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.