Her Golden Aura

Flash fiction is supposed to be 1,000 words or less, but when sffworld first started running their flash contests, they were a little lax about that. This story is one I submitted for April of (I think) 2009 and it's 1250 words. I'm posting it here for giggles, but if I got comments on it one way or the other (I take criticism well) it would be splendid.

Her Golden Aura

The Goddess forbade communicating with the dead. The souls of her people were drawn to her holy gate for an eternity of bliss. To call them back meant to deprive them of her glory and pollute the spirits of the living. The zealots warned that Kuipes should not even handle the bodies of the deceased, “lest their spirits cling to the attendant hands.” When the Empire was alive, that task was left to other humans.

Dr. Tulu was now well on the way to a godless abyss. He had been asked by his captain to autopsy a corpse found on the bridge of a frozen ship that had been drifting for centuries. He could not refuse without explanation. 

Like a nightmare parable, the spirit of the dead man had woken. It left its decomposing husk and attached itself to him. Now it haunted him.

(I’m not a spirit.)

So it claimed.

(I’m not a dead Kuipe. I was Anul’s companion. We met in the deep. He…acquired me. He lived his span, then died. I had nowhere to go until you touched him. You are as devotedly deluded as he, I see.)

Perfect. The dead Anul consorted with demons and damned himself in the deep, then died and let the demon find a new Kuipe to corrupt.

(Determined to be miserable, aren’t you?)

Misery already defined Tulu’s life. His people, long rulers of this ungrateful spattering of planets, had been overthrown two centuries ago, outlawed and hunted to near extinction. Survivors hid themselves among other humans to wait for signs from their now silent Goddess.

(Too busy for her children? Tsk.)

Tulu winced and leaned forward in the uncomfortable chair, wishing he had never broken the taboo that invited this fiend.

(Cast more insult and I won’t save you.)

“It’s a test, Dr. Tulu.” The interrogator looked bored. He had been through this already with most of the crew. Docking with a Kuipe Deep-Systems ship in tow was a guarantee for military investigation, but there was a huge reward for them still on the books.

“What kind of test?” 

“Tell me what this is.” The interrogator slid a photograph across the bare metal table.

“A picture.”

“What do you see in the picture?” The interrogator’s name badge said “Hook,” ironically enough. “Don’t leave anything out.”

(This is a trap.)

Tulu already knew it was a trap. Hook was hunting live Kuipes that might have infiltrated the crew. What he could not understand was the usefulness of a picture.

(Damn. Because you can’t see her.)

“What?”

“What is this a picture of, Dr. Tulu?” Hook growled.

(You cannot see her. He can.)

“Her?” Tulu could not track who said what for a moment. The slip was fortunate. The interrogator looked a little less tense. 

(Good catch. But winning this will take more than luck.)

Damn, demon! Tulu thought. Why is “her” something good to say?

Tulu’s mental argument must have made him look flustered. Hook frowned as he leaned back in his chair. He was still suspicious. “Describe what you see.”

(Her. Capital H. Your goddess. We have a problem.)

It seemed cruel that the demon would not assist him.

(That’s the problem. I don’t have eyes. I have to use yours. And yours only prove what you are.)

Tulu did not know what to do.

(Stall. Talk about anything but the picture.)

“What the hell is this stupid picture supposed to prove?” Tulu found himself nervously twisting the plain gold ring he wore as his only religious token. They were common enough. Non-Kuipes did not understand the significance of the metal.

“Describe what you see,” Hook said.

“I need to understand what kind of test this is.” Tulu was amazed to find himself pulling off the ring. His nerves never got that bad.

“Why?” Hook let the accusation hang unspoken.

“Because! Because I’m a scientist. I’m a doctor. Tests have to make sense to me. And I’ve never seen this t-type of test before.” Horror shot through him as the ring flicked out of his fingers and rolled across the table. “I--sorry--I spent a lot of time studying these sorts of things. In psychology. In school.”

Hook was unfazed. He caught the ring before it rolled off the table, pinched it between his thumb and finger and stared at its surface. “What do you see in the picture?”

“Uh, could I…?” Tulu put his hand out. “Sorry. Nerves, I guess.”

Hook handed the ring back without hesitation.

(The picture is of a woman in a stone courtyard, looking at the camera.)

Tulu was astounded. The demon must have travelled from one man to the other through the ring. Strange that it would come back.

