mnmccarthy

     On the day of Vane’s funeral the Sorceress Queen called for a holiday. Criers had been sent into the city to inform her subjects of the event, and of her desire that all citizens take this time to remember those lost since the birth of the Gorge. In Dorr, the vast plains-nation west of the plateau a similar practice was kept whenever one of noble blood passed away, declaring a day of the dead. She thought it appropriate, for her consort had come from that stock, the son of a merchant lord out of Hansfil, but too she saw it as a way to give respect for all the rest. Tanum had not rested since that night when the spires crumbled, and

By: Marshall Norman McCarthy Five steps from home: that was all that was left of Sucheta’s journey. Five dripping, red steps. Across two pavestones, up two concrete stairs and one more across the greying porch, to the door, but all Such had left in her was drenching  the flags behind her. Pale blue, the paint dressing its face faded and chipped, that door stood in mocking regard, teasing her with its proximity. Teetering on her feet, legs gave way and, grunting from the jolt, she looked up at the door from hands and knees. Vision blurred, threatened to blacken, but Such bit down on her bottom lip until she tasted blood. See, I still h

Talents for Trouble   'Before pistols, the sword was the first choice of the duelist. And before that it was knives. Seems to be we're doing all we can t'get as far away from the killing as possible. Soon enough, folk'll be challenging each other from across country, with rifles so powerful you can pick the eye off a crow from a thousand leagues, never once seeing the looks on the faces on those they gun down.    Now why do I feel like this is an honest to Olden shame?'    - Longshot Quade,    3025 - 3090 AFL    The steady rhythm of the train-car's progress, the monotonous rhythm unending, was putting Jairo to sleep. Nothing to see

The Days of Squander Nothing more than hours; Moments ticking away, towards oblivion’s shade, Where one day bleeds into another, into a future, into a temporal decay: These are the days of squander. Nothing more than hours; A string of thoughts, rife with escape and the strange, Where the future is colour and rays, light of the dream, light of the arcane: Still, these are the days of squander. Nothing more than hours; Dreams become wrinkled, hoary and cold, A fickle remembrance of glory, a spark of lost wonder, gone in a flash: These are the days of squander. Nothing more than hours; Yet, hours have minutes and seconds to spare, Mom

By: Marshall Norman McCarthy Rath considered the polished gleam of the ice-field, where the sun caught in rivers of light, reflecting, to blind eyes that studied with brooding contempt. In these lands, of burly folk and monstrous legend, where the gods of the cold, white silence permitted no man to travel without exacting a heavy toll, his thin blood froze in his veins. Bringing a gloved hand to his face, he wiped ice crystals from his beard and muffled a curse. How many of my people have come here, seeking redemption, only to find wintry death? This was but one issue with his people's unfathomable devotion to a god whose heart was ice, who

Of Gunpowder Deeds    There are many ways to kill a man. A blade in the night, poison in his drink, or hands around his throat. For the unjust, who ride the wastes on malignant steeds, the question of death had many answers.    To those who sit on the thrones of justice, with scrutiny in their eyes and the word of the law upon their tongues, the answer was the hangman's gallows or the headman's block.    For he who stalks this Fragment, where the Deadman himself comes to play, the question of death has but one answer. But he is willing to repeat it six times.    -From, The Lay of the Gunfighter,    Thibian Crass, 3092 AFL    The Dead