The Gods' War

Today we have a fantasy story by a promising young writer named Kate Hawkins:

Shortly after time began, and earth became inhabited by life, the guardian of time created the gods. He created the goddess of music, the god of war, and many many others. He put the goddess of life, Midnight, to rule above all of the other gods. She was kind and just, yet she demanded respect and loyalty. Seeking a refuge for her underlings, Midnight created Kaira, a small dimension that allowed the gods to cross over to earth, putting them in the middle of Central Park.

The gods and goddesses in Kaira lived together in peace for many millennium. Eventually, however, one decided to try and kill Midnight: the god of death, William. Of course, William failed, and was exiled from Kaira. He set out to take over Kaira, and began turning gods and goddesses to his ways. Being that those gods had only been living one way, they began to question Midnight. The guardian of time’s words were no longer enough to keep them as they were, so they began turning to William for a new experience, and to test his ways.

Midnight declared war on William. She wanted to wipe him and the people who had betrayed her out. However, instead of winning the war, Midnight started a cycle. During the summer, Midnight and her followers were winning the war. During the winter, William was. The spring and fall were turning points for them, and no one knew why it was impossible for one side to win.

Both sides had been trying to figure out what made them unable to beat their enemy into surrender; Midnight more so than William, and it had been taking its toll on her. She’d been up for several days straight, again, when her younger sister and heir, Rin, came into her study. “Midnight, you look tired. Go get some rest.” she said, leaning against the arm of a chair. Normally, Rin was shaky and insecure, but when it was only Midnight around, she was much more relaxed. Her rival was Deidra, William’s son and heir.

Midnight smiled warmly at Rin. “Don’t worry, Squirt,” she said, using Rin’s nickname. “I’m not anywhere near as tired as I look. Hell, you’re worse off than I am.”

“Midnight,” Rin groaned, rolling her eyes. “Just take a break, even if it’s just for a few hours.”

Midnight shook her head. “Go take the next few days off. I’m fine.”

“But--”

“That’s an order, Rin.” Midnight said, more stern than usual. Rin sighed, knowing better than to argue with an exhausted Midnight. Moments after Rin left, the guardian of time appeared in the room. “Guardian,” Midnight nodded respectfully. The guardian was part of a clan which was known for its power and ability to manipulate time.

“You shouldn’t worry about this war, Midnight,” he said, taking a seat. “It’s going to continue whether you’re in charge or not. Go get some rest.”

“I’m fine, Guardian,” Midnight smiled. “Besides, I want to make history here.”

The guardian sighed, “Alright. I’m going to check on Rin.” he said, leaving the room.

Maybe I should listen to them. I am a little tired. Midnight thought, and after a few minutes, she retired to her room.

Midnight woke the next morning to the smell of poinsettias at the foot of her bed, again. Every time she’d slept the past few months, she’d had poinsettias at the foot of her bed when she woke. Midnight sat up groggily. “Whoever is sending these must know a thing or two about me,” she mumbled, moving the flowers to a vase and padding to the kitchen in the Kaira estate. Outside of the estate, there were sparring grounds, and past that lay hundreds of miles of woods, which were used for testing the gods’ survival skills when needed.

When Midnight reached the kitchen, everything was chaos. People who didn’t know the first thing about cooking were running around, and the kitchen looked like a tornado had just passed through it. Rin was standing on a counter, trying to calm the gods, but failing due to her inability to get loud and actually get people to pay attention to her. Midnight joined her on the counter. “What’s going on?”

“William’s launched an attack on us. Most of the gods that left us for him, as well as a lot of his toughest demons are attacking earth. We’ve managed to get them off of earth and swept into another dimension, but they’re getting to the point where they can open up tunnels back.” Rin said, panicked.

Midnight sighed, irritated with William. “I’ll handle him, Rin. Work on damage control.” she said, vanishing in a pillar of leaves before Rin could say a word.

William was easy to find, being that he was always at the center of the problem. New York City seemed to be the center of this problem, so Midnight started there, at the Statue of Liberty, one of the most iconic places there. He stood still, arrogantly grinning at the fight going on below them. “Hello, Midnight.” he said as she shot an arrow at him. Wind blew it off course, and it missed by several feet. “Don’t play games with me. You’re here to stop this, right?”

“That should be obvious, William.” Midnight shot back venomously, drawing her sword and heading cautiously towards him. “You’re going to pay for the lives you took today.”

