Getting On With It - Finish The Damn Story
Way back when, during a calmer, more peaceful world, when Pluto's status as a planet was not questioned, and Stephen Colbert was just another Jon Stewart sidekick, I started this blog with the intention of using it as some kind of personal creative space to work on fiction, fool around in the b-sphere, and just goof off. What an idiot.
Ok, I'm giving notice that I'll be submitting my first story for publication within four weeks, probably to a zine like Asimov's or F&SF. I'll let you know what happens. Here are the first few paragraphs:
THE LEVIATHAN ISLES / By Michael R. King
Jenna pulled the windsinger out of her small pack, clicked it together, and thrust it into the shimmering wet sand. Jarred from torpidity, a nearby cluster of sunning pillcrabs stumbled upright, squeaked tiny screams of outrage and dismay and scurried toward a low outcrop of rocks. Jenna, ignoring the crabs, watched as the brisk midmorning sea breeze caught at the windsinger’s fluted vanes – beautiful, age polished vanes carved from the bark of an alumwood tree by her grandfather long ago. As the vanes spun and the callingsong began, its eerie whistling growing louder and higher pitched, she stood back and scanned the green, foam-flecked sea. A swimmer should be here very soon, she thought.
Jenna made a final check of her pack contents. Grandfather had cautioned her to pack light, to take only what was absolutely necessary for her survival. “The Rite is a test of mettle, not metal,” he would intone. This particular aphorism, a favorite of her grandfather, was most often countered by Jenna dramatically rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Though she understood the sentiment (she thought), she found the saying literally confusing and irksome, especially considering that Grandfather had made sure that today she was carrying his own cherished steel bladed fin-dagger. After all, wasn’t that metal? Kneeling, opening a side pocket, she carefully removed the moss-wrapped pair of eggs she had lifted from a seagle’s nest the previous evening. No one knew why swimmers found seagle eggs to be such an enticement, or why the whistling cry of the seagle was such a profound lure; these were simply given truths. Jenna, though, had always wondered about the mysterious connection.
Loud splashes announced the arrival of the swimmer. Jenna jerked her head up, feeling her pulse pound and throat tighten. She had seen swimmers all her young life, had ridden them countless times, but never alone. To calm herself, she whispered her grandfather’s litany: “It’s the mettle, not the metal. It’s the mettle, not the metal. It’s the…” No use. It was still a ridiculous saying. And I’m still scared.
The swimmer slowly emerged from the surf. Its greenish gold forevanes scooped at the sand as it trundled ponderously toward the whirling, keening windsinger... (To be continued)
Ok, I'm giving notice that I'll be submitting my first story for publication within four weeks, probably to a zine like Asimov's or F&SF. I'll let you know what happens. Here are the first few paragraphs:
THE LEVIATHAN ISLES / By Michael R. King
Jenna pulled the windsinger out of her small pack, clicked it together, and thrust it into the shimmering wet sand. Jarred from torpidity, a nearby cluster of sunning pillcrabs stumbled upright, squeaked tiny screams of outrage and dismay and scurried toward a low outcrop of rocks. Jenna, ignoring the crabs, watched as the brisk midmorning sea breeze caught at the windsinger’s fluted vanes – beautiful, age polished vanes carved from the bark of an alumwood tree by her grandfather long ago. As the vanes spun and the callingsong began, its eerie whistling growing louder and higher pitched, she stood back and scanned the green, foam-flecked sea. A swimmer should be here very soon, she thought.
Jenna made a final check of her pack contents. Grandfather had cautioned her to pack light, to take only what was absolutely necessary for her survival. “The Rite is a test of mettle, not metal,” he would intone. This particular aphorism, a favorite of her grandfather, was most often countered by Jenna dramatically rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Though she understood the sentiment (she thought), she found the saying literally confusing and irksome, especially considering that Grandfather had made sure that today she was carrying his own cherished steel bladed fin-dagger. After all, wasn’t that metal? Kneeling, opening a side pocket, she carefully removed the moss-wrapped pair of eggs she had lifted from a seagle’s nest the previous evening. No one knew why swimmers found seagle eggs to be such an enticement, or why the whistling cry of the seagle was such a profound lure; these were simply given truths. Jenna, though, had always wondered about the mysterious connection.
Loud splashes announced the arrival of the swimmer. Jenna jerked her head up, feeling her pulse pound and throat tighten. She had seen swimmers all her young life, had ridden them countless times, but never alone. To calm herself, she whispered her grandfather’s litany: “It’s the mettle, not the metal. It’s the mettle, not the metal. It’s the…” No use. It was still a ridiculous saying. And I’m still scared.
The swimmer slowly emerged from the surf. Its greenish gold forevanes scooped at the sand as it trundled ponderously toward the whirling, keening windsinger... (To be continued)
posted by Mike King at 7:21 PM
1 Comments:
Hey, glad to hear you are going for it, I wish you the best of luck.
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