Category Archives for "Uncategorized"
Shark River
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Dindi is kidnapped to be the bride of a shark... To escape she must untangle a terrible curse caused by a love and magic gone wrong.
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This stand-alone novella is set in Faearth, the world of The Unfinished Song. Available here ONLY.
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The Unfinished Song - This Young Adult Epic Fantasy series has sold over 70,000 copies and has 1,072 Five Star Ratings on Goodreads.
September 15, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
15. More Problems With Blueberries
“…withouteither, thanks much. What would I want with babies and a husband? They just give you a lot of cooking and cleaning to do. I’d rather dance.”
“Well, you can’t dance without magic,” said Jensi.
“I hope you’re not as stupid as Mad Maba,” said Tibi. “Someone told me that she wanted to be a Tavaedi so badly that when they told her she wasn’t worthy, she–”
“Kemla told you that,” said Jensi. “What if she did?” Across the room, Hadi and the other boys were apparently having a similar conversation, and reached a similar conclusion, for he sud- denly burst out very loudly, his mouth still half full, “Is that why Zavaedi Abiono is here? Is it time for the Initiation?”
This overly loud question silenced the room, and Hadi turned bright red.
All the adults in the room found someplace else to look, except Great Aunt Sullana who withered Hadi where he sat with a hard stare.
“Not my place to ask,” he mumbled. “My apologies, Zavaedi.”
Zavaedi Abiono nodded. He glanced again at Dindi, coughed again, and toyed with his pisha thoughtfully without taking a single bite. A small furry creature, Puddlepaws, noticed the undefended lunch and lowered himself into a crouch to sneak up on the pisha.
That kitten loved cheese.
“So, Zavaedi Abiono,” said Great Aunt Sullana, affecting a tone of innocent interest that fooled no one, “If an individual were not invited to join the Tavaedis, the best thing for her to do would be to marry a nice young man, give him her fields to plow, bear him children, all in all, settle down to a quiet, responsible life?”
“Er, yes, I suppose.”
“You have two nephews on the verge of manhood, don’t you? Tamio is too handsome for the likes of Dindi, but sturdy Yodigo will make a fine farmer one day.”
“Well…”
“For mercy’s sake, let the man eat, Sullana,” Uncle Lubo said. “Here, Zavaedi, would you like some blueberry juice? Dindi made it this morning.”
“Why, thank you…”
Dindi looked up in horror. But before she could compose a proper warning, Abiono lifted the jug to his mouth.
She covered her face with her hands, but she could still see the disaster unfolding on the other side of her fingers as Abiono sipped from the jug of soap juice. His face scrunched up and his mouth opened into a rictus of gastronomic distress. He spit out a spray of sudsy liquid.
Great Aunt Sullana cleared her throat to warn him that not even a Zavaedi would be permitted to behave rudely while dining.
“Urghrem,” Abiono said, manfully wiping his chin. “Quite delicious, I thank you. Er, Dindi made that, you say?” He glanced at Dindi before he set down the jug and reached for his pisha, now wrapped in kitten. He pried Puddlepaws off his food, which prompted the kitten to tackle his finger. “I thank you so much for the wonderful meal, Dame Sullana. I fear I must…
TO BE CONTINUED
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September 14, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
Upcoming Changes to the Blog
There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a while. In fact, I’ve tried it twice before. I failed both times.
That’s right, I’m talking about switching to a WordPress blog.
I’ll be honest: I LOVE blogger. I find WordPress a lot harder to use. It doesn’t have all my blogger friends in my dashboard, or easy access to Google statistics (yes, I know there are still ways to hook it up, but it’s more work)…but… the sad fact for Blogger-lovers like me is that WordPress is really where all the love from developers goes.
So if I want to take my blogging to the next level, which I DO, I may have to move.
Nothing’s solidified yet, but I thought I’d warn you.
If I do go through with the switch, there will be some other changes as well. I’m going to try to put more audio and video on my blog. (Right now I can only do audio, but I’m hoping to figure out video soon.) Nothing huge, just simple stuff. But it should be fun.
I have a video series planned for November, when I will re-post my How-To book “30 Day Novel,” but with video emphasis. The vids won’t be able to cover everything that’s in the book, but should help re-enforce the point.
I want to keep hosting guest authors with cool books. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been finding a lot of terrific novels to read.
Finally, I’m also going to juice up the goodies for Tara’s Tribe, exclusively for thes fan who on my newsletter list, and who help me out by sharing stuff on social media. There are some scenes that I’ve written for Mask which aren’t going to make it into the book. I’ll turn that into a short story that I will share ONLY with my list.
I’m really grateful to have the help of my assistant, Katie, in all this, so that I can make my blog a better place and still have time to write.
September 14, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
14. The Problem With Blueberries
The Unfinished Song: Initiate
(Start at the Beginning of the Novel)
(Start at the Beginning of the Novel)
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| “Handprint” by par-rish |
Dindi
“Oh, Dindi,” sighed her mother.
Uncle Lubo slapped his thigh and bellowed with laugher. In minutes, the whole clan joined him.
