THE MUSE’S MIRE
2005-2008 COLLECTION
By Shannon L. Miller
Other Works by Shannon L. Miller
“Legends and Destiny: Shonga”
Coming in 2009
“Legends and Destiny: Hearts of Guilt” – Sequel to “Legends and Destiny: Shonga”
“Legends and Destiny: In the Beginning”
THE MUSE’S MIRE
2005-2008 COLLECTION
By Shannon L. Miller
© Copyright 2008 Shannon L. Miller. All rights
reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without
the written permission of the author.
SPECIAL THANKS
Special thanks to my entire family for encouraging
me to keep writing and stay positive in the face of all
adversity.
THANK YOU ALL!
CONTENTS
1. . . . . . Introduction
2. . . . . . “Beyond all Hope” poetry
3. . . . . . “Baby’s First Day” short story
4. . . . . . “The Scent of Death” short story
5. . . . . . “Small Worlds” flash fiction
6. . . . . . “One Moment” flash fiction
7. . . . . . “Light” short story
8. . . . . . “Any Last Thoughts?” flash fiction
9. . . . . . “Ending” poetry
10. . . . . “Where is Our History?” nonfiction
11. . . . . “Eternity” flash fiction
12. . . . . “Fairy Tayl” short story
13. . . . . Sample “Chapter Three: Thunder Cry” from “Legends and Destiny: In the Beginning”
Introduction
Our Muses come from various places, times, and experiences in life. I’ve had many Muses, and have written many bits and pieces of short stories, novels and poetry. The problem is, most of these bits never get used or even see the light of day. Some though, begin as a topic, a word, an image, or a lingering thought from another’s book or movie I
might have recently finished. Some begin as an experiment. The following collection is a small sampling of the things I have worked on over the past several years, and have actually managed to finish.
The poem “Beyond all Hope” was inspired by a fanstory.com poetry contest where authors were to write a poem incorporating the image that was shown.
“Baby’s First Day” and “Scent of Death” are dinosaur short stories meant to take you into brief moments of the lives of lesser known dinosaurs. These two were inspired by my own love for dinosaurs. They allowed me to study up on the latest of how these giants lived, and what we know about already discovered species. It is in no way scientifically perfect, yet I hope the details and information I provided are realistic enough to allow the reader to step into another, alien land from our Earth’s own history.
“Small Worlds” and “One Moment” were inspired by the growing fascination on fanstory.com for a unique form of writing called Flash Fiction. Flash Fiction is a moment or experience written in fiction or non-fiction form and usually is around 150-200 words or less. They are like the Haiku version of novels. These were my first attempts, and I am fairly pleased with them.
“Light” was a short story also inspired by a fanstory.com writing contest about a displayed image. It’s meant to be vague and questioning, encouraging the reader to think and to ponder the outcomes of a possible post-apocalyptic world where the human race becomes divided by time and evolution.
“Any Last Thoughts?” is another Flash Fiction, albeit a bit morbid while remaining humorous, one of those rare pieces I tend to write for no reason and which has no meaning other than its own, insubstantial existence.
“Ending” was inspired by a Richter poetry contest on fanstory.com allowing only two through eight syllables.
“Where is Our History?” is a non-fiction based on an observance during my teaching time at Zhongshan University in Guangdong, China. It’s one of those pieces that I think up on my way home from work, when you know the route back so well, there’s nothing else to do but think of things other than familiar trees and roads.
“Eternity” is another Flash Fiction, and yet another one of those stories I think up for no reason when I am at work or home bored.
“Fairy Tayl” is a unique short story; the first one I ever tried writing, and one of the first pieces I have ever managed to finish. Although edited in 2005 and again in 2008, this story was originally finished in May of 2001 as a final project for my college Creative Writing class. Since it was my first short story, and I realized I couldn’t go too deep with description and plot, the idea was to use stock fantasy creatures with some changes of my own design, and put them all in the middle of a terrible and isolated event, which could or could not be solved within the twenty-five page limit I was given. I am currently working on a sequel to this short story, though right now, I do not know if it will remain a short story, or be lengthened into a novel.
Hopefully I have given you some insight into the origins of the following pieces. Whether they help you to learn more about me as an author and person (or my mental state!), or help you to realize the Muse in yourself, I leave to you.
Shannon L. Miller
November 25, 2008
Beyond all Hope
By Shannon L. Miller
January 12, 2005
Threads of Fate, woven at our birth
Like the spider’s web, we are connected
The Black Widow, she nears
Standing above our unsuspecting lives
We laugh. We cry. We love. We lie
Feeling so alone, but always so connected
Till the genesis of Night when she falls
Like the twang of a thread by the lightest of touch
Our life force found by the predator above
Descending down, a shadow never seen
Alone I walk
If only it were a dream
Baby’s First Day
By Shannon L. Miller
February 17, 2005
75 Million Years Ago,
Mid Cretaceous,
North America
The day started out as any other. A large, yellow-white sun began to burn brightly as it rose over the eastern horizon. Small mammals, denizens of the night, scrambled from the plains at the edge of the deep Cretaceous forest and back towards their small burrows where they would wait out the light of day. It took only minutes for the chill night air to burn away in these times, awakening the first of the great lords.
With a low, humming moan, one of the largest creatures ever to grace the skies spread its thirty-eight foot wingspan wide open. A small breeze blew up off the lake the cliff overlooked, quickly filling and pulling at the thin wing membranes. Shaking his head with a small sneeze, the fantastic Quetzalcoatlus released its clawed grip on the small cliff side. Like a massive living kite, he rose from his precipice, soaring higher and higher on the warm thermals from the plains below.
The giant male pterosaurs' dark shadow rolled over the lake, drawing attention from the other awakening beasts.
