Too Fragile, This Heart

A long, long time ago, when words still contained magic, and abstract concepts were living things, there lived a woman, who was a wife, that lived alone. Deserted by her husband, for reasons known only to him, she would have been crushed if not for her pregnancy. She poured every ounce of love that her heart possessed into preparing a loving home for her child, and one day, while out chopping firewood, she gave birth.

The child was not the seventh son of the seventh son, nor born ‘neath the lucky star, nor blessed with any special gifts which would have set him apart from anyone else of woman born. With the exception, that he was born dead.

So torn with grief was the mother, that she wailed unrelentingly, without stopping to catch a breath, nor pass out from exhaustion for three days straight, which attracted the attention of a traveling wish.

“Why wail you so?” asked the wish.

“My son–untimely from me snatched was he,” the woman said, holding up her blue-hued baby boy.

“Tis sad indeed,” said the wish.

The woman examined the wish closely. “You are a wish, are you not?” of which she was certain, for nothing else on Earth looked like a wish.

“That I am,” the wish nodded.

The woman pleaded, “Then grant me the life of my son!”

“Alas and alack, I cannot,” the wish said, its countenance growing sullen.

“And why not?”

“I am not your wish. I belong to another.”

“Then I am ended. There is no place for me in this world. Not without my son.”

The wish pondered a moment, in a way only a wish could. “All may not be lost if I can, No, you would not want that.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Forget I spoke. It was a foolish, errant thought.”

“Speak it, o wish, for I have ears for thought, errant and foolish alike, if it may offer me but the tiniest hope.”

“Well,” the wish said hesitantly, “Though I cannot grant a wish to you, I may exchange a boon with thee.”

“Anything!”

“Speak not so quickly–“

“My tongue cannot carry conveyance at the speed my heart travels, so without hesitation, without reservation, I bid thee, wish, to speak thy will!”

“I propose a trade.”

“Of what shall we barter?”

“I cannot say.”

“What? I do not follow your meaning.”

“You must accept the trade on blind faith. Agree, and be bound to it.”

“I agree to it then!”

“Are you certain?”

“As certain as you are a wish, and I am a soulless wretch without my son.”

“Is this boy child truly your heart?”

“Yes!”

“And you desire it above all else, this heart of yours?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then I will give you your heart,” the wish said, closing its eyes in concentration, and the woman felt the boy twitch in her arms. Then the body grew still for a long moment, and her heart sank even lower than she could have imagined possible. As she was about to turn her rage upon the wish, her son, born dead, and remaining thus for three days hence, took a deep breath, and let out a cry that could be heard ‘round the countryside. To the woman, it was the most glorious sound she had ever heard.

“You have given me the thing I wanted most in this world,” she said to the wish. “Now what would you have me trade?”

“I have already taken it.” answered the wish.

“What was it?”

“I have given you your heart, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And in exchange, I have taken his,” the wish said, gesturing at her son.

“My son has no heart?”

“Not such as you know. Because no being can survive without a heart, I have given him a heart, perfectly carved of the purest red glass, that is as fragile to the touch as his birth heart.”

“But why a glass heart?”

“The exchange had to be equal. a fragile heart for a fragile heart.”

“Will my boy be cursed to possess a glass heart forever?”

“You must guard his fragile heart, and teach him to do the same, for it will shatter far too easily. And it will remain this way until his real heart is delivered by a person who truly loves your son and whom he also loves.”

This answer saddened the mother, for she knew that without a real heart, her boy could not properly love anyone or inspire love in another to undertake the quest for his real heart.

This was the story the woman told her son when he was old enough to properly comprehend the situation. Until hearing this story, the boy thought all children were born with glass hearts that slowly became real as they grew older. Funny how the mind of a child worked.

“And where is my real heart?” her son queried.

“According to the wish, it lies East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” she recited by rote. “Farther than the farthest thing the eye can behold. There you will find an endless sea. And in that sea, there is an unscalable mountain. And atop that mountain, there is an uninhabitable castle. And within the grounds of that castle, there is a bottomless well. And in that well swims a flightless swan. And in that swan, there lies a shatterproof egg. And in that egg, there lies your heart.”

The boy asked, “Well, why can I not just retrieve it myself?” which was a fair enough question. The journey sounded like a grand adventure, just the sort that little boys craved.

