"Shadows and Dust" - A collection of short stories
I have a multitude of short stories and jots that I would love to share here. Here's three for starters, as I don't want to make a thirty-page-long monstrosity all at once. I'll bring more in periodically as I have free time. Any feedback or comments, I'd appreciate it if you shared!
One note though, pretty much all of this is six months old or more. As such, there are bound to be grammatical errors, punctuation horrors, and a general slathering of wordy nonsense. All I ask is that you take it with a grain of salt, try appreciate it for what it was intended to be, and take solace in the fact that I am striving to be better at the art of writing.
In a sense, these are the works that made me the writer I am today. Scary, yes, but we all have to start somewhere!
Thanks!
- Doran_Bladefist
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"A Dewdrop Blue" - October 26, 2007
- This was written for a friend who was having a rough time in her life. Glad to say she's doing better, though I doubt this had anything to do with it.
In the quivering limelight of dawn, in a small, unnoticeable corner of earth, a fragile vine broke through from the rocky soil. Pushing with all it's might to reach out to those fickle rays of starshine, the vine helplessly wound it's way amongst the craggy stones. Like a creature gasping for air, the vine struggled and fought to escape the surrounding darkness, desperate to bask in the life-giving radiance of the sun.
Just a little further, the vine repeated to itself, not knowing for sure what the day would bring. It's just around one more corner, it's got to be!
On and on the vine pushed through the clawing soil, growing bigger and thicker as it strived for the top of the canopy. Over sand, water, and rock it stretched until it though itself would break, feeling the burn of youth in it's veins.
Once in it's journey, the vine stopped and looked back, seeing how far it had come, but grew sad, as the journey was not yet complete; there was still a long ways to go. It thought about going back, deep down in the warm, inviting earth. Back into the shell that bore it hence into this dark place. The vine was about to give in but, as it turned it's face away, it felt a slight tingle on it's face.
Looking back at the hidden brightness in the sky, the vine caught the slight glint of the sun from a part in the wind-hewn trees above. Sensing the fleeting warmth bathe it's delicate frame, the vine's mind grew quiet in an immortal bliss, chasing away all the fear, all the doubt, and for that one moment, the vine remembered why it had fought so hard to get where it was.
Coming back to itself, the sun passing back into darkness, the Vine felt a little bud pop out about halfway down it's length. Looking down, the vine could see what looked like a little leaf, stretching out with all it had to capture the escaping sunlight.
Enthralled, the vine again surged forth towards the canopy with all the energy it could muster, pushing back the years of debris and grit that filled that small patch of earth until at last, the vine cut through the overgrowth and stretched it's July root out into the open air.
Consumed by the beauty of being immersed in the white-light, the vine shed a single tear from it's tip that gently slid down it's body. Spiraling downwards, the tear rolled until it came upon the vine's one outstretched arm, it's one billowing leaf. coursing across the verdant green feather, the tear came to the tip, hanging on for a moment until it plunged down into the craggy hole from which the vine had come. This single tear, this dewdrop blue, was a gift for the next vine, should it decide to sprout and leave the world behind.
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"The Fifty Year Fairy Tale " - October 1, 2007
Drifting amongst the feral leaves of time, the echoing stardust of creation claims it's first victim. Like water and wind corroding stone, the slow decay of passing eons grows tired; kings of a house long bereft of lordship. Wasting is it's name, wanting is it's teeth, and death is it's trade.
Long ago, in lands long since swallowed by the sands of memory, an oath was sworn. A pledge, under pain of blood, that they would live. A promise under threat of hell that they would conquer. A covenant with hands held firm that before even mighty god, death should die. Long since the passing of their footprints in the sand, they leave but a stain upon the weave, skewing it's luster with words constructed by the chains of old men and contrite warriors. To their very damnation they sang, and to their own immortality they cursed themselves.
Coursing through the passing ages, they lingered. As timeless as the passing of the morning sun, it's gentle rays speaking of home, they sit and wait for the one who would let them go. Trapped within the constantly turning hourglass, they lay entangled within their own devices, all but giving up hope for their souls.
Then, after the second millennia had parted, the demons awoke. Spewing fires rained down upon the universe and the sun ceased to burn, leaving all in darkness and despair. The dead, quietly resting, watched bemused as their progeny scrambled in the dirt, seeking shelter from the constant streams of dark light. Like reading a book about torn lovers, they felt the pain, yet closed the cover when the story ended; the fable now ashen with dust.
Lost, cold, and alone, the forsaken departed their lands, never to return to the once vibrant landscape that they called home. Cowering in the futile rocks, they hid themselves from the universe. In shame they closed themselves from the prying eyes of blindness and turned their hollow sight to more base desires, building hate within that temple of self-servitude, the once noble now twice destroyed with their own illusions of godliness. Disgraced, they lived as not but a shadow of their former selves, etched into the wispy smoke rings that soar up into the air, slowly dissipating into nothingness.
And now, here, at the end of all things, they stir from their slumber, ghosts and hollow men of the lost age, waiting for that day when life chooses to return. The day when the soul resembles something greater than the hands of the clock. The day when colors bleed true and honor again flourishes in our veins. The day when man ceases to be man. The day when we choose to be something greater.... and become human once more.
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"Among the Stars" - September 26, 2007
- This was written on a specific subject that is known to many. Five points to whomever can guess what it is!
No tomb, no hallowed ground, no honor is won this day. Lost amongst the glittering skies, not wishing to be home, not wanting to claim just reward, not willing to accept the end. A better fate was deserved, a greater justice should have been dealt, and yet, there was no dark thought giving way to malice.
Drifting off into eons, a long, cold slumber. Does he wake? Does she still draw power from his veins? Like setting off to Valinor from the Grey Havens, never to return, are they then set free? Do they not deserve to hear the clearing of the trumpets, calling them home? Will they be left with this as their kismet?
And so with heavy heart, yet clear soul, they wander, gazing upon worlds without number, stars without bearing, hoping one day the need to belong once more calls their names. Saviors. Gods. Friends. Saving the world, only to wish to never see it again. As certain as the sun draws the first blood of day, they are immortal.
But what is won? Those who gave the most, lost the most. Those who stayed behind, were left behind. Old men charged with the keeping of the dead, walking through the night, drunken with memories of war and valor. The valor of one. The one, who made us believe. The one, who now is laid to rest, somewhere deep in the darkness, waiting for life to return.