Rookpunk.

Rookpunk, five minute exercise. From this Manateepunk which I really enjoyed reading.

Thirty fifths missing and breezeshot like a lost feather. He dropped from the sky followed by a gaggle of ragged brothers and sisters. Stormgone, split up and unable to form a full parlaiment he was less than he should be. The group mind split was no longer strong and shiny-eyes. They needed to reform but small numbers meant small thoughts. No ideas here.

Quick beaks, stealing the power from the land. Each peck a packet of energy left as offerings by groundbounders for the freepeople. A welcome gift to his crop. Soon his muscles would sing again and he could throw himself into the wind. They needed to move, the two legs totem, a hideous thing of rags and straw, flapped disquiet. Calling the groundbounders to take their sacrifice. He couldn't lose more of his people, of himself. Already they were weak thinking. 

'Too long. Been here too long,' he called and they jumped for the air. Stretching up for a good current when the sacrifice was taken. A ripping of air. A pan in his wing. A death beside him and the land, the land jumping into his element to catch him, break him on the hard cold earth.

The Totem

Mr @Simonguy64 wrote the final line of this from something he saw on a walk and I took it as a writing exercise. This is far from perfect but it's what I wrote in three quarters of an hour based in the prompt. It also means Mr HenrySzabranski on the Twittermachine owes me hundreds of pounds. (cue maniacal laughter).

Anyway. What was written had something of the chant I associate with epic poems to it so I tried to carry a little of that flavour over. As I said, an experiment and as I've only just written it no real way to tell whether it's any good or not but here you go anyway.

You can read Henry Szabranski's (a man unreasonably obsessed with crabs) extrapolation of the same line, s'good, you should, here - CLICKY, CLICKY.

The Totem.

Four men poled the barge. Four torches held aloft in the twilight. Four of Atha's strongest slipping through the mist and across black water. Between their feet and the dead-peat-water only a collection of broken logs and twine.

Once they sang. 

Sang war songs to the shield beat of strong men. They sang no longer.. Atha Twisted Legs was dead. Atha who they had followed since they had been children. Atha who had won their respect through wiles, not force of arms. Atha, friend and king.

The lands of the swamp people surrounded them. A people as brutal, treacherous and poisonous, as their land. Had not Atha extended his hand in friendship? Asked of them to join? To move together and banish darkness from the land? How could Atha know that the swamp people have old ways,  ways as black as the bodies they left in the waters. The swamp people would do ought to preserve those ways. They took Atha's hand, their friendship gift had been poison and arrows.

Atha's dream of light had died. The light within his men had died. The Ten People's dream had fallen that dark day. Atha's strongest had been cast out. 'Why did you not die in your place?' their women cried. 'Why did you not die with our king?' their women cried. 'You have brought a curse upon us,' their women cried.

The King of the swamps sent his men out from the misted, wet lands. The darkness Atha had fought spread a little further.

And Arna Strongheart was ashamed.

And Leil the Smith was ashamed.

And Dayl the Hot Tempered was ashamed.

And Verun the Quick was ashamed.

Together they swore the death oath. To go to the shame tree in the swamplands and raise the skull of Atha as their totem. To carry his light over the darkwater. To end their lives trying to end the swamp king in the service and company of their king and friend.

Four torches lit the twilight. Strange birds of the swamplands called out their sadness. Far away, drifting over on the stinking, thin, air the one note battle chants of the swamp people.

They found the place. A raised branch emerging from the gloom, pointing up at a seldom seen sky. Atha's strongest attached ropes and pulled the shame tree from the depths of the swamp.

Heavy with black water.

Thick with the stink of death.

Branches raised

Twisted roots dripping.

The shame tree stood tall and proud from the water. Arna took his axe and split the bound black wood. Inside was Atha shamed. His flesh leathered and tanned by the peatwater.

'No,' said Arna Strongheart and let his torch drop into the black water.

'No,' said Leil the Smith and let his torch drop into the black water.

'No' said Dayl the Hot Tempered and let his torch drop into the black water.

