, ballerinas surround Gary. Poised like poison, their eyes cut into him. Tossing his wallet, Gary runs. ” Posted September 1st, 2009.

“Beauty rests in a glass casket. Silence is bliss. Yearning to hold her, he opens the casket. She rises. The chatter never ends. ” Posted August 16th, 2009.

“Gracefully, the ballerinas twirl at him. Ducking and weaving, he dodges until they surround him. The slashing blades cut like a blender. ” Posted August 14th, 2009.

Nulan

She tells me her name is Draco Torre. I ask her about the masculinity, and she says it’s backward, given name last. Draco, taken later in life, she likes to think of it as more of a title. Names are titles we earn, often early in life, but sometimes later. Torre is her name, Draco her position.

Imprisoned in darkness, chased by a nightmare, lost to time, her story is cold and dark. She is the last of her kind. Nulan, the moon, is her eternal companion. The stars, her enemy, slip across the sky leaving holes in her memory. She tells me her tale is old, some of it recorded in a lost language within the pages of a withering journal she gave away. Much of the rest might be lost with her memory struggling to find the light. She does not want her story told, she tells me. It needs to be told. Somewhere buried within her struggle, among the ghosts, resides the meaning of time itself.

I ask her about time.

“I had to die,” Torre says, “more than once, it seems. To realize. Time is a myth, an ever changing beast.”

Within Torre’s tale resides the history of her lost people, the sacrifices, the struggles, the knowledge. Pulling me in, she shows me her world, memories imprinted on the fabric of the universe. And I recognize it, familiarity growing with each visit. She never found me. In my search for time, I found her within the twisting of her world and mine. Apparently I was there all along, caught in the myth of time.

I write for Torre.

I entered my first writing contest at the age of ten winning the coveted Giant Cookie award. My story was about a pumpkin sprouting green legs and running around the world. A ten year-old knows few details about world travel. How does a pumpkin obtain a passport? Of course, my pumpkin avoided the authorities by stowing away with the luggage and running from everyone. I did my research inspecting my globe and asking my mother, an experienced world traveler, many questions. The story turned out long (for a ten year-old) of more than twenty handwritten pages. Circling the globe is a long journey, afterall.

The decision was so close that the judges chose two stories for first place, awarding a giant cookie to each author, and I shared first place with a good friend. The top four winning authors took turns reading their stories to the class. Afterward, I enjoyed my giant chocolate chip cookie,  nearly the size of a cookie sheet. Awards for second and third were smaller, equally delicious, cookies. Between bites, my friend and I congratulated each other on winning first place without any argument over which story was the best. We were content with not having to share a cookie, although we did compare cookies making sure they were of roughly equivalent size.

Neil Gaiman might enjoy his Hugo for The Graveyard Book, but is it as tasty as the Giant Cookie? On Twitter, @neilhimself (Gaiman) says he will win a pie if The Graveyard Book remains a top ten bestseller for the 52nd consecutive week [NY Times, Childrens chapter books.] That pie will be a special award indeed.

The original pumpkin story is no longer in my possession, but much of the story still resides within my memory. Instead of re-writing the story, I plan on writing a new adventure for my pumpkin, Jack. Check back later for an announcement.

[Update: "Runaway Jack" is my new story based on this original contest story.]

Twitter gives authors a means to share micro-fiction constrained by the 140-character limit, an exercise in conciseness. Fiction across Twitter appears as poetry, serials, and single micro-fiction tales including a few six-word stories. Tweet the Meat offers a dollar—generous considering the word count—for publishing horror micro-fiction.

My goal is to tweet a few micro-fiction stories each week. They mix with other posts, so here are a few of my attempts including two of exactly 140 characters:

“Gliding on toes, she danced along the path. A werewolf crept, waited. He asked about her day. Smiling, she offered wine and went on her way.” Posted June 10th, 2009.

“Night wore a dress of darkness gliding over the land. Ushering Sleep and Death, she chased after Dusk, shadow in hand. ” Posted June 18th, 2009.

“As Luna met Sol for midday tea, Dawn hugged Dusk in the shadow-night. The tea too brief, Dawn found her arms empty on the far side of Night. ” Posted June 19th, 2009.

For other micro-fiction, see the following authors: @arjunbasu, @twae sometimes incorporates physics, @midnightstories posts precisely at midnight central time, @trapphic has a web page on micro-fiction, @mythmashed tells a story one tweet at a time, and @VeryShortStory.

Publishers:  @tweetthemeat, @Nanoism, @Outshine, and @thaumatrope.

Many more authors reside on Twitter. Find others by checking out following and favorite lists of those listed above. Some mix stories with other posts, but several have a dedicated feed for stories.

Try a 140-character story in the comments or tweet.

Red and white flashed across the lawn, against the front of the homes. Trees on each side cast shadows in varying directions. Flickering red to white, shadows leaped back and forth. A cool gust whistled through the branches. Parked at the curb, a red rescue truck sat, diesel engine rumbling. White and red globes twirled atop the truck, one on each side, casting light in every direction. Before the truck, an amber glow washed the street.

