‘The Old D/L Blog’ Archives
Trollocs!!
Tuesday, August 4th, 2009
Any WHEEL OF TIME fans out there? This is just me trying to brush up on computer painting techniques and some new brushes. It is still a work in progress… we’ll see if I actually end up finishing it. I may just start something new if I can think of something interesting.
~D
Tiny Story #6
Monday, August 3rd, 2009
FOREIGNER:
Thomas did not blend in with the locals in the least. He was more than a head taller than anyone else. The rich dark skin of Mumbai’s inhabitants contrasted sharply with his fair countenance. He clearly did not belong, so the men and women hawking their wares along Fashion Row would raise their prices at least a thousand percent whenever he entered one of the makeshift booths. He haggled and argued over the marked up prices until the vendor would simply cross his arms and look off to the side like Thomas no longer existed. When he turned to leave the man called him back and with a heaviness, as though it would cost him his shop, he would concede to a price that Thomas knew was still five times more than a local would pay. But he had settled on a set of glass bangles and a pair of glass earrings with countless beads dangling from a beaded triangle. He thought his girlfriend would like them. Maybe he could drag a pardon out with them. He wanted to get out of the throng. The press of unknown faces was too much. Every time he looked down there were children reaching up with cupped hands, faces contorted in pained yearning for just one rupee. He saw a woman with a baby that was sleeping in her arms, but when she caught him looking at her she pinched the infant and it started to wail as she quickly approached him and gestured with one hand toward her mouth. She twisted her face into a look of someone not having eaten in days. She placed her hand out for a donation. She had the most amazingly white teeth Thomas had ever seen and they were perfectly straight. All of them had those teeth. Beggars, merchants, businessmen, it didn’t matter. Perfectly straight smiles could be seen wherever he looked. The woman pushed her hand toward him again after pinching the infant a second time. Thomas quickly looked away and made a sharp right toward the road where he flagged down one of the countless yellow and black auto-rickshaws, which was essentially just a three-wheeled moped with a shell over the top. He clambered in.
“Carter Road,” he said, slightly breathless and more than a bit overwhelmed. The driver waved his head slightly and set out to force a path through the ever-present traffic, making his way east. Honking the high-pitched horn incessantly. It seemed to be more habit than anything else. Everyone was honking, but unlike New York, nobody yelled and swore at anybody else. It was all the daily routine as poverty stricken beggars squatted on corners, mongrels skulked in alleyways and merchants plied their goods, crying out over the din “Chaaaaai BabbaChai!” or “Lemonorrraaaaange!” and countless other phrases that Thomas did not understand. The rickshaw reached Carter Road and Thomas tossed the driver two hundred rupees and hopped out. He had to run across the street to the promenade to avoid the cars and rickshaws that caromed down the road, heedless of pedestrians. When he set foot on the wide tiles that overlooked the Arabian Sea, Thomas let out a long breath. The tide was low and the pocked rocks stretched out hundreds of feet before him. He did not venture out but rather leaned against the waist-high wall and sipped the milk from a fresh coconut that no doubt came from one of the many palms across the street. He gazed out toward the water until he saw an aging man walk out toward the water. When the man was nearly to the edge he pulled his pants down and squatted over a small pool, heedless of the numerous people walked up and down the coastline. Thomas could not help but grimace. He did not belong.
Cheers,
~D
The genius of Robert E. Howard
Friday, July 31st, 2009
Robert E. Howard, the creator of Conan the Cimmerian, was only 30 years old when he committed suicide. His mother and he were buried at a double funeral. He created Conan when he was 26. But I am not posting to blog about his departure. Rather I wanted to acknowledge his genius, which I will share with in the form a very visual paragraph from his 7th Conan short story, BLACK COLOSSUS, which originally appeared in WEIRD TALES, June 1933:
“Whence came Natohk?” rose the Shemite’s vibrant whisper. “Out of the desert on a night when the world was blind and wild with mad clouds driven in frenzied flight across the shuddering stars, and the howling of the winds was mingled with the shrieking of the spirits of the wastes. Vampires were abroad that night, witches rode naked on the wind, and werewolves howled across the wilderness. On a black camel he came, riding like the wind, and an unholy fire played about him, the cloben tracks of the camel glowed in the darkness. When Natohk dismounted before Set’s shrine by teh oasis of Aphaka, the beast swept into the night and vanished. And I have talked with tribesmen who swore that it suddenly spread gigantic wings and rushed upward into the clouds, leaving a trail of fire behind it. No man has seen that camel since that night, but a black brutish man-like shape shambles to Natohk’s tent and gibbers to him in the blackness before dawn. I will tell you, Conan, Natohk is – look, I will show you an image of what I saw that day by Shushan when the wind blew aside his veil!”
The images of a night dominated by beasts and legendary creatures is pretty awesome. It’s no wonder Howard’s stories captured the imaginations of millions.
~D
Tiny Story #5.5
Friday, July 31st, 2009
Holy jeez, it’s Friday already?! I nearly forgot… It’s been one of those days I guess. Anyway. Shall we continue?
