by Drew Briney
The beast descended.
As they got closer to the shoreline and low lying clouds pushed themselves behind the duo, Blaze barely observed unbelievably lush foliage surrounding a reasonably modest waterfall tumbling over a cavern as they passed by. Then, banking hard, the griffon slowed down but flew directly against a tree that it used to redirect itself onto a small, grassy patch of ground that Blaze hadn’t seen as they were descending. He barely held on.
Those pulsing feelings were returning. But this time, a strong feeling of peace enveloped him as well so he pushed aside feelings of concern as they surfaced. Relaxed, he casually dismounted the griffon, aware that both of them mutually understood what he was about to do. Blaze felt a small misting coming from above. He looked up, expecting to see the beginnings of an unexpected rainfall. Instead, he observed a small waterfall above and to his left. A slight breeze had redirected some of that water – and while the misting was relatively mild, it lasted long enough to leave him entirely drenched. Somehow, it felt exhilarating and refreshing and he wished it would happen again. But it didn’t.
The pulsing sensation returned, even stronger this time. Instinctively, Blaze knew that the griffon was withdrawing, finding a warm patch of sun to dry the moisture away from its heavy coating of fur and from its feathers. The young warrior’s intuition began guiding his motions again, moving him contrary to every precautionary combat training habit he had ever engrained into his soul: he took off his shoes and walked towards the edge of the waterfall. Before hitting the rocky ledge that outlined this beautiful outcropping, the young warrior stopped in the middle of a grassy, moss infested patch of ground and set his staff near the bank of the river that so carelessly threw itself over the cliff. The earth pulled at him. It pulled him first into a kneeling position and then onto all fours.
Soon, he found himself sinking somewhat into the ground, his weight pushing his feet deep into the marshy embankment and his fingers deep into the earth as if they were taking root. But there was more than gravity at work here. Blaze was unconsciously manipulating the energy to push him deep into the earth until his chest nearly pressed against the soil, his muscles tensing as if he was pushing himself to his limit in weight training. Another spray of water poured over his body until he felt half submerged in water. Droplets of moisture paraded down his forehead and off the tip of his nose. Other droplets made their way into his mouth and tasted somewhat salty.
Despite being unaccustomed to kinesthetic experiences, Blaze couldn’t focus on anything other than what he was feeling – sensations completely unknown to warriors. The water crashing below was nearly deafening but like any other white noise, it didn’t invade his thinking. If anything, it enhanced his mind and enlivened his senses. Mud and moss oozed between his fingers and toes in a way that he hadn’t experienced since being a small child and the pulsing grew stronger.
There are moments in life that define all others, moments that are only fully appreciated and understood after grey hairs stamp them into your soul. In these moments, one learns how to overcome foibles, how to push boundaries that never before moved, how to excel and become more than you ever dreamed. Miserably, full comprehension of these moments too often comes after one feels too old and worn to change what needs to be changed. This time was an exception. This time, the young warrior deeply understood the momentous importance of what was happening and he would relish the experience until the end of his days.
The earth spoke to him.
She spoke in pictures. She spoke in symbols. She showed the young warrior where to find another colony of people – there, in the hollow of the earth. She showed him the future of his species and the advantages of the things the aliens had been teaching Evelia. She showed him how every species excels best on their own planet. She showed him how she had renewed herself after each holocaust and how Blaze, Evelia, and Elayuh could lead his species to renewal and new levels of achievement. She gave him hope. She gave him knowledge about the elements and their energies. She showed him his destiny.
Enlivened beyond anything he would ever be able to express no matter how many years passed, Blaze leaped high into the air the moment he knew the earth was done speaking to him and running the short distance towards the edge of the cliff, he absorbed massive amounts of energy and dove off of the cliff with arms spread as if he believed he could fly on his own. The air whisked past his face, almost biting as he plummeted towards the earth below. Somehow, he knew he wouldn’t crash but he hadn’t determined how he might use the energy around him to prevent himself from smashing onto the rocks and the water below. His instincts had taken over again and he knew he could trust them.
