More prose! MORE PROSE!!!

Totally behind on my blog somehow, so I'm making up for it now. All aboard for another prose! I am sorry if that last bit of language in my prose offended anyone. I generally believe that language almost never fits in the descriptive areas of a story and is only genuinely welcome within the bounds of dialog, so when I write dialog, sometimes I write strong language in with it. Certainly, there are times when there are going to be compelling reasons to have language within poetry, or even the non-dialog prose, but I think it has to fit the overall story, where the dialog has only to fit a particular person. For whatever reason, I generally remove all the complication from the equation by removing the dialog entirely.

And don’t get me wrong here--I don't hate dialog. As a matter of fact, I love dialog. I simply divorced my short stories from the stuff long ago to develop my weakening story telling ability. It's very easy for me to fall into a crutch where the language drives the story, but the dialog goes nowhere and therefore the story goes nowhere. Without dialog, one can focus much more intensely on a story. Stories I have about girls flying kites in the night, or Sammy, the adventurous young lady have a distinct lack of dialog, but they progress as though they do--Especially Sammy. It has been some time since I wrote dialog into a short story, and that last attempt was possibly my first attempt after banning dialog. I think I will try to better the two sides together for the remainder of this semester. Also, sorry I write such boring entries before my work. I hope you know by now that you are more than welcome to skip right over it all: It's why I separate the paragraph chunks by a page break and then a clear story title--you can hop straight to the story, and, if it's too long, you can lose interest and move on to someone else who can more readily captivate you with less words and better diction. Without further ado, I give you my latest, and perhaps greatest, short story.

Obsidian Triumvirate Meeting

Somewhere out in the cold and swirling galaxy

By: David Mathis

The walls were a sharp black—glossy—highly reflective. They refracted the light of tiny star pinpricks when they were close to windows, like these walls were. The points of light looked like mineral deposits in a cutaway of Earth’s crust if the soil was black as Lucifer’s heart and coated with a glossy finish. Voldorf looked down into a holographic image that burned red, tinting the black walls with blood. The redness bloomed in his eyes like two atom bomb bursts, filling his face with the stark contrast of deep shadow. A bandanna fell across his nose and mouth, leaving only the smoldering embers of his eyes to very nearly cast their own light. He sat in a high-backed chair with a certain air of delicate intensity almost looking as though with a simple glance, he owned the room, understood the parts that held it together, and simultaneously believed he could have built it better. His hands were folded neatly into each other like cloth dinner napkins and he spoke clearly despite the interfering bandanna.

“I understand you have a proposition, Mr. Sirith.”

“I do. It is an ambitious plan to say the least—extremely risky. It would require a touch of finesse that I fully believe we—as a team—can handle. But I need full cooperation from the both of you, even if you aren’t technically part of the company, Commodore,” Sirith looked to the final person sitting at the table. He was Commodore Sam. Commodore Sam spoke and his voice was deep with the gravel of thunder.

“You know I’m loyal.”

Commodore Sam reclined in his chair, cradled his beloved revolver in his big hands with intimate familiarity. His eyes blazed electric blue; the pupils reflected the pinpricks of stars just like the black walls, only his pupils were like the shadow of a lake at night with the reflection of street lights held inside. No matter how softly he spoke, the bass of his voice rumbled the air like the coming of a storm. He wore a thick raincoat.

Sirith spoke again as he pulled a small card from his pocket and slipped it into the holo projector’s slot. It made a soft metallic click which reverberated off the high, cold ceiling.

“The Silver Sun Corporation has decided to take Earth. Intelligence reports indicate that the company has moved a large armada into Earth airspace. It is presumed that their leader, Mr. Bishop, is attempting to transform Earth into his capital. Our spy network has him down for no solidified plan as of yet. He’s going to play it by ear as always, and this leaves us with a certain window of opportunity to exploit a few well-constructed plans,” a blood-red diagram erupted from the projector in the form of a three dimensional Earth surrounded by small fighter ships and larger battle ships. Zooming out, the Sol system came into view, and beyond that, a massive fleet. “We’re attacking our own home world.” The room sat in silence.

The soft thrum of the holo projector became glaringly obvious and the crimson-etched shadows on the impossibly black walls looked like vultures bending towards a dead carcass. Sirith’s pristinely white armor plates seemed to glow, but even they were glazed over with molten ruby. Seeing that the men were stunned, Sirith opened his mouth, speaking once more.

“The moment Bishop takes Earth as his capital, we are faced with two major issues. First issue is that we are going to have a tough time striking at Bishop’s heart. The second issue is that all the attention of any enemy Bishop has ever made is going to be focused on Earth. We will be unable to manage a full-scale onslaught against Earth if Bishop is the only person holding the line. So, our choice is simple: we break the infrastructure and force a mass exodus to outlying human colonies. Operation: Shatter the Earth. It will be ambitious, but necessary.”

