The Relic Forge

You've reached the blog of author Tamar Brandt. I'm a writer in my thirties with a preference for all kinds of speculative fiction. Major projects in recent years include Integrity (a superhero series) and The Anchor and the Fetter (post-apocalyptic fantasy novel.) I also try to churn out one flash fic a week and post on Fridays. Hoping to get more of my stuff out there, so watch this space. Other platforms I'm on: AO3 - Dreamwidth - Writerscafe - Booksie - Wattpad

[tamarbrandt]

Walking on (flash fiction, 110 words)

Just a small thing in the absence of something longer this week.

“One could walk the field and they crunched underfoot...”

The rock formations near the city had always been a source of curiosity. Some were the size of the palm, others great sweeping stones in flat plates, gently curving. One could walk the field and they crunched underfoot, thick small curls of brittle white. Some of them children played on, hiding out in the hollows, making vast pretend castles and caves beneath the domes; others dominated the landscape, higher than the city itself, ancient and crumbling pitted behemoths that loomed in the fog. And a few, just a few, the scientists took back with them, to see just what they were. One day, they had an answer.

Eggshells, they said.

[tamarbrandt]

Gonna be taking a brief break starting this week. This is my first experiment with putting my writing out there on a regular basis and I think I’m missing something that should be getting more eyes on my work. I need to take some time to confer with other writers and rethink my process a bit.

[tamarbrandt]

Starry-Eyed (flash fiction, 300 words)

She put on her gauntlets. Then, carefully, testing its hold, she pushed on the lid of the ancient stone chest.

It opened with some resistance. There, just as her sources had specified. A cat made of silver about the length of her hand, star-rubies for eyes. The lid seized halfway up and now she forced it, sending a shower of dirt and plant material as it fell off, exposing her prize to light for the first time in an age. She hesitated a moment, fidgeting with her gauntlets, adjusting the fit. It was just nerves—this would have no effect when she picked it up. Taking a breath, she steeled herself, and touched the idol. There came a faint rumble. Then a blast of otherworldly light. Then something in reality churned. She kept her grip but her knees struck earth as there came a great grinding sound, like a voice from between the molecules of the world. It reverberated in her teeth and the idol shook and torqued as if to free itself—but she locked it tight between her palms and ducked her head, bracing. The rumble of the floor rattled her bones, sending showers of dust from the ancient walls and then came the screech of something, stone on stone and some being moved to deathly rage. For an instant the world seemed thin as paper and she could see the swirling abyss that lay ever just beneath, yawning open to claim her as a thousand years of a single ever-intensified death curse launched itself at her human flesh—

Then fizzled out with a faint pop.

She smiled. Good wards would do that, especially against older magics. Ever cautious not to let it touch anything but her hands, she very carefully dropped her pack off one shoulder, and sealed the idol inside. There was someone back in her city state who had no idea about good wards. This would be on his doorstep first thing in the morning.

[tamarbrandt]

Well, I've officially written more during the month of August than I did during the entirety of 2019. It's not some great wordcount--13k--but it represents me not being done yet and I'm happy to have it.

[tamarbrandt]

Such Graves Are Far From Here

Afraid there’s not a new story this week, as I’ve been ill on and off. Instead, have an older poem I tidied up.

Near the city are giant graves,

where angels stand watch over bought lines of etching.

Here lies he and there lies she. Here lie healers, there lie heroes.

King or queen of all and sundry, great and beloved--

with rotted selves far hidden under pretty stones and carvings.

 Such graves are far from here.

 Here lies Felix. I did not know him.

But among these hundred and some-score dead, his is the only name I found.

Born crying. Loved by who loved him, if any.

Died old and withered and carrying a basket of grain.

Know his name, and put his face to these many rows of unmarked stones.

You stand on hallowed ground, where Felix lies--

great and beloved, as are we all.

[tamarbrandt]

Written on the Subway Walls (sudden fiction, 300 words)

      Cephalopod did not know what writing was.