(I like you.)

“Anyway. It’s a picture of a woman in a courtyard looking into the camera.” He could plainly see it was not; that there was no woman there.

(Say exactly what I tell you, no matter what.)

“Go on,” Hook said.

(There are climbing vines behind her. She has strange eyes.)

“There’s vines, and…” He tried to disguise a deep breath. “Strange eyes on her.”

(She looks very composed. She is calm.)

Calm—a word that carried religious weight. It was close to one of Her titles. “She’s composed…caalmm.”

(She’s surrounded by a glowing aura.)

“Ack!” The demon was describing the Goddess. Describing her plainly, like an object!

(Maintain yourself! Say there’s a light flare.)

“Sorry! Little hair or something.”

(There’s an effect to the picture.)

“Th-there’s a lighting effect.”

Hook’s voice was cold. “Do you see any colour?”

(It’s yellow.)

Something snapped inside Tulu, something basic. He wondered if this was how Kuipes died at the hands of captors. How could he possibly survive?

(Call it mustard.)

Mustard was a food product from Earth. He almost wept with relief, since Her Holy Golden Self wore no condiments. “Mustard.”

“Mustard…?”

“Wouldn’t you say? Look, how much longer is this test supposed to go on? Do you want the fine details of the species of vine, or the style of…her dress?”

(Hush. Only lucky if he does not. Say no more.)

Hook smiled thinly. “A guard will escort you back to your ship.”

Tulu remained silent until he was back in his cabin. Inside his head, his dance with sin tore at his soul.

(Far too melodramatic.)

He had nothing more on hand than his fist to pound the wall. “That was a test of religion!” he whispered harshly.

(Almost correct: your “goddess” gave you a biological imperative. You cannot perceive her.)

He flung himself onto his narrow bench. “It’s forbidden.”

(Forbidden to try. Impossible to do. You are modified humans, built to worship, hard-wired not to see her, not to believe her image can be perceived, portrayed, even described.)

“There really was a woman in that picture?” 

(Predominantly.)

He stared at the opposing mirror. He saw himself clearly enough, dishevelled and exhausted. “It was a courtyard…vines…”

(Background details. One assumes Kuipes get caught up listing everything but the woman. Effective test: simple, portable and a dead give-away.)

Tulu was fighting a growing nausea that began during the interrogation. “I could…almost see…something…towards the end.”

(Interesting. Perhaps it is less a test, and more a conversion technique.)

It was then Tulu lost the contents of his stomach. This was the moment, he would remember later, when his soul was finally and truly wrenched from Her Golden Aura.

(Oh, please. So melodramatic.)

Violence and the Modern Comic

I recently attended the Calgary Comic and Entertainment Expo. Not my first time at a major con, but certainly my first time trapped like a herring in one.

—Seriously, sent round and round in circles:
"Can I get out this exit?"
"No." Points to the right. "Go out the corral."
Goes right. "Can I get out this exit?"
"No." Points to the right. "Go out the corral."
Goes right. Reaches the end of the auditorium. "I'm leaving."
"Can't get out this way." Points left. "Go out the corral."
"Where the hell's the corral?!"
Points diagonally through the massive crowd to the opposite corner of the building which was much closer to the first attempt door and DEFINITELY NOT LEFT. "It's over there."—

When I say this was a big event, I'm saying it was nuts. They were expecting 30,000 people and got 50,000 or something like that. It was wall to wall geek, standing room only freak, complete with outrageous costumes, unending lines, deafening sound effects, massive art, expensive indulgences in fandom and unnervingly polite behaviour from just about everybody.

Gathering the ST TNG stars all in one locale was probably under appreciated as a draw. It was rather a neat thing to happen and I'm sure a lot more casual fans turned out just to see it.  But the con has apparently been getting bigger and bigger just on its own. It's not that old according to the locals. Edmonton's predates it, but is growing at a much steadier pace.

source: wikipedia

Regardless, I was there to see who might sell my book or be interested in my other work, so spent the majority of my time walking the venders' floor. There were little successes, little frustrations and a lot of trepidation as I made my way from booth to booth.

I knew these folks were busy, so I stayed polite and waited for customers to be served. When reception was good, it was great. When not, well, it's a good thing that I already believe that the Simpson's Comic Book Guy is a real person who has been (un)successfully cloned or I might have come out of there convinced there was something wrong with me.