So he continued his free-fall for several moments before he curled his body and willed himself to rotate midair, his legs spreading as if getting ready to jump back onto the cliff above. And then he landed on the griffon’s back, cushioned by the beast’s heavy mane and the beast’s own downward descent.
Flying back the way they had come, Blaze looked behind him with great longing. The moment had passed too quickly. There, he thought, looking past the waterfall. There, past that mountain. That is where the others are. That is where we will merge our colonies. Then, turning to face the direction the griffon was flying, it seemed like he could see miles ahead and to the right. There. That is where the aliens live. And here, he thought, his eyes closed and his body continually absorbing the infinitude of luscious energy around him. Here is our destiny.
BORING STUFF ABOUT DREW
After graduating from BYU (Phi Kappa Phi) with degrees in history, music, and logic, Drew entered the J. Reuben Clark Law School on scholarship and began teaching philosophy at UVU.
LESS BORING STUFF ABOUT DREW
Forsaking exotic and life-changing trips around the world with jazz bands (Europe) and symphonies (China and the Philippines) and recording on CDs (only three), Drew focused his attention upon a much more useful talent: helping people beat each other up with reams of paperwork that cost ridiculous amounts of money. As a part of sacred legal tradition, those expensive novellas are only read by an annoyingly small group of people who are required by ancient statutes to believe that they are better than you.
Drew won his very first case straight out of law school: a $25,000,000,000 (yes, you read that correctly: 25 billion dollars) international tort case that was appealed to the United States Supreme Court. Carefully dodging any potential backlash of fame and fortune, his legal career has been depressingly less glamorous ever since.
SORT OF COOL STUFF ABOUT DREW
Paper wars failed to saturate his appetite for violence so Drew is working towards getting his black belt in karate with four of his children. It’s illegal to beat your children at home but at the dojo, they let you do it as long as you call it sparring. Drew loves to spar with his almost black belt teens!
While in law school, Drew thrust his obsessive compulsive personality disorder into a good cause: he returned to his childhood juggling addiction. Drew was awarded Utah’s Best Professional Juggler award in 2001 and has retained that title ever since (mostly because they quit having the competition but he likes to brag about it anyway – if you ask, he might mention that he can juggle eight balls). He juggled as a performer at the 2002 Salt Lake Olympics and competed at the 2006 International Juggler’s Association in Portland, Oregon. He handily lost because he dropped too much – but at least he saved one drop with an epic sidekick that really wowed the judges! Drew has been a staple performer at the Timpanogas Storytelling Festival for more than a dozen years because he is the only juggler in the world that tells stories while juggling. Really – it’s true: he bills himself as the Story Juggler for that very reason. You can hire him to juggle for insane amounts of money or you can just watch a few of his videos on YouTube for free – your call.
STUFF ABOUT DREW’S WRITING
Just like any other attorney with a conscience (Drew met at least two others in his first decade of practice), Drew had to find some sort of therap
y to dull the pain of litigation. Because he couldn’t afford a professional therapist with his gaggle of kids (between their incessant food addictions [all of them eat every day], their propensity to get hit by trucks [whew – only one…], and taking music, karate, dance, gymnastics, and other lessons, he loses thousands of dollars every month!) - Drew started converting bed time stories into sci-fi/fantasy books. If you made it through that run-on sentence without any navigational errors or review of the multi-leveled parentheticals, you have his hearty respect and congratulations!
Drew has published and contributed to a quasi-prodigious amount of books and articles that would probably cure you of your insomnia, including two volumes of ancient near eastern laws, weekly legal editorials for an award winning newspaper, and several books, articles, and pamphlets about controversial historical topics entirely unrelated to fantasy infested space operas! In addition to his published works, Drew writes an inspirational blog. You can visit A New Breed of Dragon for information about Drew’s other books and stories, bundle coupons, daily sci-fi/fantasy inspiration, and more!