To the south of the lake at the mouth of the exiting river, a small herd of Iguanodons were waking up with grunts and snorts. The piping of little, baby Iguano's echoed across the still lake. The small herd had stopped here on their migration to lay their eggs. A week ago, the nests of the Iguano's broke into a mass of peeping, tripping babies. After only a week, the litters had doubled in size and were capable of eating the same foods as the adults. A few of the youngsters played near the water's edge, pushing each other and digging in the ground for soft roots and tubers with their spiked thumbs. The adults munched lazily on small conifer saplings by the edge of the forest and ferns and horsetails by the waters edge, preparing for their long, arduous migration north.
To the west at the base of the cliff where the giant pterosaur had taken off, Dromiceiomimus, an eleven foot tall omnivore stood chattering to itself, its large, golden eyes scanning the whole of the lake region. There was plenty of food about; eggs, plants, insects, baby dinos. Although the thirty-two foot tall herbivores were too big of a meal for a lone Dromi to take down, the babies rushing around were prime size. A cow Iguano caught sight of the Dromi staring at its babies and bellowed at it, making small, waving gestures with its thumb-spikes. No dinosaur spoke the same tongue, but a universal body language had been adopted. Leave my chicks alone, or suffer the consequences.
Snorting at the Igano in irritation, the Dromi turned its eyes elsewhere up the lake, wringing its small, clawed hands together in anticipation.
North of the lake, in an open area littered only by small ferns, saplings and cycads awoke a massive herd of mixed Hadrosaurids, duck billed looking dinosaurs; Anatosaurus, Edmontosaurus, Kritosaurus, and the largest and most unique of all the
Hadrosaurids – Parasauralophus.
Standing at thirty-three feet, the Para's sported a massive tube-like crest off the back of their heads. The crests – three feet long for the males, and roughly two feet long on the females – were tubes filled with complex air passages which they could blow air through, mimicking the sound of a trumpet or trombone.
A melodious sound of the Hadrosaurids, like that of a brass choir, rang over the lake, quickly overpowering the sounds of all others. The sound began as the first of the Para's eggs trembled and cracked. Females hooted in deep, vibrating calls as if to encourage the little ones to come out of their shells. Males, though a little less interested in coaching the babies, trumpeted loud and clear, trying to make as much noise as possible. Predators, intimidated by the cacophonous sound, were less likely to attack a herd that sounded hundreds strong then that which only had a few members.
As if on cue, small crested Para's began to emerge from their eggs, some making small, nasally sounds from the exertion. Little egg teeth fell from their duck-like bills as they climbed from the nest, seeking shelter under the massive bodies of the adults.
The Dromi trembled, wringing his long, clawed fingers as he watched with growing interest as dozens of baby Para's ran around in different directions. To him, the massive hatching was like watching hundreds of pounds of fresh meat erupting from the
dirt and frond covered nests just for him. Hunger roaring within him, the Dromi couldn't take it anymore. On ostrich-like legs, he made a mad dash towards the nests.
One of the Para's in the herd was an old female. The oldest and last female to mate, she had been forced to build her nest away from the bulk of the herd and the safety of the water's edge. Even though she was over forty years old, she still managed to produce five eggs. One had been stolen by the Dromi just after their birthing as she wandered towards some ferns to feed. Another time, she had been jostled by two fighting males, and accidentally crushed another two with her massive, three ton bulk. Only two eggs remained in the mound of dirt, dead fern fronds and
cattails.
Only one egg held a living chick, but not a strong one. The baby struggled against the tough, ceramiclike shell. She honked her trumped-like sound, pecking at the shell with a soft egg tooth. A few cracks formed on the shell's side just as her weak egg tooth fell out of her bill-mouth. The baby Para trumpeted angrily, pushing against the sides of the shell instead with her whole body. She felt cramped, claustrophobic, a driving instinct telling her to get out. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of coaching Para adults and piping Para babies. There was no sound though from nearby. The old female had given up after three decades of birthing. At her age, raising one more chick was the last thing from her mind, a dinosaurian Alzheimer's overpowering her instincts
Giving another mighty push at her prison walls, the cracks in the shell grew wider. Something akin to hope suddenly flared up in the little chick, and she pushed over and over with all the strength she could. The shell began to weaken, the spider web cracks growing wider and longer with every heave. With a mighty push and cry, the shell shattered at one end. Specks of sandy dirt rained down on the chick. Stretching her arms out for the first time, the baby Para grabbed the broken sides of the shell, dragging herself out.
The newborns bathed in the nurturing rays of the sun as they stumbled about, everything in their world a plaything to be examined or pounced on. A warm breeze caressed the soft leathery hide of the baby Para as she blinked rapidly, looking at her world for the first time.
The first thing she saw in her new world was the massive bulk of an old female Para, her mother, moving slowly away on all fours towards the waters edge.
The baby Para trumpeted three times in short, high pitched bursts. I'm here! I'm here! Please protect me, she seemed to cry. Unable to hear her over the noise of the other Para's, the old cow continued towards the lake's shore. All she wanted to do was bathe in the cool mud all day just below the waters surface.
Realizing that her mother wasn't stopping, the newborn began to tremble. Small, buzzing insects began to swarm annoyingly around her, biting into her still soft flesh, or sucking up flecks of yolk from her hide.
Her mother might have been ignoring her, but not the Dromi.
Like lightning, the Dromi dashed for the newborn Para. Long legs raced across the flat land as he stretched out his long neck and tail for balance.
The second thing Para saw in her first few minutes of life was a massive form moving towards her with horrifying speed. Trumpeting in alarm, she turned and began to climb off the mounded nest.
Dromi closed in fast, saliva dripping from his toothless mouth. Reaching out with both hands and head, Dromi snapped at the Para with crushing, toothless yet beak-like jaws.