I came across this booth where nobody was standing. There were two older women inside amid a lot of books. Turns out they represented Alberta Libraries. It's not as sad as it sounds, all the booths like this one were finding it hard to attract attention. If you weren't selling costumes or comics or action figures, offering the services of hollywood horror makeup or (I kid you not) fantasy escort "for a night that is out of this world" you were ignored.

I stopped and we started talking. They were impressed that their local convention had drawn people from as far away as Fredericton. I didn't tell them about the folks from California I'd been speaking with an hour before. I learned on Sunday and Monday that Calgarians were genuinely surprised by their raging success (sometimes out of control) convention.

I was lucky to get inside both days. Lots of people who bought passes were turned away. Once in, regardless of how tired or hungry I got, I had to stay or risk not getting back in. There were huge lines for everything, including the overpriced food (plate with potato chips, pulled pork sandwich and pop=$12; regular coffee, prepackaged muffin=$4.56). When I needed to rest I went to a panel discussion—not the Steampunk ones I wistfully wanted to see, because the line up to get into them was an hour at least and that sometimes didn't get you in the door.

So, there sat I, one of possibly twenty people listening to a publisher (Avatar Press) talk about how writers and artists can break into the field, specifically through them. Big FYI for you, they meant artists for the writers they already have. New writers with no artist have no real chance at all.

That's cool. But I might be interested in getting a comic published. What could I do? I learned from their long list of published examples that I need to write something violent, comedic and/or full of sexual innuendo. Sigh. Comics are indeed a teenaged boy realm.

That's okay. I have a couple of characters who are inclined to violence.  They're not all that funny, and one of them is utterly asexual, but hey. The wheels started turning. By the time I was wrapping up my rounds for the day I had a general idea of plot and setting. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could find myself an artist ('cause, you know, writers aren't worth a pinch of poo) and work something up.

But, as violent as my characters can get, I have never set out to write the story equivalent of chum (slimy, bloody bait to stir up a shark's hunger). I don't see it happening now.

Read Me

Lucky for me, I met another publisher in the venders' aisles. Edge and Tesseract Books are Canadian and both really one publisher. I went to their booth for reading material (which I found, Tesseracts 13 is very good) and ended up wanting to submit to them.

But what I have ready at the moment are all short stories and these folks are looking for novels.

Aha.

A new place for my would-be violent comic series, with a whole lot less violence, a lot more SF action and poor Flame gets to keep her modesty. Best of all, I can do it on my own. No artist required. No offence there artists, but you know how complicated these partnership projects can be.

Mud, Sludge, Mugs, and a Skull

I've been attending the New Brunswick College of Craft and Design. First a studio in photography, then ceramics. It's been interesting. Ceramics was the hardest to get a grip on (yeah, pun's intended…slippery mud's like that). I had to grow patience for it at the same time I was learning to be quick about getting it done. It's like the worst of being crew on a movie "hurry up!…and wait."

Clay dries while you're trying to fashion it into something less lumpy, heavy or ugly than what you've got so far. It weakens into a floppy failure if you work too hard to smooth out the unwanted textures of the canvas you flattened it in or some misguided pattern tool. It becomes uselessly loose when you lay on the water that will make it work in your hands. The contradiction is intentional. I think it's supposed to weed out the weak.

Don't try to figure out the lumps in front. They make no sense.

My first mug was overly tall and overly narrow, patterned with well-intentioned, but seriously ugly jewellery and heavy as a weapon.

What the heck am I supposed to do with this? Pencil holder, you say? I got me one of those. Got a couple. They're plastic and from the '70's, so are slightly less ugly. Easier to clean, too.

I don't want to discuss it.

My second run at the task left me with four mugs Dianna calls "The Flintstone cups" that are also too heavy, glazed with teeth-chipping grit and charming only in the words they spell. They are the perfect example of a good idea gone terribly wrong.

I'm sorry Jennalee. You were great to help me with these, but they aren't working out. Want them? Yeah. Thought so.


My third batch of mugs (three, rather than four, because I was running out of clay, time and steam) were planned diligently, executed carefully, detailed lovingly and glazed with great care and trepidation. I can only assume the glaze came out splendid. I'll never know for sure, because while I was away promoting my book they were stolen from the racks. Grrr!

First: You have no idea how hard it is not to hex my wayward mugs into poisoning their abductors.
Second: I'm a little flattered, if inconvenienced. My mug-making finally made it to the level of theft worthy. Thanks. I'm touched.



