THE MAN WITH YESTERDAY’S EYES put down his glass.
“Well, it’s 3 a.m.,” he sighed. “I guess those poor bastards aren’t going to terrify themselves.”
Tag: Fictions
What I’m trying to become a writer of.
Under Oasine: Chapter 3 Synopsis
WHEN LAST WE MET, OUR heroes (the reluctant Hapler, the wounded Ij, and the idealist Twiz) were either successful or not in their quest to prove Twiz’s Theory of Oasine Connectivity: they did discover a new oasis beyond their native Fint, but have been deterred in their return by some unexpected visitors of unknown intent…
After some tense fumbling, conversation is established. The visitors call themselves Aquans (at least, for now) and call the new-to-our-heroes oasis something translating as “Good Fruit and Game, But Watch Out For Leaping Teeth.” They are led by a young woman (for now named “Possible Love Interest, But Watch It Buster”) and are uncertain what to do with the Finter trespassers, especially since their waterpod is broken and Ij injured by the aforementioned Leaping Teeth.
The Aquans then conduct the party (and pod) to their undersurface city, there to consult the Old Aquan. After a couple of pages of travelogue, they arrive and meet the appropriately named Old Aquan — polite, curious and gruff as he cautions the newcomers that they have entered a bigger world than they expected. He does not elaborate, but urges them to leave at once; when told of their difficulties, he orders PLIBWIB to see to the healing of man and pod.
A week later, Ij is fit as a Finter fiddle, developing a crush on his nurse (much to Hapler’s amusement), and ready for the PLIBWIB-lead journey back to Fint. The four set off in the repaired-and-spiffed-up pod: but after a page or so of narrative feint, they run smack into the bigger world of which the Old Aquan warned them…
And that’s all you get ’til I write the next chapter! (See https://metaphorager.net/under-oasine-synopsis1/, second paragraph; for an Oasine Overview, click to https://metaphorager.net/tag/under-oasine/).
Spacetime Coordination
“So the first thing is where. My first thought is the Heart of Green.”
“Off to the Right?”
“No, before that and down hill. At the base of the Stairstream.”
“Oh. Under that cliffy flat place that leads to Blasted Heath, over the cliffs.”
“Yes, where Keith started cursing out the valley in neo-Sumerian.”
“—hole.”
“Quite. Anyway, what about there?”
“Okay. Sure. Then we could go by Elven Rocks…”
“The rocks on the right, or the ones on top of the hill with the view down the back and, what is that, north?”
“Yeah … I think they filmed part of Harold and Maude out there. Looks like it. The bridge scene.”
“That was San Mateo.”
“Right, but if it wasn’t, then there. But on the from where the view is.”
“Roger Dean Rocks.”
“Roger Dean Rocks. Right. The acorn mortars.”
“Right. And through that sort of on top of the hill lane. You know? By the rock by the tree.”
“Oh! Yeah! The birthday rock!”
“Didn’t you play the flute up there once?”
“I’ll bring it.”
“Who else can we invite?”
“Who else knows the way?”
Under Oasine: Chapter Two Synopsis
NO ONE WAS MORE SURPRISED than I to have finished the second chapter of my novel[1], nor when the characters hijacked the plot (at about the 0.23 mark. Stephen King said that was going to happen eventually). Thus, in all its synoptic glory[2]:
In our previous chapter, our three heroes (one reluctant), in their quaint craft the Deeper, tumbled deep into the oasis of Fint to surface only the Hydrator knows where. Are they lost, or is their hometown, or…?
After a brief discussion, Twiz and Ij take the Deeper’s small-boat (and a variety of weapons) for a closer look at their new surroundings while Hapler putters with the quaint craft’s gomaker: a complex assembly of pith and vegetative muscle, now damaged from the Deeper’s tumble.