Luck was on the baby's side as her first step made her stumble and tumble ungracefully down the mound. Legs still pumping at top speed, the Dromi cried out in frustration as he over ran the baby Para. He lowered his body, skidding to a stop. Snapping his jaws violently, he took off at her again.
Para continued to cry out as she struggled back to her feet. Unbalanced on her weak hind legs, she stuck to staying on all fours, loping in the direction of the rest of the herd.
Dromi came up behind the little dino, snatching her right off the ground. The little Para cried out in terror as long hand claws dug into her soft baby skin, drawing out furrows of blood where she struggled.
Dromi lowered his body again, slowing down. He was a young male and preferred the fresh meat from insects, small mammals and baby dinos than the fern fronds and pond plants. Normally, he would have continued dashing back towards the safely of the cliff wall before killing his meal, but today he was hungry and careless. Salivating, he opened his wide, toothless jaws. Even without teeth, the baby dino would be crushed easily in his crocodilian power.
A young bull Para heard the commotion and wandered over to investigate. With a deep bellowing sound, he reached out and pushed the Dromi over. He hadn't meant to interfere and save the baby Para. He was simply bored.
With echoing cries, the Dromi fell to the ground as the little Para was dropped. Sand and pebbles dug into her wounds as she clamored to her feet. The Dromi too cried out and climbed back to his ostrich-like feet. For a second, he stared at the bull Para, confused. The adults were neither prey nor predator, so why had he attacked him? It was confusing, and Dromi stood trembling, not knowing whether he should run and hide, or try and snatch at the baby Para again.
The baby Para, on the other hand, didn't stop to think twice. She ran as fast as she could towards the bull Para, leaning against his tough, massive legs as she panted and honked in pain. Knowing there was nothing left for him to do but wait for another opportunity, the Dromi male chattered madly and dashed back toward the safety of his cliff.
The bull Para trumpeted a challenge after the Dromi, ignoring the little Para quivering underneath him. Feeling as if he had just won a terrific fight with another bull, baby Para's rescuer trotted back towards the rest of the herd.
If she could have, the baby Para would have thanked him. Instead, she followed him towards the safety of the herd and the waters edge.
The Scent of Death
By Shannon L. Miller
February 17, 2005
75 Million Years Ago,
Mid Cretaceous,
North America
He was the greatest of all the browsers on the plains.
Although he was only sixteen feet long and weighed four tons, even the other plain grazers gave him the space he wanted.
He was a Styracosaurus, a Ceratopid like his famous cousin, Triceratops. Although he was slightly smaller than his cousin, he was definitely more impressive looking.
His massive nose horn was nearly two feet long, ivory white and ended in a hard, lethal tip. A thick frill of bone and tough, leathery hide framed his neck. The edges of the frill bore large, thick, backwards pointing spikes upwards of two feet in length. The first three vertebrae in his neck were fused together to help him to support his large, heavy head. His forelegs were only half the size of his hind legs, though they were thick and muscular and helped to support the great weight of Sty's massive head. His tail, unlike most of the other browsers, was fat and stubby, reduced in size since he had no need of it to keep his balance. And although he wasn't much taller than the creature that would someday arise called Man, he was by far the most threatening and vicious looking of all herbivores on the plain.
The midday sun shone brightly down on his back and frill, warming him and filling him with a fierce, competitive energy only a bull dino could understand. Loose red-tan dust was kicked up by the gentle, humid breezes of the Cretaceous. They swirled around Sty, caressing the tough hide that protected him. He rumbled deep in his throat, the vibrations deep and powerful enough to be carried through his feet and across the ground like an elephant. A warming call for any female that was in estrus.
A few hundred feet to one side, a small herd of twenty-six foot long Pachycephalosaurus' paused their grazing as a loud, thudding crack ripped through the afternoon quiet. Sty glanced over as he regurgitated a large wad of conifer tree cud, chewing absentmindedly.
Two large males Pachy’s with high, bony domed heads back up from each other, snorting and grunting their challenges. With a flick of a tail, both males charged each other, their bony domes connecting with a rock-shattering crack.
The smaller male Pachy lost his footing in a patch of loose earth, sliding to his knees and forepaws. The opposing male, though a bit dazed from the collision, kicked and clawed at the fallen male. The loser, knowing no other way out, rolled onto his back
submissively, pawing at the winner.
A strange scent caught Sty's nose. He lifted his head as much as he could to sniff the air, which wasn’t very high due to the massive, horny frill which surrounded his head like a boney collar. It was one of the new scents to the Cretaceous – a sweet smell – that caught Sty's attention. Following the scent, he spotted a rather large clump of small, bright red flowers growing past where the Pachy females stood, watching the competing males at the edge of a conifer forest.
Sty, knowing his own place in the dinosaurian hierarchy, rumbled deep and began loping towards the wildflowers and Pachy’s, saliva beginning to gather in his beak-like mouth.
The losing male Pachy rolled to his stomach and climbed to his feet. With a shake of dirt, he trotted away from Sty's path with a rumbling mew. The pack of females, though still watching the winning males every move, migrated off to the side, sensing Sty's final destination.
The winning Pachy, his senses still saturated with his own rutting musk and hormones, turned towards the approaching Sty and snorted.
Sty bellowed a warning to the taller herbivore, tossing his head from side to side threateningly. If you don't move, I'll run you through!
The Pachy, sensing the challenge, crouched down extending his head, neck, back and tail vertebrae into a perfectly straight line to absorb the bone-shattering head crashes he incurred from other Pachys. He snuffed and pawed the dirt.
