fantasy

Grab (part one)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 9 Comments

Hunt with your bare hands!  This is the world of grabbling, where the mightiest warriors in the land equip themselves with wildlife by ramming their arms down various throats and making them into weapons.  Delve deep underground in this low fantasy epic where the grabbler Beocroak, sole survivor of a petty bloodbath, must battle his way out of a rising ghostly city capitalizing on all that foolish subterranean death.  Should he make it out of that cavernous grave, there is still the harsh world beyond, of Goodly and ghastly gods, of giant floating eyes watching your every move, and of sinister curses illuminated by green witchfire.

Grab

by

Blaine Arcade

(estimated reading time: 1 hour, 22 minutes) (time for entire novel: 10 hours, 44 minutes)

Curse

Bound in hide, scorch-writ on wood, death diverse and plenty harvested this tome from the minds and lore of men. Safe and content it sits upon the owner’s shelf, in the author’s legacy. You are a guest in its pages. Do not smudge with your fingers. Do not mar with your drool. This is a meal for the soul, so do not eat or drink near it to avoid damage.

If you are unwelcome, if your eyes be thieves of words, know that you are cursed when these contents leave the shelf, lose their blanket of dust, and are not properly and primly returned. This curse has fingers that can touch in different ways. Should you abscond with the book you will die, and you will know it before it happens. Should you steal it with a lie, and claim to be its author, or its subject, your spirit will die, and your words will seem to reach no living ear, shouted from the bottom of a sinking wet hole.

Our ire against thieves must be understood, and it will be in the detail of a curse wrought.

Purloiner of these pages, may you be skewered and fried and fed to those so desperate they do not identify their meat, and whom strip their meat of names and titles should it have them.

May you garden in shards of glass, with only lead onions to harvest, and be only rewarded with them when you can uproot with nothing but your bloody wrist nubs and set them down away from the glass.

May your sword run black with ink and turn into a brush when you most need a sword; your enemy will strike you apart while you write your pleas for mercy, each becoming a laughable relic when stained with your blood.

May your bedfellow secret serpents into your sleeping presence, free to envenom your body and dreams alike.

May you find calamity upon the road, and have all your bones and organs trampled by the horse and cattle that pass until you are of the dirt: a smear too indistinct to draw remark.

May a fissure develop in your nethers, and from it you will birth discharges of diseases you never had to catch, but are caught from you instead. May your bedfellow witness and reject you in horror. Only the diseases will call you parent, and celebrate you when they claim the title of plague.

May a smart tiger injure you and leave you in a clearing, your miserable squeals to serve as bait for better prey. Slowly you will die, and many times it will use you, keeping your wound open with a claw. You will have to eat your own kind, left from its meals, just to continue on as this wretch.

May you boil in the sun, not under it.

May two arrows, fired across the world, change direction as the compass needle does and each find one of your eyes.

May your bones be rearranged to arthritic catacombs.

May a rhinoceros find your bung fascinating. It will obsess him as the alchemist obsesses over a blotch of gold in a brick of lead.

May you become fixated upon this tale until your mind reads it when it is not there, when you have long discarded it to hide the evidence of your crimes. Its pages will stick to your back and not peel, its characters will join you when you bathe, in the forms they took after the page of death, and look into your eyes while you wash, blaming you for their fate. Its burned words will forever be in your palms, and when you flex them the page will turn and they will burn closer to the end.

This is your curse for trying to own this book with your hands, or for trying to master it with your own words. It does not belong with you, to you. Let it pass through you without greed. You can hold the hide, but nothing else. You are supposed to be empty enough to desire the contents, you fool.

And so, cursed or no, continue.

Hole

Do not die underground. That is what they say. Goodly Gods live in the sky, clear of the gnarled grabbing hands of filthy lowly man. They look down and witness death, descending to take righteous spirits to join them in endless gardens of cloud. If you die underground they do not see. If you die underground you fall into your grave. There you remain. Only those lower than the lowly will ever take note.

Four thousand people did not heed this wisdom. Two thousand of them were under the banner of Sovereign Reyvathird, and had marched into the mouth of Wormskoll Cave with no intention of dying. What they intended was the taking of the cave itself, and of the frosty iron gates deep within. Through those bars man and demon and Subtlerrannean god could barter and bargain. Poisons and potions could change hands, but no bodies, and no possessing spirits. Continue reading →

Challenging Ass (Finale)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 1 Comment

(back to part one)

(estimated reading time: 1 hour, 1 minute)

Ingest the Ass

“Say, what’s that I hear? My garden, ever so square as I am, used to be so peaceful, but now there’s all this noise from amorphous demons beyond our ken. I hope they can’t bother my sprinkleberries. Used to have bulletmelons too, but God went and tore that strip away; now I’ll never see them again.