“Because it will always be just beyond your ability to detect. So, even if you managed to travel farther than the farthest thing, swim the endless sea, climb the unscalable mountain, dive into the bottomless well, find the swan, make it lay its egg, and crack it open wide, it will be empty to you,” the mother waved off the foolish notion as if she were swatting a fly. “So, do not even try, for it will then move to yet another location, even more impossible to reach.”

And so, the boy lived a careful life. Oh, he was active enough and none could tell that there was the slightest thing awry, that was until he fell in love. Now, the brightest among you might be asking, “How is it that a boy with no heart could love?” please allow me to tell you that I honestly do not know the answer to that question, yet the boy loved just the same. In his own way.

And unfortunately, that way was never quite enough to satisfy the young ladies he courted. And even though the boy explained his plight to all he loved, it mattered not to them. They all left him, in their turn, each cracking his red glass heart a bit.

Then one day, when the boy was well into manhood, he suffered a heartbreak that sent him to the family doctor, who was aware of his unique condition. After the examination, the doctor said grimly, “You must be careful not to attempt to love again, for should you suffer heartache but one more time, your heart shall surely shatter.”

Not love? Impossible. The glass-hearted man could not sit idly by and feel no love for the rest of his life, nor could he risk another heartbreak. So, despite his mother’s warning, he set off west in search of his stolen heart.

Why west, you ask? Because he needed to speak with the Sun and could not do that in the East as it rose, for he would surely be blinded by its brilliance. No, the man needed to find the Sun in the East while it slumbered for the night. And after some time had passed, he arrived at the place where the Sun rested.

“Ahem.” The glass-hearted man cleared his throat as loudly and as politely as he could.

“Who are you?” the Sun grumbled, peering at him through the narrowest slit of its solar eye.

“My name is,”

“I did not ask for your name, did I?” the Sun said curtly. “I asked who you were! Are you merely your name?”

“Um, no, sir–or madam,” he was not versed in the gender of the Sun, and he, she, they, had not bothered to correct him, so on that fact, he remained clueless.

“Then who are you?”

“Who I am is a born-again optimist. What I believe is that love is not denied to anyone, even to those born with glass hearts, such as myself. What I know is that I am wise enough to accept love as it finds me and not reject it because it doesn’t come wrapped in a pretty package. What I hope is that someday every lonely person will reach out to another lonely person and befriend them so that the word lonely fades from our lexicon.”

“Glass heart, eh?” the Sun sighed, and his, her, their, breath was a warm Summer’s breeze. “So, you have finally come. I will tell you where to find the Moon, for that is your next destination.”

The Sun expected him? How much did he, she, they, know? I wanted to ask questions, but the Sun rattled off a set of instructions and promptly rolled over and fell fast asleep. The man had been summarily dismissed, but he didn’t mind. He smiled as he trekked to meet the Moon.

The glass-hearted man had a dreadful time with directions and could scarcely follow his train of thought even with a road map, normally, but the directions given to him by the Sun were spot on, and in no time flat, he found himself at the lair of the Moon.

“Well, do not stand around dawdling all day, come in!” a cool voice said impatiently. And as the man entered the chamber, he saw the Moon sitting on the edge of its celestial bed. “I heard your approach from a mile away. I am a light sleeper. Must be all the sunlight in my eyes.”

“I am very sorry to disturb you–“

The Moon cut him off. “You have a glass heart, searching for the genuine article, east of the Sun, west of me, blahdy-blah, and you need me to point you in the right direction, correct?”

“Uh, yes, sir or madam.”

“There will be none of that nonsense here, young man!” the Moon sniffed. “I am The Moon, and you can either address me as such, or do not address me at all, but do not seek to confine me to a gender.”

“Sorry.”

“And don’t apologize. How were you to know? Now, come here and climb aboard,” The Moon said, diminishing into a crescent in order to provide a seat for the man, and no sooner had he positioned himself when the Moon rocketed skyward and it was all the man could do to keep himself from falling.

“Look to your left and tell me what you see,” said the Moon. I turned my head and was about to speak when the Moon said, “Your other left.”

Embarrassed, the man looked in the opposite direction. “I see the city.”

“Look farther.”

“Um, I see land.”

“Farther.”

“The ocean.”

“And farther still.”

The man strained his eyes out past the sea of glimmering blue, searching, searching until, “I think I see land!” he exclaimed. “But it is so far away that it might be a trick of the Sun reflecting off the water.”