Drew concurrently released Slice with Moon 514: Blaze and the White Griffon in May of 2014 and is currently writing two other fiction books (one has 177,000 words already penned and 80% finished) and a half dozen short stories. If you are interested in reading them, recommend Moon 514: Blaze and the White Griffon to all of your friends so he can quit his day job and start writing full time!
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Grant M. Hansen painted the cover and the vine-wrapped tribal-design chapter headings. The only thing you really need to know about Grant is that you have to be careful not to sit too close to him: he drips with talent so it sort of oozes out of him on all sides. He has a very bright future ahead of him. You can visit his website for updates on his projects and live figure sketches.
His story? Well, he tells it like this: Sometime between 2006 and 2007 Grant was invited to pose for the AP art students at his high school. When he got to the class there were too many models so he was invited to stay and sketch. After he finished his drawing, he was invited to join the class and the rest (as they say) was history. Grant currently lives in Provo, Utah with his wife Claire and is studying Illustration at Brigham Young University.
Slice, a dark, coming of age short story written by Drew, is now available in standard e-book formats: ISBN: 978-1-61463-993-0 (Nook/ibook) and ISBN: 978-1-61463-994-7 (Kindle)
Tzun quickly rounded the corner, discretely dropping the wallet he’d just lifted from an inattentive merchant and nimbly feathering his fingers through a thick set of freshly printed bills. That should be enough for an entire week … or more, he congratulated himself. That, of course, would depend on which numbers were written on the bills and how wisely he used them – but these details were of little consequence. This was a game of survival. But then, in tough times, it seemed like everything was about survival.
Short and somewhat scrawny, Tzun had some difficulty in quickly making it to his destination without drawing attention to himself by running. A brisk walk was all he could discretely afford. Two more buildings and he could pass through the alleyway to Mariner’s Market Street where he would quickly disappear in a crowd. Dressed in beggarly clothes, eyes would naturally divert themselves away from the gaunt young man rather than retrace his visage for a second glance. From there, he would only be a few blocks from his modest apartment where he lived with his mother and extended family. This morning’s prize would be well received.
But fate couldn’t bear to smother Tzun in blankets of kindness for too long.
Before he turned the next corner into the alleyway, muffled screams covered by scuffling and hushed chuckling teased the air. Blasted fate! He didn’t need any trouble – but it was coming. Primordial instincts from deep within screamed to his consciousness that something wasn’t right – beyond the apparent crime, something felt out of place – but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Four young men who clearly devoted more time to building muscles rather than character gathered around some dainty brunette, a young girl who almost looked too innocent to have set foot in this neighborhood. Bloody bricks! Tzun silently cursed, considering this new dynamic and quickly absorbing every new detail of this ever-changing pathway. The dumpster was farther away from the west wall than normal. A hubcap lay at an angle, leaning next to that same wall. A small box of screws lay spilled near the feet of two of the larger boys – one of whom was holding the girl; two stacked boxes of junk appeared undisturbed since he had seen them there earlier that morning; the antique chair that had been next to the dumpster now sported a broken leg and the upholstery was looser near the top of the leg stump. Other than these few details, the alleyway looked precisely the same as it had a few hours earlier.
Behind Tzun, footsteps approached but slowed; hesitant, they either stopped or became silent. Above those feet, a hand brushed aside an over-length jacket and placed a recently discarded wallet into a back pocket.
If he played his cards well, Tzun estimated that he could divert his eyes to the left, walk along the other side of the alleyway, and then freely pass by unharmed – the thugs would leave him alone. He posed no threat to their fun and they would presume verbal threats would keep him from reporting anything to the police. Then, the distraction would be over. To them, Tzun would be nothing more than a lanky sixteen year old beggar, unworthy of their attention.
But he was Uzzit so he couldn’t in good conscience do nothing.