Regardless, while I was working out the how's and why's of mug manufacturing, I figured out I'd been taught everything I needed to know to make a ceramic skull. So I did.

Now, this was fun!

His cranium is from slab (as opposed to "thrown" on a potter's wheel) made into a cylinder, a bottom sealed on and paddled into the round. A top was sealed on and paddled roundish, too. It had three holes that I eventually worked into eye sockets and a nose hole. Everything but the mandible is applied like handles—that would be the maxilla, the nasal bones and the zygomatic bones (cheek bones)—then worked and carved into realistic shapes. Call the lower mandible a lid and I've followed my instructor's lessons to the letter. He didn't mark it, though. I had to make lids for my now missing mugs to get all my projects done. I still have the lids. Bonus.

I started a blog to…um…blog

If you're wondering why the dearth of entries, it's because I delete almost every post I sit down to write. The rest I save in a growing pile of "Can't post that until "*"" files that are starting to impact my computer's hard drive—a hard drive I darn near lost last week. The fact is, I don't know what to say that isn't either completely over the top or utterly random. What I write that's completely over the top is boring…and, I think, borders on arrogant.

I firmly believe I am in this life to learn humility. I'll post about that someday. In the mean time, I have to go with column B or leave this blogging business to the professionals and blowhards (an approach that has thus far caused me nothing but anxiety).

So. Utterly random. I actually do that rather prolifically. Buckle up. There are going to be a few sharp turns and some rather steep inclines. Take now. I'm inclined to talk about pottery.

So I wrote this book.

I guess if you know me through facebook or have been anywhere within shouting distance lately, you know this next bit and you might want to skip down to where I start talking about Hal-Con—'cause that's pretty exciting and you don't want to miss it. But for those (I’m dreaming in plurals now) who don’t know, I need to catch you up on a fairly significant step in my plan to take over the world.

I wrote a book.

Specifically, this book:

 Again, for those who haven’t seen it, the description of the story, which is divided into four issues, is as follows:

All that Remains: A magician prince wakes up inside a church's reliquary without his army, empire, weapons or even flesh on his bones. What is left of his memory barely holds intact long enough to help him escape. But where on Earth can a skeleton hide?

Where There’s a Will…: Prince Magus Sical, on the run from both the law and the church, has taken refuge in the home of two hostages. He uses all he has left, his magic infused bones, to search for clues to how he died and how he might return.

Culture Clash: Where does a dead prince with a penchant for the arcane fit in? The Goth scene will never be the same once it's drawn into the war between the undead and the self righteous.

Blood, Fire & Brimstone: In a battle between enemies of conviction there can be no walls left standing, no followers left free, no pawns left alive. Sical comes full circle in his quest to destroy everything that stands between him and his throne. But is he leading, or being led? Is he freeing himself from death, or being bound yet again to his mortal doom?

The description of the structure of it is another piece of information you’re going to need:

It's an exploration of comic book storytelling through prose. There is no line art in the book, but its layout, formatting and punctuation follows all the usual comic book traditions. Some people have called it a graphic(less) novel, others an un-comic. I'm not so handy at making up a term for it, but the simplest one word description is that it is a hybrid. It's available through Broken Jaw Press, some comic book stores and some book stores. 

Now we get to some pretty nifty new stuff.

I went to Hal-Con mid month in order to show my book around to the people who might help me get the word out about it. Well, it wasn’t like somebody had to beg me to go. I love comic and SF conventions. I like the panel discussions, the wacky events and the vender booths. I LOVE the costumes and how freely and frequently they are donned. But I think the most attractive thing about cons is the ease I feel talking to nearly everybody there. We’re all geeks. We’re all just a little nutty. Whether we know each other personally or not doesn’t matter. There are things we can talk about immediately upon meeting each other. So, I was pretty psyched to go.

 I had heard that Ajay Fry, Teddy Wilson and Cynthia Loyst, the hosts of the Space Channel’s SF movie, gaming and comics review magazine show “Inner Space” were going to be there. Not only do I adore them, I also wanted to show them my book. I wanted them to say “Hey, this is something new!” In my daydreams I was able to slip past their entourage, or compete with the crowd of nerds to buttonhole them after a panel discussion. Either way, I gave myself a couple of seconds to get their attention and hoped they’d respond well.

