Scribings, Volume 1

By Jamie Alan Belanger

Scribings is a fabulous compilation of speculative tales by four Maine authors. The collection starts with one piece of flash fiction from each author. The rest contains longer pieces of fiction for a total of eleven pieces representing a range of styles and genres from fantasy to science fiction and beyond. Watch young gods learn their place, see what the afterlife is like, meet Dappil, taste the sweetness of revenge, feel the fires of judgment and more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lost Luggage Studios, LLC
• Release date: Jun 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936489046

Jamie Alan Belanger

Jamie Alan Belanger started programming computers when he was about six years old. He earned a bachelor's degree from the University of South Florida in Computer Science with a minor in Mathematics. He currently devotes all of his time to Lost Luggage Studios, where he is a programmer, writer, editor, publisher, graphic artist, photographer, and more. In short, Jamie is a workaholic who is rarely more than two days away from having a meaningful conversation with his toaster. His hobbies include WW2 and computer history, artificial intelligence theory, cooking, beer, nature, photography, and designing worlds he'd rather live in.

Book preview

The Indie Revolution

When I started writing back in the 80s, publishing a collection of short stories meant finding a very lenient publisher or trying to publish it yourself. The former required finding both an agent and a publisher who completely believed in the salability of the collection. The latter usually entailed photocopies or those terrible purple ink mimeograph machines. My options were limited. But then I found Project Gutenberg, an online repository for electronic books that are no longer protected by copyright law. I've always been a big proponent of the digital revolution, so I recognized that even with just plain text files that the world had changed. This was just the beginning.

I'm shocked that it has taken so long for books to become widely digitized. Ebooks and their readers date back to the late 1960s. Authors have been using computers to write books for decades. Why did it take so long for them to start distributing those digital files? Other media types became more widely digitized earlier.

Photography used to require working in darkrooms with chemicals. Digital camera prototypes date back to the 1970s. Today, anyone can buy a digital camera for a low price, take pictures, and put them on the Internet. Most cell phones even have built-in cameras.

The next media type to go widely digital was music. I still remember the first time I heard an MP3 file, back in 1995. It wasn't long before people created websites for the growing indie music scene, no longer constrained by CDs and cassette tapes. Today, music has almost completely escaped the confines of its physical mediums.

Movies used to be the domain of large studios. In the late 1990s, researchers created better compression formats and movies started appearing online as well. Now movies are all over the 'Net; you can stream whatever you are in the mood for from providers like Amazon, Hulu, and Netflix. Independent filmmakers like Emily Hagins need little more than a camera, a computer, and a vision to get started creating their own movies.

Every time a new media type starts being distributed electronically, thousands of independent artists join the Indie Revolution. Indie photographers show off their work at sites like Smug Mug and Flickr. Indie musicians distribute their work to growing fan bases on MySpace and BandVillage. Indie films and serial shows can be uploaded to sites like YouTube and Blip.tv in minutes. Sites for indie books are just starting to appear - Authonomy, BookieJar, and Smashwords to name a few.

Some people are talking loudly about the Ebook Revolution. But it's not just about ebooks. It's an Indie Revolution: a constant stream of new artists publishing themselves on the Internet and bypassing the old world's gatekeepers -- people who have spent decades deciding what media you can and cannot have access to. Art without constraints, without censorship. Writers are just the latest group of artists to join the Revolution.

We live in a brave new world, and it's going to get even more interesting as time goes on.

Greater Portland Scribists

Portland Maine is a great little city. I say 'little', but by Maine standards it's huge. The Greater Portland area is home to approximately 230,000 people, roughly one-quarter of Maine's population. Even with such a (relatively) small population, it's inevitable that people will meet others with similar interests and goals. And that's exactly what happened with us one day in July when we first sat around a table and talked about creating an ebook.

We coined the term 'scribists' in one of those earlier meetings. Our intention was to pay homage to the scribes of olden days, monks who spent hours bent over manuscript pages, writing for as long as they had light to do so. When we first met, our goal was to spend more time writing and workshopping. Several of our first meetings were focused on flash fiction and a few of the stories from those sessions found their way into this collection.

More information about us can be found online at our website, http://scribists.blogspot.com

Lee Patterson is the group's leader; the one who initially organized us and set up our online presence. He writes stories with dark fantasy and horror themes (and cats), which brings an interesting perspective to our group as these are genres the rest of us don't spend much time in. I for one am learning quite a bit about building tense scenes thanks to this exposure.

Cynthia Ravinski has more formal writing training than the rest of us combined. Even though we are interested in the same genres, we approach the craft differently. That's why I like working with her so much. She points out the strangest things in my writing -- things I never would have seen on my own, things that make so much sense in retrospect.

Jamie Alan Belanger, that's me. I'm the resident spelling and grammar cop. I'm drawn to both science fiction and fantasy, and enjoy designing my worlds. I firmly believe in indie publishing, long rambling emails, and chaotic approaches to writing (must be the computer programming background).

Richard Veysey is the newest addition to our group. When he showed up to his first meeting wearing an Epica hat, we knew he'd fit right in. Similar tastes in music were just the beginning. The stories he's presented to the group are full of characters who are so interesting that even when I dislike them, I still can't stop turning pages.

