Lord of the Bugs (A Trashling Tale)

Nobody talks about us much. The troubadours sing about Mouse-herders, but Mouse-herders buy their ale. The Children preach the virtues of the Farmers' life, but Farmers make up most of their flock.

We purvey protein to the most desperate. Grubs, worms, beetles, flies. Did you know the flavor of cockroach steaks depends on the beast's fodder?

Trashlings of every tribe have eaten in my shop. Penurious Tinkers, traveling Coggers, absent-minded Scribes and mendicant Children of the Makers. Farmers returning from a poor night at the market, and yes, even Mouse-herders.

Those-Who-Burn eat here often. They say turnabout is only fair. 

Paroxetine, Eater of the Orange Lotus (A Trashling Tale)

Deep in the lairs, they told stories of gifts of the gods to make one immortal and wise.

Paroxetine didn't want the Orange Lotus at first. He trained himself to sleep at night, to endure the light of day. He dared to walk under the gaze of the sun.

He wanted to see a Maker.

After that day, he sought out the Eaters in their lairs. He dared to open the orange flowers and partake of the fruit within. Pale imitations of ambrosia and soma.

None of his companions ever asked him whether he ate to remember or to forget.

53211 the Cogger (A Trashling Tale)

He levered the back panel off the artifact on his workbench and peered at its inner workings.

"A Chipper would see what I'm doing as sacrilege. An effort to pry into secrets the Makers never meant us to know."

He withdrew several gears and wrote down their sizes and number of teeth.

"But why would They give us all these things, unless They wanted us to use them?"

He polished the gears and fastened them onto his latest invention. He wound the mainspring.

"We do the Makers' work when we create."

His creation smiled and nodded her head in agreement.

Tu-va-illa (A Trashling Tale)

She is ancient, even for a Trashling. She saw the Great Avalanche. She witnessed the crusades of the Makers' Children against Those-Who-Burn-Forever. Some whisper she is older than Fill itself.

They come bearing bones from mice and birds and strange beasts only the Makers know. They bring their hopes and fears, their hates and loves.

"Return on such-and-such day."

She sings as she shapes the bones into charms. Every customer is satisfied, though perhaps not in the way they expect.

No one knows why she keeps certain bones for herself. No one knows the language of the songs she sings.

Haiku Fiction Horror

Every month the awesome people at Grey Matter Press sponsor a flash fiction writing contest. I'm happy to report that this month I am one of two grand prize winners! (The first ever tie in Flash Masters history.) You can read my winning entry here. I can't wait to get my signed copy of John F. D. Taff's The End in All Beginnings.

I'm the sort of person who loves DVD extras; in that spirit, I wanted to talk a little about my process in writing my entry.

Last month's contest was for a 100 word story. I have some experience writing 100 word drabbles. In addition to the Trashling Tales, I've had 100 word stories published in The Drabbler, Necrotic Tissue and elsewhere. But for the third contest, the word limit was raised to 200 words.

Writing a 200 word story is a lot different than writing a 100 word story. (If you don't believe me, try it.) Because I'm more comfortable with the 100 word story, I thought, "Hey, I should try to write two drabbles that depict the same event from two different perspectives."

Thus my story "He Said/She Said" was born.

Another fun feature of the monthly contests is that one must include a set of words in the story. This month the words were: Death, Pearl, Stairs, Hate and Organ. I thought it would be fun to use each of the words in both halves of the story, so I did. E.g., in one section pearl is the gem, in the other, it's a woman's name.

"He Said/She Said" is an example of haiku fiction in that you really need both halves of the story to get the complete picture as to what's going on. I'm happy that the story seems to have resonated with the judges. I certainly had a lot of fun writing it.

I take my victory to mean that there's something to this haiku fiction thing...

Ariela the Cloud-Dancer (A Trashling Tale)

She stands atop Mount Washdry and gazes at the shrouded moon. Dark bands trap its silver light.

She undoes her hair and sways skyclad to the song that sounds within her soul. Wrists and ankles move, knees and elbows. She closes her eyes as the dance overtakes her completely.

Limbs whirl. Wordlessly, she keens her song. Slow, fast, loud, soft. Her dance flows gracefully and without effort as the wind.

When she is finished, she opens her eyes. The moon shines pure blessings on all Fill.

Does she know whether or not her dance moves the clouds? Does she care?

Quicknib the Scribe (A Trashling Tale)

When I was young, a distant glimpse of the Makers set me on my path.

To find the Scribes is sufficient call to our way of life. I spent years as an apprentice Paper-Reclaimer, slowly working my way up to Ink-Confector, then Pensmith. Invested at last in my sacred robes as Scribe, I labored a month on my first composition.

Master Truehand led me to the very top of Mount Cheforiac and took my work from me. I wept as he let the paper go.

We cast our tales to the winds, O Makers, hoping that you will notice us.