Voldorf stood up and walked over to the huge window which was filled with nothing but stars. He stood with his back to the table. All that could be seen of him was a silhouette against the stars—like the vague outline of mountains on the horizon, cut into the morning mist. His breath spread fog across the glass which receded to almost nothing between gusts and he tapped his foot incessantly. It was a long time before he turned back to the table and entered the hot glow of the projector again, but when he did, his eyes flashed with flame and embers. He sat down gently.

“Well, Mr. Sirith. What does this plan entail?”

The three men sat for some time, planning the fate of Earth. When they rose from the table, hours later, it would be with clear plans, but laden consciences. In a few weeks’ time, these three men would do the unthinkable for the good of all.

Bitches don't know me!!!

I hear word on the street is that I don't do dialog. I feel that dialog isn't always a necessary plot device and that a story can operate within normal bounds without the hindrance of talking. As a result, my short stories take a minimalist approach when it comes to spoken interaction and I instead place a higher focus on progression of events. In the world of short stories--at least ones as short as I write--I feel like for dialog to be a part of the story, it has to drive the story somehow. All this nonsense is just to say that while I both like and appreciate dialog, I generally save it for longer works. Having said that, I hope you will enjoy my employment of dialog in this here short story (hey, busting out short story after short story is harder than busting out repeated poems even if I prefer the short stories to the poems. Juss' sayin').

Just some background on the story here: Lightning Brian is a guy I work with. I gave him the nickname, because we have three Brians at work and all my coworkers always called him LB, which is short for Little Brian. I decided that I would change LB to mean Lightning Brian, and I am now working on developing my art style into a comic book style, where I will then make a comic book about him. Switching gears so hard into a primarily pen and ink art style where I am more used to a charcoal-heavy style has been interesting, but fun. I decided I should probably start writing some stuff for the comic book. Have at it.

Lightning Brian: A Chronicle to Remember

By: David Mathis

The soft scraping sound of a person who has a tendency to drag the feet alerted Lightning Brian that someone was coming. Lightning Brian was sitting with his back to the wall in an abandoned building, the chewed-out ceiling pulp piled in the corners like stalagmites. Behind him, the tangled lines of graffiti spelled out something illegible--it vaguely looked like "Froze" but it was probably something completely different. The soft scraping noise came to a halt and a hooded figure filled the door, but only half as much as a normal man could. He had a certain slim quality that seemed odd at first. His name was Armless Justice. He was a hero in Lightning Brian's eyes, though he tended to work with a certain air of secrecy so that not many people knew him. Armless Justice's hood fell back seemingly of its own accord, and a handsome face greeted Lightning Brian. Armless Justice's eyes were sullen and empty as normal. The ladies always said that he was pretty to look at until you got to his blank eyes. His eyes had been bled colorless by the obsidian underbelly of the city--he had seen things terrible and sickening; some argued that with each passing day, he became more like the enemy he fought. Those same people argued he would kill himself someday when he realized the monster he had become, or else be killed by a hero who was still noble enough to put the beast down. A chair slid out from the blackness of a corner of the room and Armless Justice sat down. He locked Lightning Brian into a hard stare before he opened his mouth. His words were heavy and cynical.

"Fuckin' hell, Brian. I heard old lizard head got snuffed.

"Yeah," Brian was staring at his untied shoelace. "He did."

"Heard it was you who did it. Heard you blew out half the windows in his office building."

Lightning Brian pulled a cigarette from an oversized coat pocket and put it in his mouth with unsteady hands. He flicked his finger slightly and a spark of electricity erupted--lit the cigarette as Lightning Brian inhaled. The knuckles on his right hand were blackened with bruises and crisscrossed with tracks of dried blood crusted over, but still new. Lightning Brian blew words wreathed in smoke.

"Well I didn't blow most of them--maybe a few. Damn, though. I almost caught a bullet--lots of bullets. All his guards had guns. I didn't know what to do," Lightning Brian looked shaken, but he kept talking "The league sent me on the mission. I didn't know what they--what I was up against. I thought he was small-time, you know? I thought he was a pushover. I--It was rough. He was part of some underground crime ring. Shipping a new experimental drug to some people around--not anyone I heard of at the league."

"You sound like an idiot. Own your assignments and control your collateral damage better next time. The league has to pay for property damages, which means your paycheck may come up a little short this month," Armless Justice stood up and his trench coat fell open. A bottle of vodka emerged from the dark insides, floating towards his chapped lips. He took a swig before he continued. "They didn't send me to tell you that. Hell, they didn't send me at all--I just came to congratulate you on a fuckin' hardcore assassination. They sent someone a year or so ago--some new talent--he failed. Caught a bullet to the face. Tried to make some lame-ass speech about justice. Tried to monologue like a god-damned comic book hero. Old lizard head shot him square in the mouth.”