I didn’t see them on the first day, but on Sunday it was like magic happened. I was walking down one of the main halls when I saw the three of them standing on the other side of the archway to a panel room. They were in front of a banner for pictures with con attendees. I just walked through, got a hug from Teddy, and somebody said “turn around, we’ll get a picture.” There’s a shot of a slightly stunned Tristis standing among the suave and beautiful T.V.Land folk in the Hal-Con gallery. 

 I’m only linking it because…well…it is what it is.

So we’re standing there and they’re being their charming best, and there’s a little gap in the attendee parade, so I ask about how their show handles book reviews and they tell me that the producers usually set those up. I think they were prepared for me to suggest something as a fan of some obscure author, because they were totally surprised when I said “Well, things are going to get a little awkward, then, because I wrote a book.” I reached into my bag and dug it out.

I think the initial response was charitable and polite delight—the kind of generous enthusiasm a good host shows for anything put in front of them before any actual pressure to recommend or represent is felt.

Then they cracked it open and went a little nuts. That was cool. They were excited and interested and kept asking me if anybody had done anything like this before. Then Ajay asked me if it was already available in stores. When I said it was, he asked me to shake his hand and give consent to put it on the segment “New on the Shelves” and I told him he could do whatever he wanted with it. 

Long-story-cut-a-wee-bit-short(er) On November 16^th  2011, Bones of the Magus: All That Remains was one of the featured releases on a show that airs across Canada. There is something like fifteen seconds about my book and how interesting the design is. It’s the best quarter minute I’ve had in a while. I had the giggles all afternoon after seeing it. I don’t know why the end result of this daydream is so surprising, but it is. I’m giggling now…it’s still a surprise.

Totally worth the drive to Halifax.

Steam is cool!

Why is Steampunk cool?

It's the shiny shiny gears. It's the smooth curve of the pipes. It's the Victorian lace and whimsy. It's the magic that has to be at the heart of a brass gadget that can fly, shoot a death ray, navigate submarinely, or be artificially intelligent. 

It’s been around for a while, although not necessarily by name. I read Neil Gaiman's Books of Magic in the nineties and that had some memorable steampunk bits. 

BoM 11, Mar 95

Last weekend (Nov 12-13), I was at Hal-Con, my first SF/comic convention in over a decade, and was astounded at how much steampunk was there. I hadn't realized there had been such a shift, but I suppose ten years can do that to a scene. I think the last time I was at a con, was in Toronto. It was nearly floating in a bright-haired, school-uniformed sea of anime. 

Don't get me wrong. There's a lot of cute anime out there, and I've read enough manga to appreciate (and maybe even know…?) who the cos players are playing. But it was very very cool, and very comfortable to see all the steampunk stuff.

Gears, brass weights and springs are old friends of mine. I've always loved clocks. I like the workings of them. Really any kind of gear machine will hold my attention. I've made up a few that I might try to assemble someday. They don't have much in the way of purpose, they'd just be moving art.

Mine. From a scrapyard field trip.

I'll probably never make an actual working steam or clockwork machine, but I have an itch to write in this genre, now…or maybe it's to draw it. Sculpt it? I don't know. Christmas is coming. If your present from me ticks you’ll know it’s from the heart.

BoM 11 again

Day One (This is Tomorrow)

I've been meaning to start this blog for some time. I've been busy and this just seemed like the only thing I could let drop. It wasn't a crisis in its nonexistence. After all, an unmade blog is not so bad as a neglected blog. I felt I should only start it when I could be attentive to it. I decided that I should start one "tomorrow" a few weeks back, also last week and a few days ago, yesterday and about two hours ago.

Bite the bullet, Tristis. This is tomorrow.

So, for my inaugural post, an introduction by way of explanation:
This blog is mostly going to be about writing and the projects I'm working on. Only, I can't promise to keep it that simple. There are too many things that interest me and the urge to write about them will always trump the desire to keep to a simple goal. Some days I am going to want to talk about photography or mushrooms or my dead aunts.

Speaking of dead aunts:
My aunt Myrtle used to run a rooming house in this old victorian that belonged to her husband's family.

sigh…

Yesterday morning I was on the other side of the river when I saw a pillar of smoke and an orange glow on the south side. I drove over and was saddened to see that this place I had never found the time to explore and photograph was in the process of being lost.

The moral here? I guess it's: never put off to tomorrow…