Sty grumbled. He knew the Pachy's were more stupid than he was. Their brains hadn't as much room to grow with their need for a thicker, more solid layer of bone for a skull. And once when he had been a younger bull, Sty had met up with an angry Pachy who had butted him in the rib cage. It cracked a few of his ribs, and for months, he hobbled along, hiding in tall bushes until his ribs healed up. Even now, during the colder seasons, his ribs would still ache. With another loud, earth rumbling bellow, Sty threw his head from side to side violently, spittle flying in great, angry strings from his beak.
The Pachy, knowing there was no chance of survival with a head-on collision with a horned quadruped, stood down and trotted off with the rest of his newly claimed harem.
As if approving, Sty bobbed his head and slowed down to a walk. Without even pausing to smell the blood-red flowers, he lowered his massive head into the cluster and sheared off a mouthful.
Sweet petal juices threw his salivary glands into overdrive as he tore off more and more of the flowers and their leaves, chewing them for seconds before swallowing them. His massive gut would process them briefly until he was ready to regurgitate them for a final breakdown. But he didn't care. He didn't care about anything around him, as he stood, contentedly munching away at the entire cluster of flowers. This meant he didn’t notice the massive figure stalking him from upwind through the forest. Nor did he notice the scattering pack of Pachy's.
Only when he was within deadly striking distance of his attacker did Sty suddenly notice the sickening, putrid smell of death and decay.
With incredible speed for his four ton bulk, Sty side stepped, bringing his horned head around to face the forest. His assailant cried out in shock as a frill horn scraped past its cheek.
Only as Sty's attacker took a step back in shock was he finally able to identify her.
Though smaller than its cousin, Tyrannosaurus, Daspletosaurus was still a fearsome foe at twenty-nine feet tall. A small line of blood, loosened from Sty's frill horn, dripped down the thicker, more compact snout than that of its scavenger cousin, Tyrannosaurus. And unlike her taller cousin, Dasple was capable of hunting down live prey, specializing in Sty and his ceratopian cousins.
Sty rumbled threateningly as he backed up, lowering his spiked head defensively. As his frill spikes covered even the back of his neck, the only way for the Daspletosaurus to get to him was to catch him in the side or rear.
Dasple rumbled back, clicking her long, daggerlike teeth together. Moist, putrid air swam around Sty's face. The smell scared him and he urinated and released his bowels from fear.
Dasple continued to make the massive quadruped back up until she could move freely from the confines of the forest. Then, with a speed that shocked even Sty, she dashed to the left.
Sty bellowed, realizing what was happening all too late. Shifting his weight towards his forelegs, he tried to shuffle his back end away from the attacking carnivore.
With a crunch of bone and spray of warm blood, Dasple clamped down tightly on the ceratopian's thick, stubby tail. She planted her feet into the ground, and pulled.
Crying out in pain, Sty began to panic as Dasple pulled, tearing at flesh and bone. He felt as if his tail would suddenly be ripped off from the rest of his body. Blood was flowing quickly from the wound, and he knew if he didn't do something fast, we was going to die.
Shuffling his fore legs around, he ignored the pain as Dasple shook her great head, breaking the stiff bones in his tail. Unable to swing his head around more than a few degrees, Sty twisted the front half of his body towards his attacker.
It was enough to catch Dasple in the snout with a frill spike. Crying out in anger, Dasple let go of the browser, trying to paw at his pain with her short, two-clawed forelimbs.
It was all the time Sty needed.
It wasn't plausible for him to run away. His shorter, stockier frame made him slow compared to Dasple. He couldn't run, and exposing anymore of his side would have been lethal. So he did the only thing he could.
With a terrific bellow, Sty charged the massive meat eater. Dasple paused, her reptilian eyes growing wide with fear as she realized what was about to happen.
Lowering his head, Sty put every ounce of strength he had into his front legs, pushing himself a mere foot off the ground. His nose horn connected with tough hide. He threw his head back, and all he could see was red.
Dasple cried out, lashing at her attacker with her weak forearms.
Warm blood and entrails fell into Sty's face as he shook his head. His sides heaved as he gasped past the pain in his tail for breath. Weak from blood loss, he felt one back leg collapse to the knee.
That was all she needed.
Enraged beyond anything she had ever felt, the pain in her gut already turning warm and distant, Dasple fell to her side, raking furrows of flesh and blood down Sty's back and side, her jaw snapping and tearing away small chunks of his hide. As she collapsed, ribs snapped, puncturing whatever organs still remained in her great belly.
Sty quivered with shock, barely noticing as his other back leg collapsed on him. Still blinded by Dasple's blood and entrails, all he could sense of his world was the smell of death, feces, urine, and fear. He shook his head, panting and light headed. Blinking, his eyes tearing, some of the blood began to clear and he could see to one side the great carnivore. She panted and howled in agony as life drained from her, seeping into the dry, brown dirt of the plains.
Sty tried to rise to his feet. For a moment, he gathered his hind legs under him. He took one slow, staggering step, and collapsed to his side.
The great bulk of his head crashed to the ground, sending up a small cloud of dry dirt. Pain seared across his side like fire from shattering rib bone. He bellowed in alarm and pain, Dasple responding with her own death cry.
Warmth began to spread through his being, and he closed his eyes.
Small nips of tenderness sprang from his belly, and he kicked at them with a fore leg. Small, deep sounding yips erupted around him. Cracking open an eye, his darkening field of vision revealed three, miniature Daspletosaurus' hopping around his bleeding, dying form.
As they gathered their courage, tearing and biting once again into the soft flesh of his belly, Sty closed his eye. There was no pain, only the soft warmth as his brain shut of all sensations.
He never even knew he was dying. Not even as his last sense of the real world was the smell of his own organs being ripped open, and the smell of sweet, blood-red flowers.
Small Worlds
By Shannon L. Miller
August 14, 2005
Driven out of home, she scoured the grasses, looking for whatever edible bits could be found. Life wasn't fair for someone her size. So Small. So helpless. It never had been. Never would be. She wondered, 'what was it all for?'