BROTHERS: Part 2 of 2
Oliver climbed down the tree that grew alongside the house and dropped the last ten feet into the soft snow. He ran up the nearest slope until he was level with his mother’s window. He could see his father. His blade spun faster than Oliver could follow, but a crossbow bolt slammed into his right shoulder, and knocked him back into the room. The Captain looked once more out the window, and before the outlaws could stop him, plunged his blade into his wife’s heart. He turned to face the men once more. “You will not have her in this life.”
One of the men stepped forward, wearing a black tunic and brown woolen pants. He had a thick black beard and wore a plain half-helm with black iron-wrought wings along the sides. “Aye, she don’t need be alive, Captain,” he said with a cruel smile. “Aint that right, Paulo boy?”
Another man with the same black tunic stepped forward. He wore a black fur vest over the top and gray fur pants with gray fur boots. He wore an old bronze helmet that he must have stolen off some slain victim. “That’s the right of it, Sarge.” The men let out chuckles. “Just so long as they’re still warm’s good enough for the likes of us scum, ay Captain?” Captain Combe raised his sword with his left hand and parried several attacks, but they forced him back. Oliver turned and ran into the foothills, heading towards the mountain called Bhediya.
Another wolf howled and snapped Oliver back to the present. It was close. Somewhere just up the mountain. He twisted around and craned his neck, looking for a way up the rocky slopes… away from the wild animal. All he had was his father’s hunting knife. He wished he had thought to bring a bow. He knew the outlaws were just toying with him, but the sight of the rocky crags so close gave him hope. He pushed to his feet and within three steps was waist deep in snow again. He began to cry as he pushed through the heavy drifts. Oliver had to pull himself up onto the rocks when he reached the other side of the field. He looked up at the stony towers. They looked like rain-worn castles whose tops had been shorn off by some giant’s axe. They jutted into the sky like granite teeth. Rocks skittered down the slope somewhere to his right. Oliver went left and began climbing. He heard voices behind him, but still distant. He looked back and saw the men had abandoned their horses and were climbing over the rocks too. Oliver swore under his breath. A curse he had learned from one of the servants at his father’s estate. As he came to the peak of the mountain, he found it was only a false one. Before him was a small lake, frozen solid, and the true mountaintop towered high above the far shore. Gingerly at first, he made his way across. The slope on the other side was all scree and gravel, dotted with a legitimate boulder here and there, but as Oliver reached the foot of the slope he fell to his knees. It was too far. The slope was too long and they would be on him before he was halfway up. Their legs were almost twice as long as his, and their lungs twice as big. He began to sob. He didn’t know what else to do. Even his sobs were labored and sent knives down his throat with every breath. It was not long before Oliver heard their voices again. As he turned, blinking through tears, he saw the first one climb over the ridge on the other side of the frozen lake.
Oliver got to his feet and picked up stones, throwing them as far as he could. He ran up the slope a short distance, then turned and threw more stones. He had heard his father say something about “uphill is the upper hand,” but they had steel where he had only rocks. He threw more stones and whooped as one caught a bandit in the cheek and sent the man sprawling on the ice. Still, the others came on. When they reached the foot of the slope they stopped. They seemed to hesitate. A couple dropped their knives and swords and began to run back the way they had come, as others appeared to brace themselves. Oliver heard loose rocks skittering down the slope behind him and he turned, fearing an avalanche. But when he looked, there were no boulders bounding down the slope. Oliver was frozen. When he finally made to run back the way he had come, it was too late. They were on him before he could take three steps, then they were past, racing down the mountain like a black and white tide. The outlaws fled as wolves, seemingly innumerable came snarling out of the rocks. The wolves outnumbered them five to one. Oliver crouched and threw his hands over his head. He could hear them growling and barking as they ran past. His father had always said that wolves didn’t like the taste of highborn children because they were sour, but Oliver knew that was just to quell his fears of the night.
Olive chanced a peek just in time to see the last few animals fade into the rocks. He looked around wildly but he saw neither hide nor hair of the beasts of the mountain. The Bhediya was named for its inhabitants. But Oliver had never seen more than a few at one time. What he saw then must have been hundreds. And now they were just gone; all but one. A massive black creature with burning amber eyes. It stared at him. That gaze was unsettling, but not as much as the evil men had been. It loped toward him and he had his father’s hunting knife out before he knew. Oliver scrambled to his feet and waved the knife furiously, shouting and hollering curses for the animal to stay back. The wolf stopped and regarded Oliver for a moment. Then it just bounded off and seemed to fade into the rocks. Oliver looked around, perplexed.
He dropped to the ground. He was tired. His arms and legs ached and did not want to move another inch. Oliver jumped suddenly and screamed when the black wolf sat down next to him. He was afraid and embarrassed by his high-pitched wail. He slowed his breathing as he stared at the beast. It was just looking off to the horizon as he had been. With both of them sitting, the wolf was taller than he was. He was frightened, but the fear was quickly fading. It never looked at him, just gazed out over the mountains. So Oliver sat up a little straighter and did the same.
Cheers,
~D