This Collection

Our first anthology is a selection of stories from our workshop sessions this past year. The collection starts with one piece of flash fiction from each of us. The rest of the collection contains longer pieces of fiction, representing a range of styles from fantasy to science fiction and beyond.

And Then...

If you enjoy these stories, tell someone. Tell everyone. Tweet the word long and loud. With your help, we can show the world that the Indie Revolution has finally reached books.

- Jamie

Jeb's Lament

by Jamie Alan Belanger

Okay, I admit, it's been a while since I've been in a fist fight. I've been in fights, sure, but most people around here use weapons. This was plain, bare-fisted mayhem. Been a few years since someone picked a fight with me. So you can imagine my surprise at being knocked to my knees with the first hit, a quick jab thrown mid-conversation. I don't see myself as a glass jaw fighter but this guy's sucker punch sure as hell made me feel like one. I used to be able to hold my own in a fight. I'm not used to losing arguments. But there I was, kneeling on the wooden planks of the dock, watching the blood from my busted lip pool beneath me.

C'mon! said a voice from above me. I'm not through with you yet.

Ah condescension, that I'm used to. Nobody considers I might be a better fighter than I appear to be. Like this guy, Jeb, at least twice my size and obviously trying to prove he's a tough guy. He stepped forward, moving a little too close. I inhaled, letting saltwater air fill my lungs, invigorating me. I tensed, and in one smooth motion I rose to my feet and drove my fist into his chin. I heard something crack, who knows what - his jaw, my fist, his teeth. Probably all three, considering the throbbing pain in my clenched fist.

One of his drunken friends laughed. You asked fer that Jeb. Hoo-rah whatta hit!

Jeb stumbled back and shook his head. Motherf... he slurred, then fiddled with his jaw. Frak.

I edged closer, forcing him to stumble back another step. And there it was, the sun shining in his eyes from above the cliffs behind me. He squinted and I took advantage of the opening. I spun around, building momentum, and drove my foot into his chest with an authoritative thud. Sound of wood shuddering from the impact of his backside ceased his friends' laughter.

Silence.

Even the ocean seemed to pause for a moment, crystalline waves poised like serpents ready to strike at the sand.

Jeb clutched his chest like he was trying to reorganize his lungs. His friends stared, mouths agape. Every beat of my heart pounded in my chest, sending needles of pain to my lip.

Then the sharp tinny sound of a bell rang out from the ship coming in. I needed the dock cleared.

So, I said. "You gonna move that boat now?"

Jeb grumbled something incoherent, so what was I supposed to do?

I kicked his head, knocking him out, and turned to his friends. Move that boat, then get this jerk out of here.

They glanced at each other, then nodded in unison. Yes ma'am.

The Last Mate

by Cynthia Ravinski

Hidden in the clumps of sea grass on the edge of the cliff, Sadj viewed the three-masted Prevail, the ship that sailed itself. Her decks still empty. The taste of victory came to his tongue. Finally, it would be his. Only that ship could take him to the straights of Dairegga. No crew would sail those waters.

Below, the rowboat waited, roped to the dock on the sandy beach -- right where the crew had left it three days ago.

A dark, terribly familiar man ran out of the woods, crossed the beach and began pulling at the mooring ropes.

That man couldn't make it back to the decks of the Prevail. Sadj rose and dove forward. Somersaulting down to the sand, he scrambled for footing.

Captain, wait, he shouted across the beach, waving.

The dark man looked up and pulled his knife.

He must have seen the rest of the crew. Sadj sprinted toward the dock, the sand dragged at this boots.

The knife freed the rowboat in one slice. The Captain of the Prevail stepped aboard. He splashed the oars into the water. The boat slowly drifted away.

Two steps pounded into the dock, then Sadj leapt. The rasping of metal rang over the sloshing of water.

Sadj landed, rocking the boat but had no trouble keeping his balance. He focused on his opponent. The Captain had drawn a short cutlass. He hesitated, then lunged.

Sadj sprang over the bench, landing on the bow.

Keeping his balance, the Captian said, As your captain, I demand an explanation for your actions.

You know why. You've always stood in my way. No longer! Sadj drew his main-gauche and, staying low, sliced for the Captain's thigh.

He parried, but a thin red line colored his breeches.

Their golden eyes met, the Captain's questioning. Sadj clenched his fingers around his hilt and rammed the guard into the Captain's face. He fell against the side, crimson ran over his nose and mouth. Sadj followed his opponent and knelt on his chest.

Dazed, the Captain fumbled at Sadj's solid weight and groped for the sword he held in-hand.

The main-gauche slipped easily through the Captain's ribs and into his heart.

He convulsed.

Sadj freed his blade and rolled the corpse into the sea. Under the red-streaked morning sky, he shuddered at the stains trailing in the water. Is this what victory feels like?

He sat between the oar locks and rowed toward the Prevail. Tonight, Sadj would board his ship. Tomorrow, he'd retrieve the men he'd signed at Frosbien, men who couldn't sail but had other skills, and he'd be Captain Sadjamar.

The Prevail's magic didn't end at sailing itself, she also chose her own crew--unless her crew died and another boarded her before she could pick