Shoving the stash of money deeper into his pocket and underneath a fold designed to hide prize lifts from family members when necessary, Tzun stopped walking, stood as erect and intimidating as his thin five-foot-nine frame could muster, slowly raised his head, and ordered the thugs to release the girl in the most threatening voice he could muster. Despite his best efforts, the inevitable unwelcomed response came as expected: they chortled and then laughed openly.
It always went down like this.
Carefully observing the spilled screws and the lone hubcap, Tzun focused his thoughts on the weather, creating a quick gust of wind to cover his Uzzit magic. As he knelt down to pick up a chunk of junk metal from the ground next to his feet, he sent the hubcap shooting into the lead thug’s ankle, a volley of dust into the eyes of another boy, and the box of screws into the neck and face of another. For the boy holding the girl, Tzun sent a vivid hallucination that acid had splattered all over his body; fierce burning sensations turned to panic as the thug watched his own skin melting away. When his grip loosened from shock, the girl shook herself loose and bolted. Tzun threw the chunk of metal at her captor just long enough to give her the head start she needed. Although the metal hit its target, Tzun’s efforts might as well have come from an eight year old girl unaccustomed to throwing balls – it didn’t do much anything. For that matter, none of the attacks caused any significant damage – even the screws did little more than scratch the thug’s face – but they did create the distraction needed to save the girl. Now it was his turn.
Quicker than anyone expected, Tzun was darting behind the dumpster, hoping to make his own escape. But from his limited perspective, he failed to notice one changed detail down the alleyway: entirely hidden in the shadows, two large antique batteries were resting against the wall on the other side of the dumpster. Tripping over them, Tzun stumbled heavily and just long enough to keep him from moving around the couch he knew would be resting by the wall on that same side. One stumble led to another until Tzun found himself face down and ungracefully sprawled over the ground. A moment later, vicious kicks repeatedly pounded his side and at least two blows connected with his head, leaving his ears ringing and his vision cloudy.
That wasn’t quite how he planned things.
He thought he heard a whistle but wasn’t sure. And then, that familiar feeling returned: something wasn’t quite right.
Four sets of footsteps hurriedly ran down the alley away from Mariner’s Market Street while another softer set methodica
lly plodded towards Tzun. Propping himself up on one elbow, Tzun strained to open his eye to see what new trouble might be coming his direction only to discover that his eye was throbbing and that he couldn’t see much of anything just yet. He reached up to touch it and winced at the pain. Somewhere, in the midst of that scuffle, he’d received a blow to his eye that he hadn’t immediately noticed – but he certainly felt it now. Turning his head further, he opened his other eye to find a rough looking but clean cut fellow reaching his hand out to lift him up.
From boots to a hat that covered any hair that wasn’t freshly buzzed, leather trappings of every sort decorated the newcomer. If he wasn’t nearly bald, you couldn’t tell so long as that hat was on. And as he softly smiled, he held one eye slightly squinted – as if it had to squint because of an unpleasantly large scar that reached from the middle of his bottom eyelid and through his hairline where it passed over a piece of missing ear – neatly sliced off in a fairly straight line. Further markings on this man’s face betrayed some serious time on the streets. He looked downright rugged.
“That’s quite a talent you have,” he offered as he helped Tzun back to his feet.
Still dizzy and trying to keep his body from visibly trembling, Tzun struggled to retain his footing for a moment before responding. “Talent?” he feigned in ignorance.
“You’re Uzzit aren’t you kid?” The rough tone of voice left Tzun uncertain whether or not a question had been asked.
“The wind …” he began.
“Don’t feed me that bull,” the street warrior interrupted with an overly confident air. “I know Uzzit when I see it.” His rigid gaze carefully scanned over Tzun who still looked more than a little dazed and worse for the wear. This boy barely belongs on the streets, the man silently considered. He’s lucky to have made it this far along. And he was right: if Tzun hadn’t been Uzzit, he would have been dead months ago – and the young boy was acutely aware of this fact.