Vengeance, My Heart is a work of serialized fiction. Jump to key story links to read earlier content.
The ultramarine-eyed stranger closed her eyes and breathed in, whether to garner courage or in regret for making such a promise, the pilgrim couldn’t decide. Perhaps she did it to center herself. It was not his place to know these things — he didn’t want to know. But he would not refuse such a promise of assistance, one normally reserved for those in a higher strata than he, as it had been sworn.
The stranger turned on her heel and marched towards the gaping black mouth of the ramshackle remains. Six dust-scratched eyes followed her passage as she stepped from gloam to gloom, the pilgrim’s daughter whispering a prayer that was only occasionally broken by the serpent’s kiss of sand over sand.
Vengeance, My Heart is a work of serialized fiction. Jump to key story links to read earlier content.
It came as a dervish, rising up from the alkali flats bathed in a wash of perpetual twilight; at first a flea on the horizon and growing larger as it drew closer. The shape was largely black with a touch of rich burgundy and loose cloth flapping in the wind, tassels dancing as gravity pulled downward against the wind. The air played tricks with sound, carrying over the sands a firm, but steady crunch of hooves grinding lime on hard pan.
It would be foolish to hail the newcomer, to wish the visitor well, for thieves walked these lands. The pilgrim and his kin had been warned about this, as they had been warned about the ruins near the aged well by which they sojourned. He didn’t issue a command to hide, for there was no place to hide in this barren place save for the well itself, which might be worse than the fluttering black ghost moving their direction on a pale horse. The pilgrim hoped the outrider would see their threadbare robes and worn, twisted-hemp sandals and understand it was custom for pilgrims to give most of their possessions away before their journey. He uttered a whispered curse for not waiting until the next caravan of faithful made the trek. He would have had the benefit of safety in numbers and then perhaps his son—
He let that thought go. What was done was done and wishing for something else was clinging to another illusion to shed when they reached Absalom. If — he reminded himself, not when — they arrived. If they reached the oasis city of this wretched land. He had already begun the process of removing his son from memory.
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
— William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus
Drifter coming in Never touching down, never leaving ground A twilight world in which we roam Still we don’t belong — Drift on.
— Siouxsie and the Banshees, Drifter
The first episode of new serialized gothic western by Michael Raven, Vengeance, My Heart, begins tomorrow.
Full episodes will typically span three to four posts. New story posts will drop approximately three times a week at 18:00 GMT (Noon CST/11:00 CDT); drop days may vary initially until an achievable rhythm can be established.
Image generated by Gemini, with direction by Michael Raven
Well, Miss Vivian Locke had gone back to her life of not dealing with exorcisms, divorces cases and whatnot. Back down into The Gills with it’s static rain and Cookie’s coffee. Mr. Cross is not what he might seem on the outside, but isn’t that always how it is?
I had fun writing Sunny Day Parasol Co., but I will readily admit that it went off in a direction I hadn’t anticipated when I started writing the story. In fact, I thought it had maybe 10,000 words and was solidly in the short story realm when I started. Turns out I was wrong at more than double that amount (~ 21,500 words, roughly 65 printed pages on A4 — for those who care about such things).
base art generated by Gemini; text and design by michael raven
While Sunny Day Parasol Co., the serialized noir I’ve been posting, has been “in the can” for about a week now and the publication of the story has been winding up, I have not been idle with the spare time I have had at my disposal.