"FORE!"
And that's when it hit her.
"Aww, shit," he spat, taking another sloppy swig of beer. "Another Birdie."
One Moment
By Shannon L. Miller
August 14, 2005
I tried to hold onto it as long as I could, son, but there was no stopping it. Even we, as men, cannot halt the cataclysmic march of nature.
As the cold, white snow transformed the ground from green to white, I began to count the days till spring.
A spring, my dear child, an old man like myself may never see.
Light
By Shannon L. Miller
September 4, 2005
"So, Little One, you want to know how it all happened, eh? All right, then. Sit down here beside me. No questions till I'm finished, all right?
"Was it all a dream? Heh, I'd like to think so. But as life proves to us over and over again, Little One, nothing is what We want it to be. Life, no matter what They say, is not a dream. If it were a dream, all those years ago, then it is the longest dream any of us have dreamt. A nightmare that has no ending.
"Back before our world was irreversibly changed, my Maan and Daet sat in one corner of our hovel. We lived under the soil in the old, abandoned tunnels made of stone and earth They left behind. It was musty, dry, but warm. Each family had its parcel, though none of us threatened the other if they wandered away from their own. We ate whatever We could find. Small, scaly plants that left grains of sand in your teeth. Crawling things of all sizes that you had to stab at or crush with stones just to catch them. We'd pop them into our mouths as fast as possible, swallowing their rich juices. Back then, liquids were hard to find, but now you, Little One, drink whenever you desire it. When the Crawlies finally stopped kicking and protesting, their juices drained, We'd munch on them carefully, for hours, if need be, to avoid chipping a tooth. Not like the soft meats They give you. Now, don't look that way, Little One, it's not at all as bad as it sounds. In fact, I would give anything to go back to before, to awaken from this cursed, light filled dream...
"Ah, but I got off track. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Maan and Daet's hovel.
"It was a day like any other; warm, quiet but for the muffled sound of crunching carapaces and gently scraping claws. I sat farther away from the others, the first to hear, smell, to see Him, as I was contently swallowing Crawlie juice.
"It was the strange smell that hit me first, something I couldn't describe before, but I now have come to know the word as Earthy. Not the musty smell of our homes, but the moist, rich smell of Above. The smell of soil, not dirt. Of fragrant, fat plants, not the tough, scaly plants I know now to be lichen. And the most confusing of all smells was that of the warm Sun and cool Water.
"I was already curious, though more confused, when the sounds followed. When We move, it is a soft, padding sound only one whose ears are trained or nearby can hear. But this sound, this sound was loud. Crunching, like many Crawlies in one's mouth. Scraping, like many claws on stone and lichen. We were so quiet back then that the sound actually echoed in the tunnels. Echoed in our heads.
"The sound stopped, though by now, I was overwhelmed by the new, strange smells. I stood motionless as a new sound, much louder than the others before it, bombarded my ears. It was a deeper sound, like something heavy moving that shouldn't be moved. There was a low, mournful groan, then grinding.
"As I stood paralyzed, everyone else ran away, deeper into the tunnels. Oh, how I wished now I'd run with them into the darkness and away from the light. Oh, Little One, if I'd done that, things never would have changed. Right now, you and me, We'd be munching lichens, crunching on Crawlies. It's your old Daet who's to blame!
"Ah, but again, I've gotten off track.
"The others ran. I stood, terrified. Something bizarre had begun to happen.
"As you know, We have an acute sense of smell and hearing, something They could never fully appreciate. But this, this hurt my sensitive eyes, this, this... Light. They say we can't see things the way They can see, something called Color. But Light, I think, is universal. When you have been under the ground for as long as we have, Light is powerful and blinding.
"I began to panic, my heart racing like a scurrying Crawlie from our claws. I was blind. My ears and head rattled with strange sounds, the sound of heavy breathing, and thick, crunching footsteps. The many smells confusing and distracting me from protecting my own well being. It was then He spoke.
"'Don't be scared,' I heard him say, though the words then were foreign to me. 'I'm not gunna hurt you. Come here.'
"Like I said, Little One, I couldn't understand a thing He said, but the sound of His voice, the tone, somehow calmed me (despite the pain in my head His loud voice gave me). Without meaning to, I took a few steps forward, my eyes adjusting to the blinding Light. I was curious, never having seen such a thing.
"He was much smaller than we are, much smaller than even you, Little One. Instead of being long and lithe, his body was thick and compact, a strange looking thing He was. I wondered how He could possibly move about. He wore clothes, another new concept for me, since We are proud people and do not feel a need to cover our beautiful bodies. The shirt was light and long, too big for His small body. The shorts were dark like our caves, and I found some comfort in that Lightless part of him. He wore things on his feet...oh, what were they called? Ah, yes, shoes- that crunched small pebbles and Crawlies as He moved atop them.
"'C'mon,' He bid me again, and again, I didn't understand.’It's too dark in there. Come out here. C'mon, c'mon.'
"Do not ask me, Little One, what came over me at that moment, for it was like a strange force had taken over my body. Against everything my mind said, the bone rattling fear in my body, I followed Him.
"It was the first, the strangest sight any have seen. He stood there in the open tunnel entrance, buildings in the background made of the same stone that had been our home for generations. To me, our parcel, our hovel, had always seemed so wonderful, so comforting, but in the harsh reality of this Daylight, it seemed old, foul, disgusting. In the open space above these buildings lay what They call the Sky. Clouds moved, dark, floating rocks in this Sky. The smells that had stunned me earlier in the tunnel now truly paralyzed me, blinding me as the Light had. The plants and soil, so rich, so exotic, I sneezed. The Sun and Water, carried by this Sky, made me take a step back into the tunnels, though I couldn't move any farther.