     Cephalopod did not know that to make a mark was to pass along information. Culture. Knowledge of days that turned into knowledge of ages. What Cephalopod did know was that you could chip a rock with another, bigger rock. Cephalopod knew that when you did this, critters scurried out. Cephalopod did not know that it made patterns when you beat a rock with a rock. Cephalopod just wanted the critters.

     But the next Cephalopod noticed the patterns. It smelled them. It tasted them. It ran its little arms across them. It made its own. Rock against rock, you could make the same pattern over and over, if you liked. Also, it wanted the critters.

     Then came a cleverer Cephalopod. It noticed you could make the same pattern over and over. But you could make different patterns. You could mix them together. Also, it wanted the critters. So Cephalopod started putting two marks wherever there were critters. Up and down. Left and right.

     One day it found a mark it had not made.

     It beat the rock. Out came the critters. Hearty shell crunched in its beak and it looked up to the surface. The sea was a dark abyss of water and pale white fish and something big and fat that swam with a big wide tail. Above that came lighter waters and above that was the shimmering web that drew itself on the surface and above that was places Cephalopod could not go.

     Cephalopod seized another wriggling critter and crunched it in its beak. Cephalopod was happy.

     It did not know what writing was. It did not know its name was Cephalopod. It knew a little bit what a human was, but did not know very much else at all, and now it noticed this.

     Cephalopod wondered.

[tamarbrandt]

I put together a character-inspired playlist for the first time today. It starts with San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair) and ends with Diary of Jane.

Am I a good writer yet?

[tamarbrandt]

Rather Not (original fiction, 500 words)

“Listen, I’d rather not, but I’ve been sent to kill you.”

The girl already had tears in her eyes. Slowly, she left her armoire and sat on the edge of the four-poster bed. There were guards posted on the grounds, but she seemed to see the situation as well as he did; by the time she had called for help, it would be too late, and he would be gone.

“What for, if I may?” She sounded so calm. He cocked his head and peered at her from beneath a heavy mask, perched in the open window.

“Your father’s affairs, obviously. Does it matter?”

“At least don’t be rude,” she sighed. She crossed her legs beneath her sleeping robes, then uncrossed them again. She did not let the tears fall. “Will it hurt?”

“Truth is? I don’t know.” He stepped down from her window, a curved dagger visible at his side. She tensed but did not move as he paced the room’s perimeter. He pulled a rose from a vase, inspected it, then replaced it neatly. “Can’t say I’ve ever been on the wrong side of an assassination.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said. Her voice cracked, only a little. She sighed again. “Will it make a big mess?”

“Sometimes.”

“Oh dear. That’s no good.”

“Funniest things, you people think about.” He drummed his fingers on the girl’s armoire. Seemed most of her jewelry was still on her body. He laid a hand on his dagger and watched her seize out of the corner of his eye, hands clasping either shoulder. He hesitated.

“Give me your ring,” he said.

“What?”

“Your signet—the other three too. Give me your rings and I’ll deliver them to my employer.”

She shook violently as she rose, hands like jelly, and passed him what amounted to a handful of gold from her fingers. He pocketed them. Then like a ribbon of silk he was out the window, into the tree from which he’d descended—and moments later she was screaming the alarm.

For what good it would do them. He watched the window quietly and pulled the dagger idly from its sheath, pressing on the tip; it collapsed into the handle. A stage weapon. The four rings were heavy in his pocket. He would not normally have asked for the other three, but she was panicking enough not to question why some mysterious employer needed them all, and they looked nice enough.

It wasn’t like he wouldn’t have made for an actual assassin. It was just… well.

Without a sound he fell to the earth below, crept to the next manor, and ascended its southern face, then slipped in between a pair of heavy red shutters. A tremendous man saw him at once and almost fell from his bed, cursing in abject shock. The top of his dresser, too, was littered with jewelry. The intruder cocked his head and peered from beneath his mask.

“Listen, I’d rather not...”

[tamarbrandt]

New flashfic on course for Friday, and Ko-fi is now up!