“That is no trick. That is where you must go,” the Moon said and began lowering the man to the ground. “Off you go, for I must sleep or it will be a long night for all concerned, if you catch my meaning.”

The glass-hearted man thought he did, but was not quite sure and had not wanted to seem like a dolt for asking, so he let the comment pass. And off he went, to travel past the farthest thing he could see.

He walked for days on end, and if such a thing as wanderlust existed within him, it had long stopped by the side of the road to rest its feet. The man, however, did not have that luxury. He traveled past the point where the soles of his shoes were worn down to nothing and the soles of his feet became as rough as leather, until he finally hit land’s end.

The glass-hearted man sat on a dock and pondered his situation. He was bone-weary, penniless, and staring out across an endless blanket of glimmering diamonds. Had he traveled all this way to simply end here?

“Ahoy!” a voice called out, and he turned to see a woman with hair the color of sunset, and eyes of the clearest aqua, leaning over the bow of a boat.

“You are not thinking of diving in, are you?” she asked. “That would not be a smart thing to do.”

“Uh, no. I cannot swim,” the man admitted.

“Then what brings you to the sea?” she asked, and he told her his story. When she was done, she stared at the sun-baked man and rubbed her chin. “Farther than the farthest thing, eh? And it is out past the sea? Fancy a lift?”

“I could not ask you to put yourself out like that,” he waved off the invitation.

“Pshaw. Got nothing better to do, and I love me a good adventure I do. ‘Sides, how can I turn my back on someone who had conversations with the Sun and the Moon? The name is Bryony, by the way.”

To Be Continued…

Text and audio ©2011-2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Dream Lover

I have become narcoleptic in order to serve she who haunts my dreams. I know that I should stay awake and stay away from this mysterious woman who is hellbent on stealing my soul, but although her presence strips away my courage, I am enraptured at the sight of her beauty and addicted to the danger that she wears like an aromatic scent.

My nameless dream lover is a paradox, duskily exotic yet of no recognizable ethnic descent and so pale as to make alabaster appear tanned. Her long flowing hair is a tangle of locks, thick, wild and constantly billowing like obsidian curtains in the wind, streaked with grey at her pronounced widows peak and temples. Her eyebrows, dense and dark, contrast colorless retinas that draw my eyes down along an aquiline nose to her pink rosebud lips that drip crimson onto the hi-necked lace top that seems to rise and crash against her shoulders and breasts.

My knees buckle and I kneel at her approach, weak, naked and shivering as she towers over me. Her narrow hands with their thin, scalpel-like fingers, hover inches from my exposed throat, twitching in anticipation. She plans to kill me, and I should be afraid, but all I can think about, all I care about, is if I will feel her touch, taste her lips and fulfill my desire one last time before she takes from me a life that I would give to her freely.

I always awaken the same way, unfulfilled, miserably alone, and alive, much to my dismay.

Text and audio ©2004-2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Busker For The Dead (Part 1)

I don’t have that look. Some people do, but I’m not so lucky. I don’t look like my profession. I’m a busker. Don’t laugh, it’s a living. Problem is, when you shut your eyes and picture a busker in your mind, be they small or tall, slight or portly, I will never fit the bill. I have the unfortunate appearance of someone whose job title is preceded by the word man. Milkman. Mailman. Garbageman. Just not a streetmusicman.

You may be asking why this is important. Fair enough question. When you’re panhandling for money–come on, let’s face facts, street performing is begging with a musical accompaniment–having the look of a starving artist plays as much a part in getting people to part with their hard-earned cash as talent.

“Oh, look at the poor wretch having to sing for his supper, let’s toss him a pittance, shall we, dear?”

Some of the others have nailed the look down from the hair that refuses to be tamed to the ragged clothes just over the borderline from being hip and trendy. Me? I look like a well-fed blue collar worker trying out a new hobby. That’s why I have to work twice as hard to earn half as much as my compadres. My audiences tend to be tight-fisted, self-absorbed philistines that expect blood for the bits of copper they toss my way.

Oh, I should probably mention that I busk for the dead.

Not the kind of job you rush out and apply for. Me? I kinda just fell into it. Turns out a friend of a friend knew a guy who used to work for the cousin of a woman who lived next door to a guy who was complaining that his employee just up and quit on him. Seems he couldn’t handle the stress of performing in Perdition, which I can plainly understand now.