"Turning, He grabbed my hand, doing that thing that They do a lot, smiling. He led me out of the tunnel, where the pebbles became one big, flat rock beneath my feet. My heart continued to pound in my chest at the space around me. There were no warm, solid walls. There was nothing around me. Nothing above me. With the cry We make when frightened, I curled up against the ground, quivering in fear.
"Most everything after that, Little One, is a blur. The others came from out of the tunnels, and for the first time in my life, I could see what we looked like. I was frightened, and for a long time, I couldn't tell which two out of the hundreds were my Maan and Daet. Others like Him came, and unlike our people, they all looked different. The Maans and Daets, what They call Mom's and Dad's, looked different from each other. And even one Dad looked different from another Dad.
"We didn't know any better, and blindly followed them around. They fed us soft meats and filled bowls full of cold, fresh water for us to drink. For a while, everything was good. Until They showed us the Collars.
"They gave us names which held no meaning to us, for we have only ever been Maan or Daet. Instead of becoming our friends, they forced us to sleep in their Light in the open-spaces. For even a while, that wasn't too horrible a fate, until the day the Sickness came.
"We fell prey by the dozen to this Sickness, the young, the old, Maan and Daet alike. They did nothing for us but shove those with Sickness out of their homes, leaving them to die on the flat, solid rocks.
"But We are strong. Oh, but We are strong, Little One. Those who survived the Sickness learned from Him who led us out of the darkness. He taught us their language. Their stories. They taught us to do things We didn't want to do. But They also taught us
things We used to fight back.
"That's when you were born, Little One. That's why you have no collar, why you do not go out onto the big, flat rocks when We are all called. And that is why Little One, when it is time, you will meet Him, Daemon. We have named Him the way They have named us. You will tell Him of our story, for when we try, We are struck. You will show Him the hovels He forever led us away from. And when that time comes, you will show Him, Daemon, the pain we have always felt since coming out of the tunnels. The pain of the Light."
Any Last Thoughts?
By Shannon L. Miller
November 23, 2005
They were in the middle of a war. And they had lost.
Strange sounds escaped from her throat as she kicked at her captors, twisting and squirming franticly in every position possible to find some freedom to move.
But they had her trapped. Trapped good.
Word had trickled down from the top that here, they weren't being fed anymore. Nor were they being sent to the strange concentration camps she had been sent to last year around December-January. She wished more than anything to go back to the one from which she had just arrived from. Compared to this hell, it was heaven.
Muscles fatigued from her struggles, she reflected briefly of the past few months. She should have known something was up when her captors started stuffing the crap out of her, feeding her some of the best vittles she'd ever eaten.
Well, now she knew why as she glanced at a paper calendar on the wall. The month read November, a blood red circle surrounding the second to last Thursday of the month.
But it was already too late. Nothing was going to save her now.
Staring at the blood-coated floor beneath her, her neck stretched to near breaking, she screamed. . .
"GOBBLE GOBBLE!"
Happy Thanksgiving, folks! This turkey's on us!
Ending
By Shannon L. Miller
February 18, 2006
Save me
This hell I live
Is colder and hotter
Than the bitter sweetness of death
That I have so long craved
Trapped in long thoughts
Of you
Welkin
Skies now open
To spread a light of truth
Across the plains of confusion
And haunting dark despair
Though I see you
I’m gone
Where is Our History?
A Standing Question
By Shannon L. Miller
March 30, 2006
Though I don't feel qualified for it, I teach English classes at the local university in Zhongshan, China. One of the classes I teach is an English Speaking Culture and Situation class. It's a rather dull class, and the best I can do for my students is show them lots of pictures with their notes in PowerPoint, or show ridiculous movies such as "Braveheart" and "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" as visuals for United Kingdom history and myth-hero studies.
This term, they're learning about America. Today, there were no good pictures or movies with which to entertain the students. So instead, we studied chapter five of our textbook: American Literature. We discussed the first American writers, people who were so ashamed of America's lack of history, they felt compelled to write one for her. There were the Transcendentalists, ex-Puritans who thought sitting in the woods was better at achieving a higher, spiritual state than having a formal religion. They wrote books about their experiences to try and convert their fellow Puritans. Moving into the 19th century, literature transformed to the imaginative versus the realistic, slowly focusing itself on reform, liberation and regionalism. Diving into the 20th century, literature struck closer at home with psychological studies of the urban development, social concerns and racial/sexual identity.
At the end of class, my students gathered their things, saying their goodbyes as they hurried onto their next class.
I stood there in the empty room, thinking.
What will be our history?
As a writer, this concerns me. It concerns a lot of us. How will we, as writers, be remembered fifty years from now? A hundred? Hell, even a thousand? Have we made any impact in writing big enough to withstand the erosion of history? Or will we merely be a gap between the "Beat Generation" and the next big thing, "Xenobiography"?
These questions got me to thinking even deeper. What MAKES literature stick out? What makes it remarkably special to history? And I think I found the answer.
We must destroy all red pens, -felt tip, gel, inkmarkers, and all other corrective tools writers and students fear.
Or, on a less dramatic scale, appreciate the uniqueness of a groundbreaking style.
History shows us many authors who stepped out of the bounds of the literary game. Take Herman Melville for example. He wrote the great American classic, "Moby Dick", an allegory on politics and religion. Back in the mid-1800's, this book was considered crap (along with his other novels) by the general public. Mr. Melville became so depressed, he completely stopped writing novels and ventured instead into poetry to appease the public. Nowadays, I don't think anyone could name a single poem of his, but mention "Moby Dick" to any Westerner, and they'll be sure to remember the tale of a crazy sea captain who hunted the waters for a devilish white whale. I wonder back then, how many "Red Pen Police" banished away a novel that thankfully could re-emerge in the future as a classic? How many critics and nay sayers did it take to squash Melville's prose? It bothers me to think the critics of his time destroyed other possible masterpieces of his.