Mustn’t criticize. The world doesn’t belong to me, with my paltry four corners. In fact, I must do more than avoid criticism. I’m supposed to be listening, those were my heptagon priest’s instructions. What was it? Continue reading →

Challenging Ass (Part Three)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 1 Comment

(back to part one)

(estimated reading time: 1 hour)

Work the Ass

“I could give it a good jab,” Elizabug proposed, this time feasible despite that being her suggestion for most things: part of the philosophy that if a problem couldn’t be solved with a prodding stick or a whacking stick it couldn’t be solved at all and was better treated as a feature of the natural landscape.

“No no,” Darnette said as they both stood just out of its reach. When it extended its claws that reach was increased, forcing them to take another step away from the hole in the wall they hoped to be their portal into the main convention hall of Stained Atlas. “A hungry cat with this many prospective meals about will be an impatient creature. Give him a moment; he’ll grow bored of not murdering us and wander away.” Continue reading →

Challenging Ass (Part Two)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 1 Comment

(back to part one)

(estimated reading time: 27 minutes)

Flaunt the Ass

Tropical Lilliputian air pervaded the convention center, for its massive walls weren’t built all the way up. There was a ceiling of hollow glass oblongs to keep out the rain, but it was supported only at corners, leaving a gap for local atmosphere to pour in like waterfalls. The flaw was called intentional, excused as a way of promoting a breeze and dispelling the sweat-fog of war, when in truth the actual cause was a disparity between the construction company’s claims and the Lilliputian labor force’s ability.

An auction had been held for the convention’s location, and Lilliput’s winning bid was achieved by cutting corners in the venue budget. A Lilliputian could be paid in peanut dust, a Blefuscan even less, so hiring thousands upon thousands of them still took far fewer resources than hiring big people. Continue reading →

Challenging Ass (Part One)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 5 Comments

In the barn-city of Minimil, small creatures from all across the literary canon live as one people, from Lilliputians and Shakespearean fairies to myrmidons, homunculi, and Wonderlanders.  Their lives are tenuous, valuable as they are as pieces in the proxy game of Little Wars, where conscripting countries can use them to spill thimbles of blood rather than buckets.

A decade into the Little Wars era, the largest convention ever is about to occur on Lilliput.  Among the arriving ships is the candle boat Wicky Sticket out of Minimil, carrying a secret cargo of agents sent to interfere with the Hidden Body, an ethereal nation of traitors making big moves in the littlest and most deadly game.  And behind it all the ancient slumberers toss and turn.

This is the middle of The Challenge Obscene, the second novella trilogy of the Challenging universe.  It’s best to start with the first, which can be found here: The Challenging Handful, The Left Challenging Handful, and Challenging Applause.  The first part of this trilogy is Challenging Cock.

(estimated reading time: 30 minutes)

The Challenge Obscene

Challenging Ass

by

Blaine Arcade

Bear the Ass

Your fate is determined not by deck underfoot, but waters beneath it.

When a stranger is met at the chessboard, analyze their first move: how they greet you.

Beware the world’s largest candle boat, which is Charon’s ferry for half its passengers.

-Noozy Cornerlore

Frustrated at her own inflexibility, the Lilliputian woman who had just signed her name ripped it out of her custom-made elongated typewriter and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it over her shoulder into a similar pile, a pile casually chewed and ruminated upon by a group of milling donkeys she was supposed to watch over more attentively. The animals were interested because the long strips of paper still smelled like the mild cookies they were stored near: the only stock she had access to at that point. Her new employer, the newspaper called Minimil Minutes, would grant her supplies more in line with her position as a journalist, but only after she’d completed and turned in her first big story to an approving editor. Continue reading →

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Finale)

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(estimated reading time: 53 minutes)

Where!?

Bick to Backering. Excerpted thim thes timed companyions further brainded than long-gated Wagonher. Kudd’s thirst chewse on helpupping Bonelyre Pinned und Crowize add just two L-swears askneaded. Butt in thair shees whizn’t arse inclined ass she umed. Backended to Wick snuffered taughaut aghen, lessoned lake treadwaters, downd lake drugging in whine.