What? No, I’m very much alive, thanks for asking. My work ID acts as a sort of day pass and allows me to mull about in Hell without experiencing any of the torment and damnation. Kinda cool, but it takes some getting used to.

Although it’s a paying gig, it ain’t enough to cover rent and bills–minimum wage in Hell is murder, no pun intended, so I rely heavily on the gratuity chucked into my hat. And yes, the dead have real money. Don’t ask me how that works. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the day pass into Hell thing.

My spot is the corner of Abaddon and Wretchedness, and while a part of the overall design of Hell, it’s technically Limbo, the waiting area where souls are processed and dispatched according to assessment. And as time moves differently in Hell, the wait can be an extensive one, so you figure folks would jump at the chance to experience anything that takes their minds off the situation at hand. That is so not the case. When facing damnation, the furthest thing from their minds is to listening to anyone sing. This is made evident from the contents of my hat. Today’s take so far consists of three dollars and eighteen cents in coins, a stick of chewing gum, a balled up snotty tissue and a punch card from some boutique java spot with one punch away from receiving a free coffee. The coins stay in the hat, the gum in my mouth, the tissue–ick–in the trash and the punch card in my pocket. I’m not one to go in for designer coffee but like The Police sang, “When the world is running down, you make the best of what’s still around.”

“Not what I expected,” a voice says from behind, nearly startling me out of my skin.

I turn to see a woman in her sixties, seventies, maybe–I’ve never been good at guestimating people’s ages–all done up as if for a night on the town. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“And is it just me or is it chilly here?”

She was right, you’d figure being so close to Hell there’d be some sort of radiant heat, but there was a constant wind that blew shivers down the spine. “Not just you.”

“You’re not half bad, you know.” the woman said, looking into the hat. “You deserve more than that.”

I look up and down the avenue, We’re the only two people on the street at the moment. “It’s like they say, it all comes down to location, location, location.”

The woman opens her purse, a small clutch bag that’s a throwback to a classier time, and produces a two dollar bill. “I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of carrying cash, so this is all I have.”

“It’s the biggest tip I’ve received in a long while.” I smile as she places the bills into the hat.

“Not that I’ll have much need for it anymore.”

“Not unless you were crossing the river Styx.”

“You mean the ferryman doesn’t accept the card?” the woman pulls out an obsidian credit card. “I was told never to leave home without it.”

It’s an outdated reference, but we both chuckle at it.

“If you’ll pardon the intrusion,” the woman asks. “How did it happen?”

“How did what happen?”

“How did you die? Peacefully, I hope.”

“Oh, no. I’m not dead, I just work here.” I show the woman my day pass.

“How interesting.” and she appears to actually find it interesting but her expression drops.

“What’s the matter?”

“It would be my luck that the first person I strike up a conversation with in the afterlife would be with a living person. I was sort of hoping to find a travel companion for what lies ahead. I’ve always dreaded doing things by myself.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works here. I think isolation is part of the torment process.” I realize what I’m saying just a smidgen too late to pull it back.

“Torment. I hadn’t considered that.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. You’re not responsible for my sins.”

“I know I’ve just met you but it’s hard to believe you’d have anything to worry about.”

“Kind of you to say, but we’re all sinners in one fashion or another. I just wish there was a way for me to plead my case. I believe my sins were righteous.”

“You can always try.”

“No, no. I’ve never been good at that sort of thing.”

“Maybe if you practiced, rehearsed what you want to say? You can try it out on me and I’ll give you my honest feedback.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“What have you got to lose? If you botch it up, you’re still being condemned anyway, at least this way you’ll have had your say.”

“Like my final words?”

“Exactly.”

She contemplates it long and hard. “All right then, if it wouldn’t be a bother.”

I gesture up and down the block. “Not like I’m doing anything else. Ready?”

“No, but go on.”

I straighten my posture and assume an authoritative voice. “You stand here accused of the sin of…”

“Murder.” she adds, sheepishly.

“Murder.” I repeat, stunned. “What say you in your defense?”

“I don’t deserve to be here. I was sent to the wrong place. I did what needed to be done, what no one else had the courage to do and now I’m being punished for my actions.”

“And whose life did you take?”

“My own.”

“Why?”

“Others would have died if I didn’t.”

