Prophet of the God Seed, part 4

Padalmo dreamt nothing more. Fala did not come to comfort him. He awoke to the sounds of machinery, humming quietly and clicking away in uncertain rhythms, and was aware of a soft repeating tone. He forced his eyes open. The ceiling was a cool white interrupted by grey lines intersecting one another in squares. He tried moving his head and found he could move slightly to either side, though it hurt gravely to do so. He could see that he was on some sort of bed, only raised off the ground a few feet. There were similar, empty ones off…

Continue reading

Prophet of the God Seed, part 3

Death, at long last. Padalmo was crawling now. His legs had grown too tired and weak to continue shoveling through the sand. He got better traction crawling, though the infinitely small particles of silica slipped through his fingers like they were water. “I am a child again,” he said aloud. His voice croaked. “You must become like a child to enter the kingdom of God. So be it, either I enter now, crawling like a baby, or I become its prophet.” His mind was flooded with vivid memories of his home, the high house of Tala’Drog’Chu, the mansion of Imalmo,…

Continue reading

Prophet of the God Seed, part 2

Padalmo woke to darkness. It was not the darkness of drapes drawn on the sunward side of a house during a sleep period, which was deep and overwhelming, but rather a soft, rippling diffusion of light. He could see the sand outside the rock overhang, sitting still in piles and dunes where it once was shifting. The shadow of the rock itself blended with the color of grey sand outside. A storm, Padalmo thought. There’s not supposed to be storms over this part of the desert for another quarter year. He crept out and looked at the sky. Large billows…

Continue reading

Prophet of the God Seed, part 1

The desert. That is where prophets are made. Across the vast wastes of time, when each year past is but a grain of sand and each world gained and lost a chapter of a book, the desert has always meant something to men of faith. Flat, desolate, waterless… only a man of God can survive, and only with the blessing of his god, or so it seems. Karakum. The Place of Burning. Drogathalum. The Sea of Sand. It marched all the way from the mountains of drought, Staltutum, to the steaming sea, or Drog’ta. The sea was the only sure…

Continue reading

Irregular Temporal Probability

Kenneth had never seen an irregular temporal sphere before. Bernard leaned on his knees and held the object between his hands, staring at the golden center, swirling like the center of the galaxy and throbbing like a dying heart. It glowed subtly. Temporal singularities were uncommon playthings, even for the wealthy. “So what did you decide to study?” Kenneth asked, putting down his tablet. He was starting to get fatigued from his class readings. Temporal vibrating membranes was a hugely interesting academic area, but required more of Kenneth’s brain power than he could spare with Bernard sitting in his dorm…

Continue reading

DVS Press is LIVE! Welcome to the new site

196941_4552337760952_630433024_n

Ah, Vegas…

It’s been a long road to end up here, with a fresh new site. I’ve got lots of new content in the works, with an inaugural short story coming later in the day. After that, the launch will continue with a new serial story that I’m rather excited to show you.

You should notice that all the content from The Tears of Prometheus has migrated over to DVS Press. The formatting for the old site (which was based on a very dark background) is still intact in most posts, so the visibility of headlines might not be ideal. I’ll be working to straighten all of that out as we go. Likewise, the intensive cataloging that I did on the blogger site is still missing here, so if you are looking for something in particular, head back to the old site to find it.

Thanks for stopping by, and don’t forget to subscribe to the RSS feed and find me on twitter!

Muramasa: Blood Drinker, an Author’s Reflection

At long last, the writing and subsequent digital publishing of my “little” samurai novel is complete. The first words were typed while I was on a break from teaching a special education class in El Segundo, California, and the final words were written in an uncomfortable high chair in a Starbucks that was attached to Marriot in Sacremento, California. That is somewhat symbolic for me, as there were as many words written away from home as at home; my life has been in a state of upheaval for some time, but I still got the work done.  Muramasa was definitely the…

Continue reading

Site Update: What I’ve Learned, and Where I’m Going.

My samurai tale, Muramasa: Blood Drinker, will be finishing its online run in the next few weeks. For those of you who thought everything would wrap up neatly yesterday… You didn’t think I’d let everything go so easily, did you? I’ve learned a lot through the serial publication of this story over the last few months, and I’m ready to share some of that with you, and to talk about some upcoming experimentation. For those of you who are authors, I hope it will be an interesting discussion of a rather unorthodox business model that will inform your own decisions.…

Continue reading

Fiction in the digital age: What do we do as writers?

Muramasa and the Mass Media Market The online run of Muramasa: Blood Drinker is soon coming to an end. It won’t be a swift end, and it probably will not have the end that was expected by my tortured readers, but it will be a good end. The right end. Rather than taking time and energy at the end of that project’s publication to wonder about the future, I thought it might be better to look ahead a little (ahem) ahead of time. The Downfall of Traditional Media “Prometheus Bound” – Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1618 The vision for this…

Continue reading

The Chal’cha Napkin (flash fiction)

From The Huffington Post “It looks like a gigantic napkin,” Tommy said. “Like they put in your glass at nice restaurants.” “You ain’t never been to a nice restaurant,” Julie said. She was always saying things like that jokingly, but Tommy never laughed, and she never quit. They walked toward the strange building, seemingly dropped overnight in the middle of the countryside miles away from any convenient skyways. It stood about eighty feet tall at its highest point, and did look a bit like a crumpled cloth from where they stood, with long ripple-like folds spiraling up to a narrow…

Continue reading