Now, let's look at poet E.E. Cumming. His poetry was unique in that he completely disregarded all rules of punctuation, spelling, and even where words appeared on the paper. The public loved his poems, which were song-like, satirical, humorous and anarchistic. I wonder though, if he had written this way nowadays, what would have happened to his groundbreaking style? Would it too be crushed under the weight of the "Red Pen Police"? Would the hardcore critics of all on-line and real life writing groups banish him to the realms of "Amateur"?
We all think we know what makes good writing, but honestly, do we really know, or do we think we know? Do we simply base this on public opinion, personal opinion, or on "That's what my teacher taught me"? Maybe those works we think are "Bad" really are "Good". Sometimes, I think we pin the "Red Pen Police" badge a little too tightly to our breasts. Maybe that piece we just edited the crap out of would have been the next American classic in its original form. Who knows, it could have someday rivaled Shakespeare, the Greek Dramas, or the European Romances. It could have been the one piece that finally bound all of Humanity in peace.
As I closed the textbook, I realized I should be looking at others works, and my own, in a new light. I shouldn't just look at the creativity of the piece, the lack of grammar, misuse of punctuation or the total disregard of spelling. I should be looking at the potential of the piece, not as a marketable work bringing in more billions then J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter", but as the next piece of history. Will little green men with pink polka dots someday read this piece and think, "By the hair on my nose, Fark-Fark! This Human was a bright, inventive chap for his time!" I think we all need to look deeper into how we edit a piece. I wonder now, how many pages I deleted, that others have deleted, pages that were truly the best piece of writing in the universe?
It seems my students weren't the only ones to learn something today. . .
Eternity
By Shannon L. Miller
July 23, 2006
Why?
Why do we even bother? Why do I even bother? Someday, this will all end. My heart will cease, the delicate transfer of chemical hormones and electrical impulses, thought, breath. And then those around me – those who I loved, cried for – will rush me to the fire or ground to be consumed by eternity...
Why?
But it doesn't end there, right? "It matters not, life, but how you live, what you leave behind. . . "
Someday, even this legacy I left behind will cease to be. When the sun expands, then implodes, in a hot, fiery spectacle only a star of this universe can pull off, it'll all be gone. One by one, the stars and planets themselves will tip their hats and wink themselves offstage. . .
Why bother?
And whatever does survive to the very fringe of time, of space, of whatever mangled mess is left of this universe, carrying the archaic remains of Earth, will be faced with the very end of the universe itself. . .
Could it happen?
In the cold, or heat, of whatever exists beyond that, that too must end, right?
Why do I bother then? Why go on? It's all going to end. Nothing can be saved from that.
I can feel the breath. Feel the heartbeat. Smell the sun-soaked fur as it brushes, tickles my nose. With a deep sigh, I bury my face into its welcoming, satiny depths, nuzzling, lightly clutching.
It doesn't bother him, as he lays there, purring, eyes half opened in delight.
Why?
Does he know? Does he even care?
Deep within those amber eyes, gazing back at me with thoughts of the unknown, nothing matters. . .
. . . Except this moment.
Fairy Tayl
By Shannon L. Miller
May, 2001
Prologue
My life is boring. I have a boring name, and I live in a boring town.
My name is David Parker and I live in Marion, New York. It's a small, backwater town set in the middle of nowhere. Our school is small since Marion’s situated in what the city people would call 'the country' – meaning the population of the cows outnumber the population of people and there are corn fields and apple orchards as far as the eye can see.
I suppose I can't complain about it all being bad though, even though it seemed my entire life to this point had been consumed by the self-governing mass called school. It was free education after all, and I was surrounded everyday by my friends. Some of the classes were even fun or tolerable on most days, like study hall. Sure, the cafeteria food wasn't great, not worth the dollar-fifty they ask for, and it was nothing I'd feed to my dog. The decade’s old, carpeted floor reeked of old molds and puke. And whenever it rained, the carpet would get wet and even more moldy and disgusting because some of the more higher up’s in our ‘community’ didn’t think replacing a stone-age carpet was worthy of their tax dollars.
Like any school, we also had our fair share of nut case and psycho kids, mostly made up of city kids who were forced to transfer to Marion because they were kicked out of their own schools for any various numbers of reasons – you pick one, it’s probably a reason.
Being a senior in high school though, I was told, was going to be the best and easiest year of my life. So like I said, I couldn't complain about it all being bad.
I guess I’m what you would call the average high school senior. I don't play sports, but I have some great friends, and we have some great times – regardless of the fact it’s in one of the most evil places on earth – and I was getting average grades. Okay, well, not average grades in all of my classes. There was one class in particular that I was totally bombing out on.
Math.
Math . . . evil thoughts about that evil subject which was probably created by the Devil himself ran through my mind. There were two weeks left of school, and I was bombing required math. I had been for years, but it was only this year my guidance councilor decided to tell me that if I didn’t pass it, I wouldn’t be graduating. In my opinion, Math is the most stupid, most evil, and most pointless required course in all of history. I was planning on spending my life translating languages for big corporations, international business stuff anyway, so what good was algebra really going to do me when translating Spanish or German?
New York State though really didn't give a rat’s ass what I thought about math, so despite all my ‘bitching and moaning’ as everyone put it, I was still going to have to pass it if I wanted to graduate from high school in two weeks.
At least I still had a chance, I thought as I pulled my little, antique Toyota out of the school parking lot, albeit very small chance at passing.