To be continued…

Text and audio ©2015 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

One Man’s Meat

I tested the ripeness of Mr. Skelly’s soul more than thirty times this evening, all at the insistence of his wife, Tamara, who never left my side for an instant. I tried to explain to her that this was a delicate process that could not be rushed, but my words never reached her, as if her ears were made of cloth. Mr. Skelly’s ash gray body was laid out on the dining room table like a flesh centerpiece, table decorated with the finest cloth and place settings that she could afford.

This wasn’t uncommon. Most people were ignorant of the proper protocol in matters such as this. They would set out red wine and wafers, or specially baked breads and cakes, and some even brewed their own ales. Those trappings weren’t necessary, born mostly of superstition and old wives’ tales, but had they been presented, I would have tasted the offering.  If for no other reason than to be polite.

Her husband had come to see me some six months earlier. He was skeptical, as most people are when seeking my services, but I never believed in hard selling my skills. It was a matter of faith. Either you believed that I could do what I claimed I could do, or you couldn’t.  In the end, Mr. Steven Skelly did believe.  He told me he had Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia and wasn’t expected to survive the year. And the diagnosis proved to be accurate.

When I first arrived at her door, Tamara debated whether or not to let me in. Not with me. She debated with herself. A loud conversation, as if both halves of her brain, the logical and the emotional sides, succeeded in separating themselves from one another and exercised shared control over the body. A conversation only the bereaved could have and still seem sane.

This was nothing new to me, in fact, Tamara’s discourse with herself counted amongst the tamer exchanges I had been witness to over the past ten years. I remained silent, taking no side in the argument, and was prepared to comply with her decision, either way. If she declined my services, I would quietly tip my hat and walk away.

When she quieted down, we stood there, me on her porch, unmoving, and she wedged in between the narrow crack of her door, unspeaking.  Then, she shifted aside slightly, which I took as an invitation to enter, and squeezed past her as politely as I could manage in the limited space provided.

As I stated earlier, Mr. Skelly was laid out on the table in the dining room, dressed in his Sunday best, a bible laid on his chest with his hands folded upon it.

“Mrs. Skelly, I wish you hadn’t gone through all this trouble—“

“Tamara, please, and it was no trouble at all.” she smiled kindly as she touched her dead husband’s face.

“No, what I mean is, we’ll have to remove your husband’s clothes. I can’t perform my job this way.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought—“

“It’s all right, you didn’t know. How could you know?”

Mr. Skelly was a tall man, a sturdy man, and even the cancer couldn’t rob him of that, but it made his dead weight all the more difficult to manage. How Tamara succeeded in dressing him all by herself in the first place was remarkable. Where there’s a will, I suppose. In silence and in tandem, we stripped the corpse, being as respectful to the man who was no longer with us as we could manage.

“How long?” Tamara asked.

“Excuse me?”

“How long will it take for you to do your—thing?”

“There isn’t a set timeframe for this sort of thing, Tamara.” I took one of her hands in mine, and she let me. “Most people believe that life and the soul are one and the same thing. This simply isn’t the case. Life ends when the human body shuts down completely. The soul is eternal. The soul doesn’t power the body. If that were the case, we’d all live forever.”

Tamara looked at her husband, hopeful. “So, you mean Steven’s soul is still here, with us?”

“His soul hasn’t released itself from the flesh yet, so yes, in some way, it is still with us.”

Tamara pulled her hand free of my grasp and rushed over to the table and caressed Steven’s face gently. “Honey? Steven? Are you still in there? Can you hear me? Give me a sign if you can hear me!”

I moved behind Tamara, placed my hands on her shoulders and whispered into her ear, “It doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry, it just doesn’t.”

She turned on her heels and was in my face suddenly, like an attack dog. Delicate hands balled into fists and pounded into my chest. “Then why are you just standing here? Why aren’t you doing what we paid you to do?  Why aren’t you helping my Steven? I can’t bear to think of him trapped in there like that, helpless!”

Her energy spent, she folded herself into my chest and I held her.

“He isn’t trapped, Tamara. He’s in a transitional stage, like a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly. If you can imagine a spiritual chrysalis, enveloping his soul, molding and shaping his essence into what it needs to become in order to move on, that’s what’s happening now.”

Tamara looked up at me, concerned. “Then shouldn’t you be getting to work now?  Before it’s too late?”

“His soul isn’t ready.”

“But how do you know?”

I couldn’t stifle a slight chuckle.  “I’ve been doing this for over ten years now. I just know.”

