He rode forward slowly, his head bowed melancholic against the ash and the wind. When he was a dozen paces away, he stopped.
"I'm sorry, Adon," he said, "but I know you will never forgive me. I expect the next time we meet I will be a dead man, and I accept it." The melthorse shook its head, sickly teeth curling up its cancerous face. Ebon sighed, removing his rifle and casting it to the ground, "In the tunnel you saved me. Understand that I know what I owe you. I owe you my life. And yet I cannot. I cannot give it to you yet. There is still much to do."
"Why?" I cried, clutching Breezy hard to me, "She never did anything to you!"
Ebon stared into the distance, his old lips disappearing. And he frowned at the sparks showering the sky. Turning into the wind, he called out to me one last time that day,
"The architects had a plan. And I intend to see it through. Hate me. Kill me. But don't let me own your heart. That's yours, my friend. Goodbye."
And five riders rode away.
The End
Thank you for taking a chance on checking out an indie series. If you enjoyed Life and Limb, it will soon be followed by the exciting conclusion, Rustbaby Wonderland where I stay true to the aesthetic and humanity of this first two, but plunge characters further still into a world of action, peril, and intrigue.
Rustbaby Wonderland
Her name is Detende, and she is the master of the Rustbaby Wonderland. It is a doomed place, but one which lives in an uncharacteristic harmony thanks to her. But as the mysterious - and possibly omniscient - narrator describes the events happening around it with the cold humor of a machine, it becomes clear that this perfect peace she has managed to enforce will soon be disrupted by an unstoppable clash of wills.
But what is the machine telling this story? And why has an army gathered at the bottom of the Rustbaby Wonderland's mesa, convinced Detende is the most dangerous person in the world?
Rustbaby Wonderland is the compelling conclusion to the Ebon the Waste Trilogy, and much like “Life and Limb,“ it pulls no punches when it comes to the far reaching consequences of betrayal in a merciless scorched Earth. Here’s the first bit in that story.
The Rustbaby Wonderland is awake before dawn. Six shipper men are distributing small loaves of nut bread to the various performers. Today's show will be postponed yet again, but foragers are readying themselves to descend to the spiral path to gather butternips. They take care not to walk all the way to the mesa's base.
Detende, self-described daughter of God is sitting in her tent. Her hands are cradling the head of an oafish monster of a man with five hundred milligrams of hardware embedded to the base of his spine. Thermal imaging indicates a core temperature of 106.2 degrees. She won't ask her father for drought yet. Now she's asking for something else.
"Please don't let him die," she whispers as her eyes tighten shut. She says this, but no one seems to hear.
I hear. I perceive everything. My attention turns down to the base of the mesa where I look impossibly out into the horizon.
Beyond a siege line of grey uniformed men, men who don't dare bring their weapons to the mesa's top, I can see three riders approaching. The center rider has blue eyes, which I stare into even though he's a flicker on the horizon. Detende doesn't know he's approaching. No one does. Not even the scouts staring through improvised scopes.
“Detende,” I say to myself, knowing she will never hear me, “I believe the brute's death is the least of your worries at the moment.”
There is more in the distance, approaching. A blight storm. Projected chance of survival, negligible.
Blight: (n) Regional neologism used to describe fallout particles.
I update tomorrow's forecast accordingly, and then prepare to shut down for the next six years after it's all done. If it rolls through here, which it
"I'm sorry, Adon," he said, "but I know you will never forgive me. I expect the next time we meet I will be a dead man, and I accept it." The melthorse shook its head, sickly teeth curling up its cancerous face. Ebon sighed, removing his rifle and casting it to the ground, "In the tunnel you saved me. Understand that I know what I owe you. I owe you my life. And yet I cannot. I cannot give it to you yet. There is still much to do."
"Why?" I cried, clutching Breezy hard to me, "She never did anything to you!"
Ebon stared into the distance, his old lips disappearing. And he frowned at the sparks showering the sky. Turning into the wind, he called out to me one last time that day,
"The architects had a plan. And I intend to see it through. Hate me. Kill me. But don't let me own your heart. That's yours, my friend. Goodbye."
And five riders rode away.
The End
Thank you for taking a chance on checking out an indie series. If you enjoyed Life and Limb, it will soon be followed by the exciting conclusion, Rustbaby Wonderland where I stay true to the aesthetic and humanity of this first two, but plunge characters further still into a world of action, peril, and intrigue.
Rustbaby Wonderland
Her name is Detende, and she is the master of the Rustbaby Wonderland. It is a doomed place, but one which lives in an uncharacteristic harmony thanks to her. But as the mysterious - and possibly omniscient - narrator describes the events happening around it with the cold humor of a machine, it becomes clear that this perfect peace she has managed to enforce will soon be disrupted by an unstoppable clash of wills.
But what is the machine telling this story? And why has an army gathered at the bottom of the Rustbaby Wonderland's mesa, convinced Detende is the most dangerous person in the world?
Rustbaby Wonderland is the compelling conclusion to the Ebon the Waste Trilogy, and much like “Life and Limb,“ it pulls no punches when it comes to the far reaching consequences of betrayal in a merciless scorched Earth. Here’s the first bit in that story.
The Rustbaby Wonderland is awake before dawn. Six shipper men are distributing small loaves of nut bread to the various performers. Today's show will be postponed yet again, but foragers are readying themselves to descend to the spiral path to gather butternips. They take care not to walk all the way to the mesa's base.
Detende, self-described daughter of God is sitting in her tent. Her hands are cradling the head of an oafish monster of a man with five hundred milligrams of hardware embedded to the base of his spine. Thermal imaging indicates a core temperature of 106.2 degrees. She won't ask her father for drought yet. Now she's asking for something else.
"Please don't let him die," she whispers as her eyes tighten shut. She says this, but no one seems to hear.
I hear. I perceive everything. My attention turns down to the base of the mesa where I look impossibly out into the horizon.
Beyond a siege line of grey uniformed men, men who don't dare bring their weapons to the mesa's top, I can see three riders approaching. The center rider has blue eyes, which I stare into even though he's a flicker on the horizon. Detende doesn't know he's approaching. No one does. Not even the scouts staring through improvised scopes.
“Detende,” I say to myself, knowing she will never hear me, “I believe the brute's death is the least of your worries at the moment.”
There is more in the distance, approaching. A blight storm. Projected chance of survival, negligible.
Blight: (n) Regional neologism used to describe fallout particles.
I update tomorrow's forecast accordingly, and then prepare to shut down for the next six years after it's all done. If it rolls through here, which it
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