Nearly lost in the darkness in the center of a street well ahead of the rescue vehicle, a black hatchback rested askew. Each flash of red and white revealed the shady vehicle. The right headlight, shattered,  the windshield, opaque and cracked, buckled in at the bottom passenger side, a round web of splintered glass stretching out to the edges. Beside the car, a bicycle wheel—bent with broken spokes—leaned over the curb crushing azaleas. A spray of bark dust lay scattered onto the brittle lawn.

Resting against the curb beyond the front of the rescue truck, a white plush puppy stared up at the sky above. Black ears drooped outward over the curb. Within each black eye, the red and white pulsating lights glistened. Arms outstretched, its little legs rested at the end of a dark stream. Running along the curb, the stream filled crevices in the street creating a jagged edge. A narrow flow inside a twisting crack in the road connected the curb stream with a pool in the center of the road. A white basket, mangled and torn, rested near the front of the rescue truck at the edge of the pool staining the bottom red. A toy elephant, a pink ribbon around its neck, rested at the edge of the basket with its head peeking out, long floppy trunk dipping into the dark pool. Three feet from the basket, a small canvas shoe with oversized loop laces sat alone. The white flash revealed pink canvas. Red flash turned the shoe a dark crimson.

Dad set the telescope on the driveway. Unfolding, the rickety tripod clanged into position. It wobbled on its feet, slender tube drooping. Dad scanned the sky, looking over the first few stars awakening in the fading light. He knew the major constellations and could recognize several planets, but not much more. This was his first time, too. Hunched over, he lifted the tube aiming into the southern sky and peered into the eyepiece.

Watching, I waited. He nudged the scope, turned a knob at the base of the eyepiece. Looking at the sky, I saw a bright gleam floating in the deep azure. I asked him what he was looking at. Head bobbing, he switched between peering down the length of the tube and into the eyepiece. He adjusted a knob. Rising up, he stepped back.
Slinking up to the instrunment, I followed directions. Nearly the same height as the telescope, I only had to lean over a bit to peer into the tiny opening at the back. A shining blob caught my eye. It wiggled within the view as I wobbled on my feet.

“It’s Saturn,” he said.

I had seen photographs of Saturn in a magazine. The blob inside the telescope appeared nothing like the planet on the glossy pages. I gazed at something shaped more like a squished ball. Holding my breath, keeping still, I gazed into the eyepiece. The slender oval drifted sideways. And I saw it. The tips on either side of the round center were rings. Staring at it, details emerged. Nearly lost in a blur, two specks of darkness marked the space between the rings on either side of the planet. Peering up, I looked at the bright gem in the sky. Saturn, I thought.

Realizing destinations filled the sky, the world expanded around me.
The hunger took over. I had to know more. Pouring over books at the library, I absorbed it all. But never too much at a time. After each section, each small bite, I thought it over. The numbers and other data became images in my mind. But everything seemed so big. The schoolyard became a scale model, basketball sun at one end and a marble Saturn at the other. Walking from the basketball to the tiny blue plastic bead planet, I imagined the trip. Eight minutes for light, a few less for my feet. Looking back at the basketball, I saw the sun. Peering the other way, beyond the other end of the football field, I spotted where the marble rested in the grass. I saw Saturn. My eyes opened and questions poured in. What kept everything together?

“It’s gravity,” Dad said. Explaining the force holding my feet to the ground, he told me the same force held the planets in orbit. I argued that a force is physical like pulling a wagon. “An invisible force,” he said. It sounded like magic. A good story, but it did not sit well with me. Not one bit.

It never sat well with Newton, according to a book. The implication was in the mathematics tested by observation. But what caused the force? Spinning a bucket over my head held the water inside, but my arm and bucket were real, a physical force. And the book pointed out that Mercury did not play by the rules of the invisible force story. Predictions of positions lost accuracy over time. The problem simmered in my head for years while I read books and thought about other problems. I took small bites, imagined the meanings, asked questions. My skills improved as each answer revealed tougher questions. Sitting in the car while picturing planetary orbits, the answer leaped into my thoughts.

Dad listened to my explanation. I told him that objects followed natural pathways within the fabric of space warped by the objects themselves. Newton’s mathematics relating gravity to a force was only an approximation. Gravity was not a force like twirling a bucket of water.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” he said. Wise words, I questioned everything. But his bites of knowledge were less frequent. I was on my own.

A book on relativity, requiring small doses of reading and long hours of imagining, confirmed my suspicion. This different story and its mathematics predicted Mercury with high accuracy. I never shared this with Dad. We talked about comet hunting and viewing planets. Problems twirled through my head as I worked them out on my own. Everyone has their own pace, their own hunger.

In a park after sunset, I set up my new telescope. The heavy instrument whirred on its motors tracking the sky, revealing Saturn in clear detail. No longer a squished ball, the object in the eyepiece appeared much like the photos in the magazine. Within the rings, Cassini’s Division carved a black line. Above the rings, two hazy stripes-cloud belts-crossed the planet. A couple walked up and asked what I was looking at.

“It’s Saturn,” I said. Sometimes folks asked more questions, and I answered them in small handfuls. Knowledge is best served a bite at a time. The couple did not ask any questions, and I only offered instruction on peering into the eyepiece. They marveled at the details, their small bite, and went on their way.

Take small bites, savor each delight.