“And you’ve never been wrong? Never made a mistake? Not once?”  Her concern was understandable, but unjustified.

“Not once.  When his soul is ready, when it reaches the stage just before it emerges in it’s new form, I’ll do what I’ve been paid to do.”

“You’ll eat his sin?”  That question was the one thing that never varied in deliverance, from person to person, job to job, regardless of who said it. It always came out sounding the same. Part skepticism, part hope.

“Every drop of it.”

“And there’ll be no retribution?” she looked up at the ceiling but I understood her meaning.

“No retribution. He’ll move on to a better place and none of his sins will transfer to you.”

“And what about you? You take this– all of this on yourself. What happens to you?”

“With all do respect, that’s none of your concern.”  I was expecting an argument. None came.

“Well then,” Tamara straightened up and composed herself.  “Can I interest you in a cup of tea?”

“Tea would be nice.”

She stared at me a long moment, no doubt trying to decipher what made me do what I did. Trying to puzzle out how I came into this profession. But she never asked. I think she knew I wouldn’t be very forthcoming anyway, so she simply shook her head slightly and moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Text and audio ©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

The Harbinger of Fate

It was all coming to an end, which was a surprise to absolutely none present. All things, both good and ill, ended eventually, only this was occurring far sooner than any of the ancient writings prophesied. But the deities of the various so-called pagan religions refused to go quietly into that final good night, so they dispatched their chosen ones, entities imbued with long-forgotten magicks which were run-off energies that still lingered from the Big Bang, to meet the challenge of halting the all-consuming maelstrom. Alas and alack, it was to no avail, for one by one, these champions were crushed beneath the heel of inevitable death, until there was but one lone defender.

She was born Hannah of Cahokia, but her messianic name was, Gelysa Tinelan, and she fought bravely but was seriously outmatched, and when it appeared as if she would succumb to time’s tempest, Fate’s harbinger actually rose into the air, not unlike a human phoenix, playing chords of entropy that increased in intensity, calling the souls of the fallen chosen champions back from the dead in the form of a ShadowsReich, and together they engulfed and nullified the chronal apocalypse, at least for the present.

Her task accomplished, Fate gently folded Gelysa within a patch of void borrowed from beyond the edge of the expanding universe, and placed its champion in a state of suspended animation until the next apocalypse rose its destructive head.

Text and audio ©2020 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

The Influencers

I am among the few ragtag wandering survivors of Earth and the question I hate being asked the most is, “How did you lose your planet?” because we lost it in the most embarrassing way possible. My homeworld was stolen from the human race via social media. At this point, I would have to explain to extraterrestrials what TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter were, and regardless of whether the alien I was speaking to had a mouth or not, I would get laughed at.

The beings, known as DAC, or the Doublyxian Aelonide Collective, were infants when they first approached Earth. Widely known as a pest control race, they were assigned the task of ridding the world of its inhabitants with significantly less destruction than a planetary war would bring. Studying all the various cultures, they assumed a form as close as they could manage to human, mastered our etiquette, and took to social media platforms, becoming bioluminescent influencers who created a series of challenges, which got progressively harder to perform and resulted in a staggering number of accidental deaths.

Not everyone was so easily influenced but we who remained were so few in number that our every rebellion attempt ended in failure. Eventually, we were captured and to our surprise were treated quite civilly. The DACs were quick to point out that they had committed no act of aggression upon the planet’s inhabitants and were not responsible for any of the human deaths. As they put it, “Earthlings had foolishly acted in a manner contrary to continued existence.”

“But we are not without compassion,” a spokesman for The Collective said. “You are invited to remain here on this world that was previously your home, living a life of what you would consider being luxury as our pampered pets.” An offer which outraged me to no end, but apparently I was in the minority. Most of the survivors accepted the terms of their servitude while I and the rest were given provisions, placed aboard a spaceship, and launched in the direction of the nearest star.

Now, we travel the spaceways in search of a planet where we can become the next wave of influencers and perhaps win a new home for ourselves in the same way ours was stolen from us.

Text and audio ©2020 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Tabula Rasa

There comes a time in every life where a persona goes as far as it can go, meaning atrophication and death are not far behind. But Kaidance refused to let that be the end of her story. Just as a snake sheds its skin in the process of growth, she cast off all the things that made her who she was, abandoning an existence that was no longer large enough to accommodate her new and transformative life energy. Her new persona was a tabula rasa, a blank slate on which she would write for herself a better destiny and a new life for this new year.

