From my novel, THE WATCHERS REQUIEM:
It was a small wooden box, almost the length and breath of Fayendar’s hand. Its lid was latched closed in such a way that its simple metal flip-lock needed no key. The lid’s top surface was ornately carved with a hand pointing left to an eye, below that was a swan-carved ship whose three unfurled sails were points. A small scroll was rolled onto two spindles that were locked in place by the closed lid. Fayendar noticed that when he turned the left spindle the text was written in such a way that the lid’s carvings pointed out certain passage details: either chapter, verse or circled letters. After decoding the circled letters, Fayendar read a message that really astounded him. For the author had written a warning not to add or take away from his words.
The tale he read on the scrolls were almost identical in every detail to Lyerah’s personal account. The Watcher‘s Book he had studied all those years at Varlendur paled in comparison to the beautiful simplicity of the original scrolls. For it contained none of the additional embellishings about the family and priestly lineages who followed the Watchers. Neither were there any of the proverbial sayings and ceremonial songs nor the lyrical prohibitions against associating with dwarves, and venturing into the western woods of Kinderval.
Fayendar began to remember all his ‘sacred service,’ the mundane ceremonial duties he had preformed, and how they were labeled as ‘theocratic secrets,’ forbidden to be shared with even his non-priestly family members. Strangely his eyes began to tear up. He felt strange inside. A scene of loss, and a feeling of gain all at the same time. He had been told his whole life what the book said, by so many people, that finally being able to read it for himself was almost overwhelming. There was also a scene of disappointment, because its difference was so different, so plain and simple, yet believable. Suddenly, he knew his tears were of joy. For he felt an inward growth, and the weight of all his guilt and frustration finally lifted from his mind and heart. Learning the truth of ‘The Truth’ had given him the confidence he needed to face anything.
INSTITUTIONAL ME; humorous horror flick
DEAD SECRETS; serious murder mystery
I'm trying to discover a new nich in life. Seems becoming a writer is sneaking up on me. Well if I do have any kind of readership I would be encouraged to hear their thoughts. I'd like to published one before I die and become forgotten, and forget.
David DeLaine Snow
A week had gone by before the Coroner finally released her husband’s body to the local Funeral Home; a single gun shot to the head confirmed what she had seen for herself -- a suicide. Jillian would never forget finding George slumped over on the blood soaked couch with brain matter splattered against the wall. Nor would she be able to erase having to clean it all up herself.
Next to a pile of bills and collection notices on the coffee table lay George’s final note; which read: “It all got out of hand and I’m so sorry, but I can’t stop.”
George’s gambling debts had drained their joint bank accounts, and now Jillian was left holding several unpaid Payday loans. She lost her land line, Cable, and her utilities were being threatened with getting shut off as well. Now, she had to wait for his Insurance policy to kick in and pay for his cremation. Their eight months of marriage had not seen them do any more than verbally plan for their future old-aged deaths. Hence the wait began.
Jillian entered the bustle of the Police Department, and walked up to the information desk, telling the clerk, “I would like to report a murder.” Everyone turned and looked at her. “Actually, I think I may have some information about those missing people in the news.”
More forth coming...
A short story by
David DeLane Snow
The tall, wiry haired man, named Douglas had both outstretched arms pressing against the window as he was licking the glass, and giggling happily to himself. Suddenly he turned around and began violently screaming bloody murder, jumping up and down, waving both hands wildly in the air for no apparent reason.
“Douglas stop that!” Yelled a staff from across the room.
Then uncharacteristically, the client spoke out, “Eerey yehaa Cthulhuoot!”
“Shut it up, Douglas, now!” Admonished another staff who came running out of the dinning area, adjacent to the long hallway off the dayroom area. The first staff threw him unexpectedly to the ground binding his flying arms underneath him, while the other laid across his legs.
“Calm down, Douglas - and damn it, you know what that means!” Said Thomas, who bore across the pinned man’s shoulders.
“He probably thought that he saw you-know-who’s car.” Robert said as he restrained the limp legs.
“Jason’s?” asked Thomas.
“Man, let him up.” Which they both did, assisting Douglas to his feet with earnest sincerity, then Robert injected, “Geesh, I’d have a behavior episode too if I saw him coming in this early.” They both laughed, then turned and began looking out the window with the glass-licking client in the middle, just to make sure it wasn’t a black Ford pickup after all.
About that time I began rocking back and forth, hoping they would not start yelling at me next. My first two weeks here had been rough, but manageable. The food wasn’t quiet Red Lobster, but neither was crazy aunt Bertha’s cooking either. Bathing was a little embarrassing at first, but -
- What happened?
- Marshall crapped on himself, again.
- What? He knows better than that.
- Ronnie, what are you looking at?
I quickly began looking out the clouded saliva-smeared window, tilting my head with a rocking shake.
-What’s a matter with him.
- No duah, their all retarded man.
- Yeah, well -- He’s just weird.
Robert took the wet and soiled Marshall by the elbow, redirecting him down the long hallway to the restroom as Thomas completed arranging the tables for the evening meal. The sounds of a rushing waterfall and bird calls artificially filled the dayroom with its repeated annoyance; but along the scenic-box’s picture frame, that hung of the opposite wall from me, I saw my reflection. My face seem to have thinned in two weeks, my hair was only finger combed and I was left unshaved for the second day in a row. As I observed the behaviors of the other clients around me with grave interest, I began wondering where in the world I landed myself.
More forth coming...
To my shame. After his passing I was so distraught and angry; about how his last few years were lived, and his death itself. When cleaning out his apartment, much of his own things had been sold or discarded and when I came along to clean up after him I followed suit, and did the same thing. Yet, weeks/months later I became eaten up with the regret that I had discarded what precious little I did come across: ancient poems from his college years, portions of his role playing story notes, and beginning chapters of a fantasy novel about Casmar and Duke. My only redeeming quality in this matter is that I have come across Chapter One of his story. My raw thinking at the time was that I could not allow myself to “waste” my time finishing his life when my own life, and novel need completion. Now, how much of my own life will be discarded upon my passing? I am all the more pressured to publish my first novel. Though there is a small homage to him I can never undo with did; I’m sorry Michael.
The Furturist; so, what's the next big thing?