“Is that so? How do you intend to make me pay?” William questioned, turning to face Midnight. She glared, taking a swing at William. He vanished just before she could graze him, landing his own gash on her shoulder from behind. Midnight gasped in pain, realizing he’d used some sort of poison on her; she knew he experimented with things like that. She sank to her knees, dropping her sword as the poison was pumped through her body. William kicked the sword across the roof, kneeling in front of Midnight. “I asked how you were going to make me pay, Midnight. Are you going to answer?” he asked, smirking.

Midnight glared up at him, quickly loosing strength. Using the small amount of energy she had left, Midnight sent a blast of raw energy barreling at him. William, who was shocked by the fact that she still had that much power left, took the full blast and was thrown across the roof. Midnight stood and made her way to her rival, kneeling beside him. “That’s how,” she smirked tiredly. As she studied him, she noticed his unnaturally lonely eyes, and couldn’t help pity him. So, she put a hand on his cheek, causing him to wince. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want to end up like you did,” she said. “You’ve been alone since you left us, haven’t you?”

When no reply came from William, Midnight sighed and began to draw energy from the people who were barely hanging on; those who were in immense pain. As she took their life, she eased William’s pain, regretting that she was taking life to help her enemy. “This cycle’s been set already; even the guardians say it’s going to continue. We can’t go against fate, William.” she said as William winced, then sighed. “Call off you demons.” she demanded.

William sighed, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like profanity under his breath, then looked at Midnight. “Fine,” he said, slowly clambering to his feet as his demons filed back to their own dimension. William smirked down at Midnight. “Let’s finish our fight.”

Midnight stood, slightly weak on her feet. As she tried to summon her energy, she quickly realized that she was unable to. She tried again, but a searing pain flared in her head. Cursing, she whirled towards William. “You blocked my powers off!”

William smirked at Midnight, again, which only infuriated her more. “What did you think I was going to do?” he asked rhetorically. Suddenly, William pinned Midnight to the ground with his boot. “Listen, Midnight, I’ve been sending those poinsettias.” he said, watching the goddess he’d been trying to overthrow his whole life squirm under his foot.

“Why?” Midnight choked out, trying to break free of the pressure from William’s foot.

He froze when he heard Midnight’s question. After a moment, he sighed. “I suppose you deserve to know, being that I’m about to kill you.” he said. Midnight glared weakly at him. “I’m quite fond of you, Midnight, and if we weren’t enemies, I’d make you my queen. The demons were sent to lure you out. How did you expect me to get that message to you if you attacked me on sight, hm?”

William released Midnight and stepped back. The pair remained silent for quite some time, and Midnight was the one to break the silence. “You sacrificed thousands of human lives to tell me that? Not to mention all of the gods and demons lives that were under us?” she growled, attempting to get to her feet. “You’re so lucky my powers are gone right now.”

Without warning, Midnight collapsed again, curled up in a ball and her arms crossed over her stomach in pain, as was William. Moments later, the two of them were in a deserted field, miles away from the nearest human. The only thing Midnight remembered was William’s declaration of love, and he somehow knew that. “Who are you?” she asked, standing now that her strength had returned. “How can you say that when we don’t even know each other?”

William smiled slightly, holding a hand out to the former goddess. “I can help you, Midnight. All you have to do is trust me.” he said.

Midnight eyed William warily, and, after a few moments, she took his hand, allowing him to take her to a small shack he’d discovered before being chosen to become a god.

William never did return Midnight to her home. Instead, he left her position to Rin, and handed his own to Deidra. The war continued, but Midnight and William lived blissfully ignorant to the gods’ war, and later had a daughter named Kira.

Guest Post: So You Published. Now What?

I liked how Suckers Guild co-founder M Joseph Murphy announced the launch of his new book Council of Peacocks on his blog, so I got permission to share it with you:

My book, Council of Peacocks, is finished. I'm about to upload it to Amazon. Everyone tells me I should feel proud, that I've accomplished something amazing. But I don't feel it.

Surprisingly, I'm a little bit numb to it all. I keep wondering why I'm not jumping up and down and celebrating. Maybe it's because, for me, the publishing part isn't the accomplishment. And it's not about the money either. My expectations are very realistic. The average indie author only sells a few hundred copies. That's about all I'm expecting.

For me, the most important thing is to have people read the book and enjoy it. Maybe I'll jump up and down at my first positive review. Before indie publishing became a reality, I always expected to get my first rejection slip. That was how I would know I was a real author. So maybe it will be my first bad review. Maybe it will be my book showing up on LousyBookCovers.com.

Here's what I do know: now that I'm published I will not be watching sales numbers on KDP. Would Stephen King lurk in Barnes & Noble waiting for someone to pick up his book? No. What he did is what I'm going to do: keep on writing.