To those loyal few who take the time to read my daily scribblings, I just wanted to say, Thank you! Warm wishes for you to have a promising and fulfilling New Year!

Text and audio ©2019 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

The One Rule

Bernadette, having been warned well in advance about Bryce’s uncanny and innate ability to ensnare members of any gender in his web of seduction, girded her loins just before the interview. She attempted to train her eyes on her list of questions and the point on his face just between his eyes, softening her focus as she addressed him directly. But the truth of the matter was she wanted to look. She hadn’t believed that this diminutive and frankly quite ordinary man had any sort of charisma, let alone the power to beguile even the weakest of minds.

There was only one rule in being granted the interview, Do not look him directly in the eye, and in less than a minute she had broken that rule, gazing into the most exhilarating green eyes in existence. His plain face became an immaculate work of art that ran through every aspect of her mind. She was instantly and utterly consumed by fantasies of kissing his lips that seemed so tender, pink and inviting, of running her fingers through the obsidian silk of his hair, of caressing his pearlescent alabaster skin, of letting him inside her, not physically, that would come later. She knew he wanted access to the core of her being. He wanted to absorb her very soul and she was happy to let him.

Text and audio ©2019 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Taking It On The Chin: The Graceful Art Of Accepting Rejection

“Was I bitter? Absolutely. Hurt? You bet your sweet ass I was hurt. Who doesn’t feel a part of their heart break at rejection. You ask yourself every question you can think of, what, why, how come, and then your sadness turns to anger. That’s my favorite part. It drives me, feeds me, and makes one hell of a story.” ― Jennifer Salaiz

Rejection is: a bitter pill to swallow, tough to handle, a serious downer, like getting sucker punched in the gut, blah-blah-blah. You get the picture, chiefly because you’ve experienced it in one form or another. We all have. Even with this blog, as harmless as it is, I sometimes receive emails that take issue with or flat out reject things I’ve posted. Hey, it happens. You can’t fault people for having opinions that differ from your own.

While it’s no big secret that we all seek acceptance, rejection—impossible to avoid once you step out of your comfort zone and into society—is a part of growth. That’s right, you need it in order to develop as a person and grow as a writer.

Here are a few ways that can help you cope during the initial rough patch of receiving a written or verbal rejection:

1. Take yourself out of the equation

Your written piece is your baby, forever tethered to you by an unseen and intangible umbilical cord, and although it will always be a part of you, when someone disapproves of your work, they’re not necessarily rejecting you, the person.

Yes, I’m well aware it’s impossible to completely divorce yourself from something you’ve created. Especially when that sly critter Self-Doubt sidles up beside you and makes you question if there’s something wrong with you or your talent. But instead of taking this to heart and allowing it to consume you, you need to adjust your thinking.

When your work is rejected it’s usually more a reflection of the viewpoint, needs or requirements of the person making the decision. The thoughts in your work may not align themselves with the thoughts of the audience, which doesn’t necessarily make it bad, it’s simply not a piece that fits into their jigsaw puzzle.

Of course, if they offer you a reason why your work was rejected, you shouldn’t rush to dismiss it. Take a step back, look at the critique objectively and if it has merit, consider using it in your next draft.

2. Anticipate rejection

It’s coming whether you like it or not, so why not bake a Bundt cake, put the kettle on and have yourself a little nosh when it arrives.

When writing, if you expect rejection, what it should do is make you up your game by challenging you to raise the yardstick, push the envelope and send your best work out into the world. And before you mistake my meaning, I’m not asking you to get down on your work and take the negative view that your writing isn’t good enough and never will be. I just want you to adjust your mental outlook. It’s like the saying goes, “Hope for the best, expect the worst.” It cuts down on the disappointment that may come later on.

Also, don’t let a rejection kill your drive and lead you down the path of procrastination. Use it to become a better, stronger writer.

3. Stay focused

You can’t control your peers, society or the world at large, so why not concentrate on your own thoughts, feelings, actions and behaviors? Just because you’re not gifted with the inhuman ability to alter reality, doesn’t mean you’re powerless to alter your personal reality. By turning your focus inward, you acknowledge what you want and realize you have the power to set events in motion to achieve your goals.