Twiz and Ij soon discover that, wherever they are, at least they won’t starve. Fish are plentiful within the oasis lagoon, and fruit from its overhanging palm trees; but these are as unfamiliar to the explorers as the songs of afternoon insects. Ij is so taken by a clump of flowers that he doesn’t notice the beast until it leaps on him. A quick struggle, some deft spear-work by Twiz, and the sharp spindly thing lies dead.
Meanwhile, Hapler has troubleshot the damage and is heartened to see that it’s minimal. He is about to effect repairs when a banging on the hull draws his attention: Twiz, with the delirious form of Ij. The two lash their stricken companion into his hammock, then medicate him into sleep.
After a fitful dinner, Twiz and Hapler divide the night between them. Nothing happens during Twiz’ watch (beyond some intense apprehension and self-castigation); Hapler is just beginning to enjoy the strange insect-song when he notices a ring of eyes all around the Deeper. The eyes belong to slender grey-green figures — about a dozen of them — who swarm over the craft and subdue its astonished occupants.
Tune in next time (say, another 5,000 words) for the next thrilling chapter of Under Oasine!
[1] “My novel” (I love saying that; insert Peewee Herman giggle) is called “Under Oasine.” It’s set in an otherwise desert world, and everything I blog about it is tagged, well, https://metaphorager.net/tag/under-oasine/.
[2] Sorry, that’s all you get ’til the whole thing is done. (See https://metaphorager.net/under-oasine-synopsis1/, second paragraph.)
Under Oasine: First Chapter Synopsis
AS NOTED EARLIER, THIS BLOG will feature periodic updates on my new Work In Progress, Under Oasine: the adventures of Twiz, Ij, Hapler, and the author as they pursue a desperate quest to save their world.
(I want to bang out a first draft of the entire novel on the thousand-words-a-day plan before I polish (and post) the first two chapters, while (partly to motivate myself, and partly to come down off the inCREDible buzz one gets from making up and banging out a thousand words a day) posting occasional synopses.)
Thus: With 4,000 of an estimated 50-70,000 words in the bag, our heroes have reached the end of the first chapter, wherein we are briefly introduced to the world of Oasine and its inhabitants. The planet is one big desert from pole to pole, orbiting a big red star; life evolved late in its history, and only around scattered oases of various sizes. Some are connected by caravans, but in the oasis of Fint one man wants to prove they’re also connected by water.
Twiz Beelan and his best friend Ij have talked Hapler the podgrower into growing a mobile pod big enough for two, stocked with everything needed to withstand a two-day journey to the neighboring oasis — assuming that Twiz’s theory is more than just a crazy dream. The big day arrives, the Deeper is set for its maiden voyage, when disaster strikes! and the pod sinks into watery darkness!
Apparently stranded, the three work out a desperate plan. Soon they are heading surfaceward once more — but when they break water, Fint is nowhere to be seen.
Reaction: Novels are very, very different in process from short stories. My reporter training makes short stories a natural medium — clean, concise, pointed — but something as big as a novel? With multiple characters, viewpoints, subplots, etc.? It’s really hard, as all writing is hard, only more so.
But it’s also fun. I’m using the ol’ index-cards-for-every-chapter-character-and-setting method of organizing my notes and keeping track of new ideas. (Annie Lamott’s first draft advice from “Bird by Bird” is very helpful too.) This is also entirely different from the Prosatio Silban pieces in another way: this isn’t a world I’ve been working on since 1978 in my scrap time, but something which came to me idly drawing (now worries, no spoilers): “What if there’s a world called Oasine, populated only around its separate oases but linked by the water beneath them? And what happens if somebody goes under Oasine?”
And remember; Just because I’m writing it, doesn’t necessarily mean I know what’s going to happen next. I hope you enjoy finding out as much as I do.
Preface: Across the Rimless Sea
These fables are self-contained excerpts from the picaresque hopepunk work, The Cook For Any Price: Across the Rimless Sea. Because the tales encompass a world of spectacular landscapes and forgotten ruins, teeming with vastly different and occasionally commingled cultures, religions, prophecies, species and cuisines, those curious to explore it may benefit from the following helpful words.