Young Stephen King

Most experts will tell you the way to make money as a writer is to write a crap load of things. I'm not going to waste too much time promoting Council of Peacocks right now. It will sell the more people become aware of me. I'll feel more excited when I have 3 or 4 books published. Maybe.

Truth is, the only time I get really excited is when I'm writing. All the other stuff - the promotion, the editing, working with cover artists and beta readers - all of that is a necessary evil. My passion is doing the work.

So what should I do know that I'm published? I'm going to celebrate by doing what I do best.  I'm going to write.

The Goodwife from Under the Workbench

Here's a short story for all you lovers of fantasy:

“Don’t you know how to take inventory?” Lou was shouting--no, screaming, actually.

“Yes,” Abigail replied after taking a breath. She tried to use the voice her mother always used with Henry, the next-door neighbor with Alzheimer’s disease, when he had his episodes. “Yes, write the description and number, I rememb—“

“Then shut up and start doing it,” Lou bellowed, barging past her out the door and slamming it behind him.

She laughed, from the sudden release of tension, then laughed again when she heard herself laugh. “At least I’m not claustrophobic,” she said to herself.

Photo: Dipity.com

All she’d done was ask Lou if she could enter the data directly into a laptop instead of performing the extra step of using the paper form. She’d anticipated that maybe he’d say no: maybe the program wasn’t licensed for multiple PC’s or maybe he’d be worried that a laptop wasn’t tough enough to carry around to all the supply closets and risk having something fall on it. But she did think he’d be impressed that she’d suggested it. After all, it showed that she was trying to save him money on his labor budget. Wasn’t he always talking about being a team player, thinking proactively, and all of that?

“Oh, well,” she said, talking to herself again, and picked up the clipboard full of blank inventory forms. Three, six, seven, eight, ten…twelve tubs of laundry booster. With any luck she’d at least get an interview out of one of the dozen job applications she’d filled out yesterday.

Speaking of dozen, there were exactly twelve of these supply closets in the small college where she worked. Actually, calling it a college was a bit of a stretch. It was an unaccredited Institute that taught some halfway-decent drafting and geometry courses and let everything else slide. But it took up half a mill building, and had to be cleaned and maintained, and that was why Abigail spent her afternoons here, saving up money to go to a real college.

Right now, she was still a junior in high school, with about four months left in the year. She’d save money by going to a Community College for the first two years, and then, if she had enough money and her grades were good enough, she’d be able to transfer to a really good school. But at the very least, it would definitely be accredited.

She’d probably major in Women’s Studies. Those amazing stories of the Abolitionists and, later, the Suffragettes filled her with a kind of wonder she just couldn’t ignore. After graduation she’d work for the UN, or maybe a private foundation, helping women fight for their rights in countries where females weren’t so lucky as she was.

She finished the shelves by the door and turned the corner, counting items, shifting them around to make sure she didn’t miss anything, filling out the form. This particular set of shelves was built against one of the building’s original red brick walls.

She finished the top shelf of the first section, went on to the next, filled up a sheet of the form-paper and started another. By the time she’d finished the section and gone on to the top of the next one, she’d come to feel something close to affection for the rough, cool bricks. They marked progress: when she got to them she could move on.

But the bricks reminded her of something else, as well. These were old bricks. Their sides were chipped and bumpy, they were darkened by time and many of them were stained. Not that long ago, this whole mill yard - for that matter, the whole city and many more like it in the northeastern United States - had been a crumbling wreck, forgotten by an industry that had long since moved on to other parts of the world. But thanks to a huge effort to revive city economies, the mill buildings had been renovated, converted into offices and meeting-places, restaurants and gyms and apartments.

Like a lot of them in the area, this particular building had been a textile mill, a sweatshop where women and children had worked long hours in hazardous conditions for low wages. Yet in many ways it had been these very factories that had first empowered women. The great movements for abolition and suffrage owed their existence to the mill jobs - the mill jobs and the whaling industry, actually, but the whaling industry was another matter and she didn’t want to think about that.

This building had been a cotton mill, automating the making of cotton fabric, making clothing easier and cheaper to make, and nicer. No more sticking to homespun wool: now ordinary women from the labor-class could wear pretty calico dresses. And stick up their northern noses for managing to be prosperous and enlightened, running a thriving economy without owning slaves. Of course, the mills had bought their cotton from the southern plantations, creating the demand that had kept slavery going.
But behind the bottom shelf of the third section the wall wasn’t made of bricks, it was made of iron. “I think it’s some kind of clean-out door,” Abigail said to herself. “I wonder if the chimney it goes to is still there.” She was fascinated. Inventory forms bored the soul out of her; history thrilled her.