Mrs. Devilin, my math teacher, was giving me a last-chance to pass by forcing me to go to a tutor for the next two weeks before the big end-of-the-year test – the New York State Regents. That was the only the good news, if you called spending hours of your free time with a Math tutor good news. Oh, and, it wasn't just any Math tutor, mind you, but the daughter of Ms. Devilin! Having already been going for a week now, I seemed to unfortunately know the two eccentric women quite well. It seemed hard to believe at first that the daughter could be nearly as old as the mother, but Mrs. Devilin must have been one of those teenagers who had kids before they were barely out of high school. Neither mother nor daughter were the least bit pleasant, both of them being affected by either 24/7 PMS or their own rage against a world not completely absorbed by the entity of Math. Both were old and senile enough to have qualified as the next inhabitants of retirement homes or preserved cavemen escaped from some museum, and both definitely could have used a good several years on Jenny Craig and a high dosage of Rogaine and shampoo. Yep; both were beyond the word obese, and balding women is just never a good sight, especially for poor, young, innocent eyes such as my own.
Anyway, this whole Math issue was the reason why I was driving down one of the cow inhabited roads in my cramped and clunking, white 94' Toyota Tercel, heading towards what would be, for the next two weeks, my version of hell on earth.
It was a late spring afternoon, and the air was still warm that I rolled down the windows, letting the breeze tousle my light brown hair while I cranked up the radio. One of my favorite Linkin Park songs started up and, being the only person in the car, I started singing with it. In my opinion, the best way to rid your mind of things like Math and gruesome old women was to roll down the window, crank up the tunes, and sing away all your troubles with the sweet sounds of bass and senseless lyrics.
The tunes and warm, fresh air began to distract me from my surroundings; the numerous fields and pastures with bright green crops and white and black stinky cows, the quaint, two-story homes here and there with their perfectly manicured yards and flowerbeds and ancient trees standing like massive, bushy sentinels over them all.
In a town where nothing happens, nothing changes, sometimes you forget to pay attention to what’s ahead of you. In school. In life.
On the road.
In one horrifying instant, I realized this was the worst moment in my young life to be distracted from what stood ahead of me.
Slowly, my green eyes focused on the large mass, silhouetted black before a brilliantly sinking sun. Too slowly, my brain moved my foot from the gas pedal to the brakes, which were never good to begin with. So slowly it seemed as if time itself were about to stop, I watched in an open mouthed, silent horror as my car continued to barrel on towards the cow. A big, freaking, black and white cow.
God, I hate the country!
Chapter One: Entrance
Buzz buzz.
"That is a very sick looking goblin."
Buzz buzz.
"That's because it's not a goblin!"
Buzz buzz.
Sobs of despair. "The song! They said the song would work!"
I opened my eyes, not sure I wanted to see the carnage that would be me and the car after hitting that cow. I nearly burst out laughing instead, even though I knew I should have been screaming my head off, or at least questioning my current level of sanity.
The car was gone. The cow was gone. Everything I seemed to recognize as ‘normal’, as Marion, was gone. Instead, there were three things, no, three small beings, flying around my head. Maybe I was dead or had a concussion, but they looked like fairies. Yes, fairies, as in the winged midget people from little kids books. You know, like Tinkerbelle.
Three freaking fairies.
So I guess all those cartoons where someone got knocked on the head and had little birds circling them had gotten it all wrong.
"What, is Tweety Bird on strike?" I moaned the joke, putting a hand to my throbbing temple. A headache had started up, sparking little bursts of fireworks behind my eyes.
"It spoke!" one of the fairy girls cried, buzzing away almost faster than I could see.
"They said it would work! I can't believe it didn't work!" Another one sobbed. I assumed it was the one flying in maddening circles around my head, which wasn't helping the headache any.
The third one landed on my chest lightly, weighing slightly more than I thought the little creature would.
Maybe six inches tall, kind of hard to tell without a ruler, she was petite in figure and looked more like a really beautiful twenty-something year old than an child. Four, dragonfly-like gossamer wings sprouted from her back, strangely not tangled up in her long, dark brown hair that hung loose to nearly her knees. Her chestnut mane sparkled and glistened like there was glitter in it, and I tired not to giggle as I thought of 'fairy dust' and 'happy thoughts' and Peter Pan flying around Wendy’s room like some green clad sissy. Her skin was tanned to almost a dark golden color, more vibrant than any Hollywood tan lending stunning highlights and shadows to the features in her stern but curious expression. Small, blue-green eyes stared back at me narrowed like a wary wild animal.
Again, I almost laughed as the little fairy nervously licked her little red lips, running her hands down a dark green and gray dress, as if smoothing out the wrinkles that weren't really there – especially in such a form fitting dress as the one she was wearing. Taking a deep breath, she moved forward with fake confidence.
"My name is Tayl of Salii. What are you?"
I began to giggle beyond my control again.
Spooked, the fairy took wing and hovered out of reach. "Man, you're cute for a six inch bug." I slapped my other hand to my mouth. I could not believe what I had just said! Sure, that's what I had been thinking, but I was usually more subtle than that! And why was I giggling like some Japanese school girl?! That thought made me giggle even more. I just couldn't seem to stop!
Tayl turned red with embarrassment as she lighted back onto my chest, a look of complete shock on her face. "Your-your giddiness would be a side affect of the summoning. It should disappear shortly." Taking a step closer to my face eyes narrowed, she said, “And we’re not bugs. We’re fairies.”
I nodded, not trusting myself enough to reply.
A silent moment passed between me and the fairies. I mean, I know I must have been either dead or crazy. What was I going to say? What do you say when you have a drop-dead gorgeous fairy on your chest saying you’ve been summoned with another two fairies sobbing uncontrollably nearby? It allowed me a few quick seconds to scope out my surroundings. Or, what I could see of it, lying down as I was.