Armless Justice looked around, admiring the graffiti and the crumbling ceiling. He gestured at the latter of the two.

"Looks like cottage cheese. You live here?"

Lightning Brian looked up at the ceiling and then back down at the floor. He laughed smoke—the smoke had more substance than the laugh.

“I’m homeless. I thought you knew that.”

“The fuck you are. The league pays us well enough to live anywhere in the city.”

Lightning Brian stood up, dusted his jeans off, and flicked his cigarette to the cold, concrete floor where it smoldered for a bit. He didn’t say anything, but headed towards the door. Armless Justice’s vodka bottle floated its way into the trench coat’s dark recesses and the coat closed itself up. The chair fled to the darkest corner of the room without the aid of human arms. Lightning Brian looked back into the room before he disappeared around the corner.

“I send all the money off to charity. I live at the homeless shelter down the road. It’s almost dinner time—I have to go.”

Lightning Brian pulled another cigarette from his pocket as he disappeared from sight, leaving his companion with more on his mind than when he had first entered the room.

Don't close that door--It creaks too loudly

So, this is a thing that I wrote and I hope you love it to pieces. I rather like it.

Yes

By: David Mathis

A car rumbled by, sputtering a little. It seemed on its last foot. The crosswalk was busy with walking people and an old crippled man, wheeling himself on a wheelchair. Later his scraggly, white-bearded face would show up in my dreams, pleading with me to help him. In the dreams I would have, he would be sad, tears streaming down his contorted and creased visage. The wind blew leaves into my face as I quickened my step – the crosswalk sign was fading, flashing a warning hand. Halt. I climbed the sidewalk, trudged into the ceaseless stream of people and was buffeted by shoppers and businessmen in too much of a hurry to apologize for running into me. A bluebird landed lightly on one of the power lines crisscrossing the road and it chirped once; it was a shrill and sharp sound to contrast the dull roar of horns, footsteps, and breathless conversations that were instantly spoken into a present that slipped into the past and was blown away in the wind like the leaves in my face. My breath poured out of my mouth in clouds of steam that were whipped away by a violent and jealous wind, my hair obscured my vision as I marched on. I had no idea to what end I walked this crowded sidewalk today, against the flow of traffic. A man stood against a building. He shivered as he clutched a cup of coffee to his chest as if it would keep warm his heart. His gaunt features etched themselves into my mind like the aftershock of lightning on the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a car horn honk, a bus stop with a foul hiss, an excited exclamation from some child. I could see his little hand, clutching a cup of hot cocoa, oversized coat swallowing the child like a python. His tiny little stick legs would be almost entirely covered by extra coat and he would be happy, reveling in his naiveté because he didn’t have leaves blowing in his face, or images of old and broken people, or hair stinging his face in the cruel wind. He didn’t have a tear-streaked face, iced from winter winds or dark hands reaching to pluck his soul from his body, or if he did, he wouldn’t realize it. He would catch the leaves in his mitted hands and his mother would tell him to hurry up because she had to get back to work. I wandered onto a doorstep connected to the sidewalk. I stared at the door it led up to. It was green, chipped, rickety. The door held no warmth. The concrete steps were a shock of cold. I sat on them and I watched my breath leak from my tired face. The steam blew away and disappeared. People once thought that pesticides were safe for the environment because after being sprayed, the fumes disappeared from sight, only, it didn’t work that way: the fumes were still there, but invisible to the naked eye. Maybe my breath was the same way. Maybe I couldn’t see it, but it was still there. Maybe all the world was covered in exhaled breath and insecticide. The concrete was cold.

Time to review a thingy!

I am going to now show you how to review a thingy. Today's thingy is Lucas's thingy that he wrote about a diner. With the poems, I could usually just post the entire body of work in here, and then review it, but this one is pretty long for posting and then reviewing, so, I will do that thing where I Direct you to the proper recipient of praise for this.

Lucas, the non-psionic kid will be the one to receive reviews here for his story, but it is only called SECOND SHORT STORY!!! so, I have no idea what it might be called. Anyway, it's by Lucas

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What I liked: Your dialog is very, very nice. I liked the interactions between the characters, as well as the story itself. It had a nice canter to it. It was strange at times--as is most of your stuff-- but it was always very good. Very well put together.

Improvements: It wasn't very clear when a segment was changing from one storyline to another, or how the timeline played out. The events seemed out of order, which isn't a big problem, except that it wasn't clear if it was mostly in reverse, or if it was mostly going forward with flashbacks. It also suffered from grammar and tense changing issues. I would love to be your editor though, 'cause that's m'dream jorb.