She dragged everything off the shelf onto the raw, gray-brown damaged hardwood floor (three five-gallon pails of floor stripper, four of floor finish and six one-gallon jugs of chlorine bleach) and tried the handle. It was sticky and she had to hit it with the back end of a screwdriver to get it to turn far enough. Then she stuck the screwdriver in the jamb and used her right hand to pry, while she pulled on the handle with her left. The door came open suddenly, with a screech that made her think of a bat.

The space behind the door was no chimney, at least not anymore. She’d figured she’d have to use a flashlight to explore back there, but a soft light shone through from the other side. She reached through and tested the floor with her left hand - cool red bricks, clean and solid - then crawled through. Above her were wooden boards: she seemed to be under a table. In front of her were more bricks, and beyond that, a large wicker basket and the edge of a brown curtain. Looks like an arts-and-crafts room, she thought. For about two seconds, that conclusion struck her as odd: she was pretty sure Alves Institute didn’t have an arts-and-crafts room. Then she decided this room must not belong to the Institute. There were lots of other companies renting office space in the building. She listened for half a minute and didn’t hear any voices. So if this was a classroom, she wasn’t interrupting a lecture. She crawled out from under the table and stood up.

She jumped. Ten feet away, directly in front of her eyes, was another pair of eyes, staring back at hers.

It was the curtain: that brown curtain hadn’t been a curtain at all; it had been a dress - a floor-length, full-skirted, long-sleeved, high-necked dress. Above the dress was a face, maybe in its sixties, framed by wisps of gray hair and practically smothered by a white bonnet. The lady must have been an actress, Abigail figured, and now she was trying on a costume.

“Who art thou?” demanded the face.

“Oh, I’m Abigail. Sorry, I…” Abigail let her words trail off.

“Thou what?”

“I’m sorry if I startled you. I found an old door and I wanted to see where it led to. I can see you’re busy. I’ll let you get back to your...” Her what, Abigail didn’t know. TV show? Play? She shot a quick glance around the room. It was full of things she’d never seen before, things she couldn’t begin to identify and would have had a hard time even describing, but none of them were TV cameras or lights or anything like that. Maybe she was practicing for a play…in costume, for some reason.

“Why didst thou hide under the workbench?” asked the woman.

“Oh, no, I - I wasn’t actually hiding in there,” Abigail explained. “I was in the Engineering Section supply closet taking inventory, and - “

“In-VENT-ory,” the woman interrupted.

“And I found this little door. It looked like an old chimney cleanout door, and I crawled through it, and here I am. Did you ever notice the little door in the wall under your workbench?”

“What wiltow now?”

Abigail had no idea what that meant.

“What wilt thou do, now that thou art here and I have seen thee?” the woman asked.

Photo: h33t.com

“Oh, take inventory, I guess.”

“In-VENT-ory.”

“I beg you pardon?”

“One should not beg for pardon until after one has mended one’s ways,” the woman scolded.

“I just meant, what did you say?”

“I said, in-VENT-ory.”

“What’s that?”

“Speak not in riddles, Goodwife,” the woman admonished.

“You keep on saying in-VENT-ory. What does that mean? What is in-VENT-ory?”

“Even a child knoweth that an inventory is the workshop of an inventor,” the woman replied. “Come, I tire of thy games.”

“So this,” said Abigail, waving both her arms to indicate the room, “is an in-VENT-ory?”

“'Tis plain to see. What wilt thou do now?”

Abigail shrugged. “Well, I have to take inventory.”

“’Tis plain, as well, that thou workest not alone; hast been sent,” said the woman.

“Tell me the name of him who sent thee.”

“Nobody sent me. I just wanted to see where the door went to,” she answered, “I work for the college, Alves Institute. I report to Lou Belden.”

“I know not of what you speak,” the woman replied. “But hear me: if thou wilt confess all, I shall not have thee cast into prison.”

“Into prison!” Abigail gasped.

“Yes, into prison. Now speak.”

“Um,” Abigail stammered, her mouth feeling suddenly dry, “I’ll tell you whatever you want. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me exactly how wastow instructed to perform thy task?”

Abigail wished the woman would talk normally, but she also supposed she herself wasn’t exactly in a position to be making demands. After all, the woman did, technically, have grounds to have her arrested for intrusion, or unauthorized entry, or whatever it was called.

“Well,” she said, “I usually start just to the left of the door, and I see what’s there, and I write it down. Like, you can see here on my paper, to the left of the door were twelve tubs of laundry booster, and beside that, there were two and a half cases of toilet paper, and so forth. So I go all the way around the room that way, writing everything down, and then if there are things in the middle of the room, I write them down, too, starting at one end and going to the other, going in a pattern so I don’t miss anything.”