[tamarbrandt]

A Little Hot In Here (original fiction, 500 words)

Originally an entry for a Talefoundry stream prompt here, here is "A Little Hot in here.” The prompt for the week was “You Are Cordially Invited.”

She sat him down at the desk, seated herself neatly, crossed her hands, and got right to the point.

 “We of the board have decided to rescind your invitation,” she said.

The man scowled from the other side of the desk through scruff and dirt, and spoke around his cigarette.

“The hell’s ‘rescind’?”

The woman’s voice was level, but it was the sort of level that was trying very hard.

“It means,” she said, “…that you may go.”

He hesitated a second, then rocked back on two legs of his chair. He was still as they had found him, scruffy and unwashed. But he did not smell, except of cigarette smoke. That would have required bacteria, and those tended not to end up here. At first he seemed relieved, but then his brow furrowed, and he cocked his head.

“Who decided that?”

“That information is both confidential and irrelevant. You’re uninvited regardless, sir.”

“How come?”

“I mean, most people do get… agitated, upon receiving their invitation…”

“No kiddin.”

“You, however, attacked three of our associates.”

“Maybe shoulda stopped at one?”

“The first with a shotgun, the second with holy water, and the third with… with… what even was that?”

“I’unno. Witch showed me how to make it.”

“A witch.”

“Stacy. College kid. My son mows her hairdresser’s mom’s lawn.” He smiled. “Packs a punch, don’t it!”

“Additionally, upon successful invitation you proceeded to… put out much of the lake.”

“Didn’t see no lake.”

“The lake of fire, sir! The big hot thing? The one you put out! By smuggling in a fire extinguisher, which I can’t even bloody well begin to–”

“Hey! How many people got out, anyways?” Silence. “Out of the lake. While it was out?… It ain’t like I stood there and counted.”

She smiled, with teeth. They were sharp. There were years of stress in her crow’s feet.

“True, you didn’t. You ran for your life while calling His Infernal Lordship a… what was it?”

“A lil’ snot just trying to make his daddy mad.”

“Well!” She shuffled some papers and set them on her desk neatly, clasping her hands atop the pile. “Yes. Indeed. Your invitation is rescinded. You may go. Please.”

“…Where to?”

“Gosh darn it, Sir. Anywhere but Hell.”

He stood up, smiled at her with nicotine teeth, turned, and sauntered out into the universe.

[tamarbrandt]

Watching the Flames (original fiction, 300 words)

Originally posted on my casual blog here, here is “Watching the Flames.” 

Fire cw. Author’s notes are in comments. If you prefer audio, AQuestionOfCharacter did an absolutely stunning reading here!

Barnabas Fay had just turned three. It was the first day that he put his hands to the fire.

He would remember Mama’s screams and tears. He did not remember her swearing, or the ache in his ribs as she pulled him from the bonfire. He would not remember the confusion in her eyes as she turned his unburned hands over in hers, over and over and over. He would not remember her thanking the saints for his safety.

Two weeks later came the second day that Barnabas Fay put his hands to the fire.

This time, he would remember Mama’s cursing, one day looking back–words he’d never heard before ringing in his ears as he laughed in delight. He took hold of the flames, splashing them onto his face like water, into his powder-puff hair. He remembered the trembling in her hands as she carried him to douse him in the sink, the itchy craggy texture of his burned and soggy sleeves, the fear in her eyes as she turned his hands over. And over. And over.

On the third day, Mama took him to the priest. The priest said some words and sprinkled water on him. His mother hushed him when he laughed. Barnabas never stopped watching the fire. But he did stop touching it, for a time.

On the fourth day, three years later, Barnabas Fay did not put his hands to the fire. He brought fire to his hands. He stood and watched in quiet concentration as flame burst forth from nothing, grew when he spoke, stilled when he stilled his thoughts.

Barnabas was still bad at words. He held his hands up for Mama’s inspection.

He would remember her looking on in silence, watching the flames with him.