Sometimes I write fiction. And by write fiction, I mean I get about 2 pages into a novel that I never pick-up again. Instead of just letting them molder on my hard-drive, I’ve decided to start a new feature on Dang Dude, What the Heck? where I occasionally publish these beginnings. In doing so I’m offering them up to the public. Feel free to use them to start writing your own stories. Take whatever part of them you like, if any, and use it as your own. I won’t tell. Or just read them and take them for what they are. Here’s the first one. It’s a shameless rip-off of China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station.
The City Dreams
A man smiled into the dark as the tip of his little dinghy rubbed against the side of the pier. Grunting a little, the light of the moon making the sweat on his forearms shine, the man heaved a canvas bag onto the moss-covered wood. Triple-checking his knotwork, he hauled himself onto the pier, picked up his bag, and walked into the city.
The city dreamed unawares as the man penetrated its borders. Gas lamps flickered through the metropolis’ veins, sending signals up and down its corridors. The man and his bag were quickly unnoticed by the city. Dissolved into Kazar-Dun’s nighttime mélange. Unnoticed, but not forgotten. Filed away for safekeeping, pushed into the vaults of urban memory. Stored in the sidewalks, retrieval when necessary. The man remained unaware of being remembered by the urban sprawl, focused only his destination.
The man, his letters of introduction gave his name as Jatar Koranth, found his way through the city, relying on his an understanding of the nature of urban architecture gleaned from his many stays in such areas, and a few hastily memorized directions. The small of his back now as sweaty as his arms. His plain white linen shirt stuck to him, the heavy canvas bag still slung over one shoulder. The man looked to his left, saw his destination and sighed. He peered into the soft yellow glow of The Bone and Dragon and stepped into its doorway. Raising a scarred fist he knocked on the door.
Kazar-Dun dreamed uneasily, as all cities must. It tossed and turned, mimicking the waves that lapped its piers and beaches. Coal from the new “scientific” factories burned through the night ripping pungent through the air. The uneasy dreams of sailors, carpenters, politicians, and playwrights alike floated together in the miasma of the city’s dreams. It kept all of them, inscribing them in a memory bank for some unknown future city to do with as it liked. Kazar-Dun did not need these dreams, but it kept them, because that is what cities do.
The door of the Dragon and Bone opened. Through the opening the man observed an oak-paneled room lit by candles and a fireplace. The man made out a large maple table, roughhewn, with matching chairs. A face with too many scars appeared on the other side of the door. The face, coming into light and no more handsome for it, muttered, “Koranth?”
When he nodded yes, the scarred man stood aside and beckoned him in.
“On the table” the doorkeeper gestured towards Koranth’s bag and closed the door.
Lifting the canvas bag, now dark from his sweat, he laid it down in the middle of the closest table. Turning toward his host he reached out his hand, expecting payment. Reaching toward his purse, the scarred man instead drew a knife from his belt and stabbed Koranth in the heart. Candlelight illuminating the red ropes of scar tissue on his face, the murderer placed the lifeless body on the ground in front of the fire. Turning back toward the table, he lifted the canvas bag with one hand, locked the front door of Dragon and Bone, stepped over the dead man’s body and left through the back. He left the knife in his victim’s chest.
Kazar-Dun woke with the sun in the morning. It noticed the death of the man with the bag. It stored it for future use. But it did not mourn Jatar Koranth. It did not weep or wail. It simply remembered.
Spinning around in a circle Mynael Parnassus drank in the smells of the market. Casa Casa oranges from the Llorin Islands sat next to the green fronds of fennel bulbs from the outskirts of Kazar-Dun. The odors of hot spiced grease rose from the food stalls as the vendors cooked their wares for the morning crowds. Fried nushkrat, pickled ogar with vinegar, and piquant hipat all mingled in Mynael’s prominent nose, forcing a rumble from his stomach and starting his salivary glands. Glancing up at the bone-white clock tower that sat in the center of Kazar-Dun, he wiped his mouth, shook his head as if to rid himself of all distractions and headed toward Pazar’s bookshop. The clock-tower visible throughout the city, day and night remained just to the back off his right shoulder, the spire around which the city revolved.
Mynael opened the door to Pazar’s Books and sighed. He couldn’t help it. So many books all in the same place always put him at ease.
“Pazar, do you have it?” Mynael always thought his voice sounded thin. He tried to put a little extra something behind it but it just came out sounding like he hadn’t said a word to anyone in since Missel last.
“One second, one second. Parnassus. What is the rush. The words will stay on the page for the next five seconds.”
Pazar came from the back, moving aside the curtain that separated his storeroom from the shop front. He cut a clean figure, sharp in his traditional Kazar robe. The epitome of order and cleanliness, especially when placed side-by-side with the somewhat slovenlier Mynael. Pazar took a book from underneath his counter, already wrapped in cloth and tied up in string.
“This wasn’t easy to get you know Mynael. I lost one assistant for two weeks while he tracked it down.”
“Yes, yes, and you’ll be rewarded fairly Paz. As always”
“Sarai was asking about you. You should come over for dinner sometime. I make a very good shaz-nar.”
“Once I’m done with this project Paz. Once I’m done.”
Mynael took the book from Pazar and handed him a leather pouch. Pazar hefted it, listened to the jingle and placed it beneath the countertop.
“Always after the project, Mynael. You need to have some fun.”
“Thanks for the advice Paz. I’ll see you soon.”
Mynael stowed the book in his shoulderbag, said his goodbyes, turned and left. Pazar watched him go with a rueful shake of his head.
Mynael reached his tiny apartment off the Street of Shepards almost out of breath. Puffing up the stairs he sat down at the table in the kitchen, ripping the cloth covering off the book. Being careful to get any sweat on the hide cover, he traced the words Annals Of The Imperator that ran down the spine.