“Thou writest the contents of the in-VENT-ory, and after, thou takest it?”

“I take what?” Abigail asked, shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear it.

“Art thou confounded,” the woman in the brown dress asked, “or wouldst thou deceive me?”

“Maybe I’m ‘confounded,’” Abigail replied, “because I certainly have no desire to deceive anybody. So this place isn’t part of Alves Institute?”

The woman shook her head. “I know naught of this Institute.”

“Are you guys looking for help?” Abigail asked. “I can type pretty fast, I’m a self-starter, reliable. I know pretty much all the common office software, and I’m a quick study.”

The woman looked sincerely confused, like Abigail had just rattled off a paragraph in a foreign language. But maybe, like her thees and thous, that was just part of the act.

“I’m looking for a job,” Abigail tried again. “Do you need help here?”

“We want no help from thee,” the woman replied disdainfully. “But hark, the inventor cometh.”

The inventor was a short man with yellowy-white hair, a waistcoat and breeches and tights and buckle-shoes, and a kindly smile. “What is thy name?” he asked, peering at Abigail as though she were a koala who’d just appeared in a kitchen sink.

“Abigail, sir,” she answered.

“Oliver,” he replied.

“Hi, Oliver.”

Oliver darted a quick glance at the ceiling before focusing back on Abigail’s face. “Jonathan Oliver at your service,” he said, “and my wife Harriett.”

“Nice to meet both of you,” Abigail replied. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, though. I really should be getting back to work.”

“She hath an odd tongue,” Jonathan observed.

“Yea,” agreed his wife, “and boasteth of grand deeds without ceasing.”

“Me?” asked Abigail, trying to follow the conversation. “I boast of grand deeds?”

Harriett nodded. “Wouldst take this very inventory.”

“Ah,” the inventor replied merrily, “art a knight, then?”

Abigail didn’t answer.

Jonathan’s face grew serious. “Methinks,” he said slowly to his wife, “she hath been taken by a fever, or perhaps by a sadness beyond bearing. She continually spouteth nonsense, and moreover goeth about beyond the walls of her own home clad in naught but undergarments. Let the boy fetch her husband, and perhaps after this, the Doctor.” To Abigail he said, “Who is thine husband, Goodwife?”

“My husband?” Abigail replied, looking at Jonathan the same way he’d been looking at her, like he was the crazy one. “I don’t have a husband. And I don’t have a fever, either, and I’m not crazy.”

“No husband yet?” said Harriett, looking surprised.

Jonathan shook his head. “Art of age to be married. Hast reached, I’ll warrant, fifteen years or perhaps more.”

“I’m seventeen,” said Abigail.

It took a moment for the Olivers to adjust to that news. At first, both of them shifted their weight from foot to foot and fidgeted with their hands, as though they were looking for something to do. Finally, Harriett said in the kindest tone Abigail had heard from her yet, “Fret not. Another life awaits thee than that of marriage and motherhood, in every aspect different, yet wholly as noble.” In spite of her words, though, she still looked embarrassed.

Jonathan said gently, “Art fallen ill. Let us fetch thy mother.”

“Thanks,” Abigail replied, “but I really should just be getting back to work. I feel fine, really, and I think my break must be over by now.”

“As thou wilt,” answered Harriett, “but suffer us to help thee.”

“All I have to do is go back through the little door under the workbench,” said Abigail. “I left it open. On the other side of that wall is the Engineering Section supply closet, and that’s where I need to be.”

Photo: StLouisCNR.com

The Olivers both shook their heads. Even Harriett had lost all her sternness now; she just looked sad, and so did her husband. “Thou’lt find no door in yonder wall,” he said, “whether under the workbench or no.”

Abigail turned around and knelt on the bricks, then crawled back under the workbench, careful not to hit her head. And there, in front of her, was a wall of red bricks, their sides chipped and bumpy, their color a bright, young rusty-orange red, with no stains, no signs of repair, and most importantly, no door or doorway or opening of any kind. She reached forward and put her hand in the middle of the spot where she’d crawled through the wall, half expecting the bricks to disappear and the gray metal shelf unit and pails of floor finish to appear on the other side. But they didn’t. They felt as real to her hand and as they looked to her eyes: cold and rough and solid.

Note: I answered a call from Chainbooks.com to write just the first chapters for several novels, and The Goodwife from Under the Workbench is one of them. If you'd like to contribute a chapter to Goodwife, or check out the other novels-in-progress at Chainbooks, click here.