ACROSS THE RIMLESS SEA LIE the Exilic Lands, where dreams come to die – or so say the coffeehouse wits of Soharis. But they are a cynical lot, and often fervent in their presumptions. Continue reading “Preface: Across the Rimless Sea“
Awe and Inquiry
He looked up. “What are you sketching?”
She held out a pad, on which was written:
AWE AND INQUIRY
God is good.
God is.
God.
.
He frowned. “What’s the point?”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
Hometown Haiku
Sonoma Plaza.
Tree-shaded northwest corner.
…is that a fiddle?
Morris dancers leap
Today! Where a month ago
Two Jews laid tefillin!
Diff’rent traditions
Laughing under the same trees.
My town. Sonoma.
Prosatio Silban and the Profound Breakfast
IN ALL THE EXILIC LANDS there are none so pious as the villagers of Imperny. And yet, even within that island of serene certitude, Prosatio Silban found a disturbed soul.
The mercenary cook had parked his galleywagon a-purpose, on the edge of Imperny’s market square closest to the local shrine. but his “COOK FOR ANY PRICE” banner had attracted only one breakfast customer — a serious young man in an orange robe who had picked his way half through a plate of Leisurely Eggs. He sighed and looked up at Prosatio Silban.
“I have not seen you before, nor do I expect to again,” the young man said. “May I impart a stranger’s truth?”
“The eggs are not to your liking,” the cook began.
“No! No, they are perfect,” replied the young man. “But I am not, or rather my understanding isn’t. I cannot decide whether or not my prayer is effective.”
Prosatio Silban, a self-defrocked Sacreant himself who had long ago decided to feed people’s bellies instead of their souls, had ceased to wonder why his gods wouldn’t let him alone. He asked, “What do you mean?”
“I was deep in my devotions this morning,” replied the other. “And a question occurred to me: am I praying because I am faithful, or am I faithful because I am praying? In other words, do the gods grant me peace of mind, or am I fooling my mind into peacefulness?”
Prosatio Silban thought for a heartbeat. “Does it matter?”
“Yes. I think. Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because by one I am doing something important. By the other, I am silly.”
“But that is already true, in the eyes of those who don’t share your particular piety,” Prosatio Silban said. “If you live for others, you will be concerned with what they think of your actions. If you live for yourself, you will be concerned with what you think. But if you live for the gods themselves, you won’t need your service to be public — hence solving your problem to a nicety.”
The young man smiled. “Pass the tomatoes,” he said.
Fable
MORE THAN ONCE UPON A time, in a land surprisingly near, lived two distinct peoples. Both were composed of friendly, industrious individuals with a long tradition of respectful coexistence in all matters save one: One group took every Monday off; the other, every Thursday.
Ordinarily, this would not have been problematic. But part of their mutual respect was based on a sincere celebration of the other. Weddings, births and funerals always drew a large and mingled crowd, but their different days-off caused the more well-meaning of their members great stress and worry.
“How can we truly share everything if we have to separate ourselves on the weekend?” some lamented. “We are in grave danger of appearing hypocritical.”
In time, as this issue became bigger than everything else the peoples built, either together or separately, each more tightly gripped the other. Neither now exists.
Prosatio Silban and the Beloved Animal
A FEW YEARS AGO, I began writing some short fantasies concerning a notable resident of the Land Beyond The Sunset: Prosatio Silban, ex-holyman turned freelance cook. At this writing, six stories are completed and undergoing revision, but the following flash tale is complete in itself. Enjoy.
HALFWAY BETWEEN HERE AND THERE lay a town whose chief feature was a particular animal, wild but benign, which had made its home in a civic park. So charming were its ways and so touching its mannerisms that the townspeople painted its winsome form on signs and walls, dyed their clothes to imitate its pelt, and dated their history in terms of the Beloved Animal’s first appearance. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Beloved Animal”