Wagonher encompassed a pointy all-in belt, wagnered Knowrth the way to tavendor’s keyp, iffin it haddocked otherplatz on staggburred drunk ledggs. Theire might be founded and won ormbinous avoid: hole filled with punch that used to were the bodd of Hamsandcans Glammount. Asquerying locales how two reconvict themtwain was her gaol, a seedcret to be retilled in Pursuit of grown pease. Continue reading →

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Part Four)

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(estimated reading time: 1 hour, 13 minutes)

Eviction Declaration

The coerced accord was signed, and in it a plan of attack. What none of them were prepared for was the degree to which mobilization of their military machine would make it clear that the experiment of Pilgrim’s Anchor was coming to an end. Should they succeed, in erasing the Bickyplots’ claims on Pursuitia and its inhabitants, the remaining Founders would then be free to attempt their Second Declaration, intended to return them not only to the American colonies, but to the exact moment they had left so they could resume their plans for a true revolution in a world they at least thought they understood.

If that happened, nothing needed left behind. So it could all come down, apart, and then alight on the wheels of war if it would be of any help in this singular assault. Everyone began to strip the stores, the walls, the cabinets and cupboards. They entered a kind of mania where they couldn’t stand to see anything with hinges closed. Anchor needed to spit up its contents, disgorge its secrets, and splinter inside out to make sure no rusty nail bent away from Bickering Hall. Continue reading →

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Part Three)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 1 Comment

(estimated reading time: 1 hour, 36 minutes)

Squatters’ Bill of Claim

Just as Hart’s message to her had begun to unfold into fresh shoots thanks to the magic of its green ink, so too did the political situation in Pilgrim’s Anchor find itself ripped open by growing pains. In a single encounter much of what had been settled fact for decades was upended. Now waterlogged powers desperately patched leaks. Curious stowaway rats searched for new unintentional passages.

To the Founders Pursuitia never looked smaller. Their first instinct was to retract into the tortoise shell of Independence Hall. Papering over the exterior to a mad degree, the building now looked as if wagons had literally circled it with their canvas. No doubt they were furiously at work, perched over writing desks, forcing themselves to vomit up new corkscrew legal clauses that would extricate them from this perplexing bottleneck bind. Continue reading →

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Part Two)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ Leave a comment

(estimated reading time: 44 minutes)

Leaflets

Almost every young hand was in the Jefferson Drafting Library, toiling away with writing instruments. Franklin pens were the best choice, if you could ignore the occasional zap, but there were not enough to go around, leaving only old fashioned quills, sometimes from anatimals and sometimes the diaphanous backbone-like stents found in Pursuitian worm mantles.

Even Kidd was there, behind a student’s desk of her own. She would be by far the slowest at producing leaflets, but the Founders apparently thought every five would count, though they might taker her half as many hours. Continue reading →

Declaration: Gibberish Mire (Part One)

~ Blaine Arcade ~ 1 Comment

The signing of the United States Declaration of Independence… has gone awry!  As it so happens the declaration was too powerfully worded, and effectively declared independence from the realm of Earth.  The signing founders, and those legally considered their property, and a Native American tribe roped in as well thanks to an old treaty, have been transported to a strange new land where trees write upon their own leaves and owl-eyed worms march about in the shapes of men.

Twenty years on the Founders are desperate to return to the war they never started, and have enlisted their mixed-heritage children as an army to help them fight the Bickyplots: thirteen shambling horrors with colonial inspirations of their own.  Here the written word is magic, and a new declaration might undo everything, but what of the children who have fought and journaled so hard to build their own lives?  Find out in this, the second of the Declaration duology.  (Here’s the first!)

(estimated reading time: 1 hour, 30 minutes)

(estimated reading time for entire novel: 6 hours)

Declaration

Gibberish Mire

by

Blaine Arcade

From the Bickering Hall Retroactive Deed

In finding this land most hospitable we, the Bickyplots of Bickering Hall, must conclude that such a plainly-stated welcome indicates an intrinsic desire for proper mastery and dominion. So it is that we declare, on the standard of the furthest distance that can be spied by the tallest amongst us, Impestle Hissmidge, allowed the luxury of tippied-toe, all of this land surrounding our port of entry is called Evidentia and is our sole property. Continue reading →