How does this apply to rejection? You may be able to avoid the downward spiral of self-doubt by accepting there will always be cynics who are entitled to their opinions, be they informed or otherwise, and said opinions do not—and I repeat do not—have power over you. Instead of focusing on their negativity, turn your attention to what you can control, applying what you’ve learned from their comments and moving forward to produce more powerful work.

4. Spot the merit in rejection

I know I’ve taken an “it’s them, not you” approach in this post but honestly, not all rejection is unfounded. We’ve all produced work that exists on different levels. Some writings strike the right chord with the majority of your audience and others miss the mark by scant inches and even a mile. This is when you let slip your inner critic and examine your work for uninspiring ideas, a poor approach, confusing views, unclear writing, etc.

It also helps to learn to self-question, which is far and way different from self-doubt. Turning detective and analyzing why the person in question didn’t accept the story, what were they looking for and what you could have done differently to meet their needs, may help you decipher learning points of which you were previous unaware.

A word of cautious: Unless you have a personal connection with an editor or publisher, I would advise against contacting them directly to ask why your work was rejected. While you may see it as a means to improve your craft, your intent may be misconstrued. You never want to gain the reputation of being that person. Or, perhaps you do. In that case, have at it. Who am I to tell you what to do?

5. Understand that rejection is growth

You’ve heard the saying, “One step forward, two steps back,” and you might believe receiving a rejection is taking those two soul-crushing backward steps, but you, my friend, are absolutely 100% incorrect. It’s the one step forward to understanding what people are looking for in the real world and how you can progress your writing to accomplish your objectives.

And if you have a piece of writing that has received more than a few rejections, instead of chucking it in the drawer of misfit tales, why not give it the once-over one more time, taking all the rejection information into account while you do it. You just might find that you can spot and understand the weak points in your story’s structure and fortify them with the experience you’ve gained from learning how to cope with, deconstruct and master the lessons within the criticism you’ve received.

As I said from the start, you’re not the only person who’s dealt with rejection. Click this link and view some of the rejection letters received by bestselling authors. If they can handle it and move on, so can you.

Sally forth and be writeful.

Don’t Be A Chump, Don’t Infodump

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Finding balance in your life isn’t simple. Balancing life and writing is even harder. Finding balance in your writing? That’s something you’ll be working on for the rest of your natural writing life, because a well-written story balances exposition, description, action and dialogue, but not in equal measure. You need to keep a watchful eye on exposition.

In its basic form, exposition is the part of a story that sets the stage for the drama to follow, introducing the theme, setting, characters, and circumstances, usually at the beginning of the story. Sounds straightforward enough, right? Well, writing good exposition that flows with the story and continues to draw the audience in, isn’t as easy as it sounds. In fact, many writers misuse exposition as an illegal dumping ground for information that not only causes a distraction that breaks the flow of a story, but also decreases interest.

And you don’t have to be an expert to spot the exposition dump (aka infodump) because we’ve all experienced and recognized it while reading a novel or watching a movie or television program. It’s that speed bump or sometimes roadblock in the story where the writer unloads a ton of information at once as a means of explaining things like backstory, characters, and the rules of the story world. If you’re a culprit of this, stop it now. We’ll forgive your ignorance in past works (go back and cull the exposition, if at all possible) but it’s a bad exposition technique and the line must be drawn here. This far, no further.

Typically, infodumping occurs when a character, new to the scene, is introduced to a foreign setting and is force-fed all the knowledge of the various individuals at play, the rules of the micro society, and the overall big picture of the story world. You’ll find this a lot in science fiction and fantasy tales.

Other bad/lazy infodumping techniques include “The Lecture,” where a speaker over-explains information the writer discovered during their research period of the writing process and thought would show their faux expertise in the subject. The other offender is commonly known in the sci-fi writing community as the “As You Know, Bob,” conversation, where one character tells another character information they already know. Please don’t do this. Not only is it lazy, but it comes across as unrealistic.

This isn’t to say that all exposition is bad, in fact, properly executed, it takes up roughly 10% of a well-balanced written piece (the other 90%, of course, being the description, action and dialogue that make up the scenes). Some of the information embedded within expository text is actually relevant, it simply requires a little finesse to fit it in seamlessly and not disrupt the story’s flow.

Of course, if you handle your description, action and dialogue properly, you can whittle that 10% down and most people won’t notice or care about the missing exposition.

Well, that’s enough infodumping for me today. I’m off to tear a story down and rebuild it.

Sally forth and be writeful.