Only Verun the Quick did not speak. He lifted his torch and stared at the ruined skull of Atha. Smashed into a million pieces by swamp people clubs. Atha's sagging blackened skin pierced with the feather magic of swamp people priests. This skull could not be raised. This totem could not crown their prow. Atha's strong spirit had been banished from his body.

But Veron the Quick did not give his torch to the dark waters.

'Nothing escapes this water,' he said. 'All is preserved, changed.' He lifted his torch. 'See?'

Arna Strongheart lit a torch and he saw how the shame tree had thick branch-arms.

Leil the Smith  lit a torch and he saw how the shame tree had twisted root-legs.

Dayl the hot Tempered lit a torch and he saw how the shame tree had blackened trunk-ribs.

'Here' said Verun the Quick, 'is our king. Trapped within the wood. Raise your axe once more Arna Strongheart.'

And then they took the tree's skull. And they nailed it to the prow of their barge. 

END.

P.S. Apologies for the generic fantasy names.

By Invitation Only. No trainers.

A long time ago before I had started to write shorts just for my own amusement and stop subbing them (apply scorn here) to concentrate on novels, I used to see these words: 'by invitation only'. Gosh, imagine that I would think. Imagine if an editor was getting ready to send out his invites and he sent one to me. It seemed an impossible, far away, thing and with every 'we liked this but it was a bit odd*' it got a little bit further away.

So there was quite a large amount of joy when I got an email from Editor, Luca Veste, who'd put together the excellent 'Off The Record' (a charity anthology of crime stories based around song titles -You can buy it here. You know you want to.) asking me to send something. 

I read that! I might be in the follow up. Blimey.

ME?

Bloody hell. Me.

He'd seen 'The Shepherd' on the Gollancz blog (If you're curious, it's here) and read 'And Then a Sudden Deterioration of the Situation' (And this one is here. Contains some very bad language.) on my blog. Although he agreed with my own thoughts on the latter (rough around the edges, some promise) he still thought I'd be a worthwhile contributer to his next anthology; 'Off The Record II'.

It's difficult to explain to someone who doesn't write how your own worst enemy is most often yourself, your own doubt in what you do can often come close to being overwhelming. Stuff like this, when you are at the bottom of the pile looking up, is a massive boost.

I started writing straight away, basing a story on the song 'Honky's Ladder' by the superb Afghan Whigs. It was a great, flash of an idea that fitted perfectly with the idea of the song. Sadly, I was a little early out the gate. Off the Record II wasn't about songs. It was about films.

FILMS!

Oh, I love films.

And the first film that leapt into my mind was called 'Searching for the Wrong Eyed Jesus'. I'd bet most people have never heard of it (cos I'm such a hipster). It's a beautiful film, moving through the deep south and taking a look at the Gothic/religious country music scene that so fascinates me. Music with a wonderful sense of place and story. (IMDB Entry.) I partly wanted to do this cos I misheard a lyric in a song by Denver artist Jay Munly as, 'this peculiar land smells of Tim Mcviegh' which I desperately wanted to use (Scary music by a skeletal man here.) . However, the furthest south I've ever been is my in-laws in Devon so I'm not entirely sure I could carry off a trip to the antediluvian places I'd need to inhabit to do that film/those songs justice. To that end I had a complete rethink** about how to use that title. Luca^^ accepted it, so it seemed to have worked*^.

And look!(Look! Bookmark! Buy! Read good and do good. EVERYONE WINS) Look at the people I'm in amongst! People whose books I own and everything. The first Off The Record was a great anthology (you should buy it if you didn't earlier, go on, now.) The Second looks like it'll be just as cool. I mean, look at the first title, can you really afford not to read that?

(I've had another invite since then. Another! Blimey.)

I am so looking forward to reading everyone else's story's.

James Everington Blogs about Off The Record II HERE. 

*This is also the usual description people apply to me.

**Along the lines of, 'Do not fuck this up with ideas above your paygrade, RJ.'

^^He also gets my name right which is good. People generally want those dots in there R.J. Instead of RJ. Not knowing that I eschew the usual grammar rules as I am just wacky and crazy like that. Or as my wife would put it, shockingly ignorant of what is right and correct.

*^See, I can't be self-depreciating there cos it would be questioning Luca's taste. That's my principle method of humour screwed.