“For mercy’s sake, girl,” said Great Aunt Sullana. “Did you smear your face with blueberries?”
Dindi’s hands flew to her face. It did feel sticky…. Horrified, she glanced back at the pile of soap lumps she had left by the cistern’s lip. The lumps were blue.
Blue soap. Blueberry soap. The fae had mixed the blueberries, not the soaproot, with the ashes and lard. Oh, mercy. Her whole face must be stained with the indelible juice.
“Because you don’t know her well, you may think Dindi’s just a little strange,” Papa said to Zavaedi Abiono. “Once you get to know her better, you’ll realize that’s not true. She’s extremely strange.”
Uncle Lubo’s renewed peals of laugher reverberated around the smoky kitchen.
“Enough,” said Great Aunt Sullana. It was a decree. The guffaws of the uncles subsided to an echo of snickers and snorts from the younger cousins. “Where have you been, Dindi? Hadi says you ran off without him despite my express wishes.”
Dindi shot Hadi the wounded look of one betrayed. He shoved a pisha into his mouth and shrugged.
“Seven and seven times and seven times more,” said Great Aunt in a voice wheezing with age, “I have warned you and warned you about going off on your own. Didn’t I just say that strangers have been spotted in the woods? What if some outtribesman had seen you alone and made off with you!”
“Well,” said Papa, “You’ve been wondering how we’d get Dindi married off.”
“I said I wanted her married off, not carried off. Elli, can’t you put a leash on this man’s tongue?”
“If I had married a goat, I could leash him,” Mama said. “Instead you had to marry a boar.” Papa just laughed. Great Aunt Sullana turned to Zavaedi Abiono. “You see what I
have to put up with, Zavaedi.”
Zavaedi Abiono glanced at Dindi, at her sticky blue face. He emitted a non-committal cough.
She wanted to die.
“I gave up on taking that wild child in hand long ago,” went on Great Aunt Sullana. “If her mother won’t do it, I can’t. And her mother won’t. Will you, Elli?”
“She’s still just a child, Aunt Sullana,” Mama said. “Not for much longer,” said Great Aunt Sullana. The adults’ conversation moved on, finally and thankfully, but beside Dindi, Jensi and Tibi began whispering. “Dindi, before you arrived, Abiono was asking what year you were born,” said Tibi. “He asked about Hadi and Jensi too. Do you think there’s going to be an Initiation?
“Of course that’s what it means, you squirrel brain,” said Jensi impatiently. “It’s finally here. Finally. You’re lucky, Dindi. It came early for you. It came late for me. Just think, Dindi, a year from now, we can start to pick a husband! And after that, you know what comes next. Babies!”
“Ugh,” said Dindi. “I can do…
September 14, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
The Last Oracle by Delia J. Colvin
Can love defy death itself?
The Last Oracle is the final book in The Sibylline Trilogy, weaving Greek mythology with a modern tale of eternal love.
As Alex and Valeria’s wedding draws near, their secret plans are discovered, and now no one is safe!
To triumph over the dark forces that threaten their existence, they must risk returning to the Underworld. Hidden in a secret chamber along the river Styx is the first oracle, Myrdd, whose jumbled mind holds the key to their survival. But Myrdd’s solution forces Alex and Valeria to confront death, for a chance to change their fate!
Buy The Last Oracle on Amazon.
September 14, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
Coming soon
This will soon be my new blog. Meanwhile, find me at http://taramayastales.blogspot.com.
September 13, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
13. The Important Guest
The Unfinished Song: Initiate
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| “Shining Porcelain” by Lisalein |
Dindi
…laughter and cheers from her family. She’d never stopped dancing; they’d stopped cheering. By the time she was five, the same aunties who had praised her grace and dedication complained of her clumsiness and laziness. Little girls should keep the platform white washed, and cover it with fresh reed mats, not dance there.
The members of the clan had seated themselves in a rough rectangle around the edge of the platform, smallest children on laps.
Hands passed back and forth the communal bowls of food. The clay bowls and platters held flat triangular bread, bean mash, goat cheese melted to a gooey sauce and bowls of crushed chili peppers and lemon juice to be added for flavor. Family members used their hands to make pishas by wrapping the beans and cheese in the bread. The warriors sat nearest the door, the maidens nearest the ovens. Great Aunt Sullana and Mama and the other aunts sat against the wall, the matriarchs an isle of dignified manners amidst the chaos. Only matriarchs knew the secret of eating pishas full of melted cheese without getting sticky fingers.
Zavaedi Abiono, the leader of the Tavaedi troop, sat in the place of honor, between the warriors and the aunties. He nodded to Dindi. Her heart drummed faster.
“Why, here’s Lost Swan Clan’s very own lost cygnet!” cried Papa. He was a big, wry man with a spreading belly. Papa and Uncle Lubo led the others in cheers and whistles. Dindi blushed.
“There you are at last, girl,” said Great Aunt Sullana. “Your hair looks as though beavers had abandoned a dam there. Your face is smudged. Did you spend the morning rolling in dust? Never mind, Zavaedi Abiono is doing us the great honor of a visit. Comb your hair and wash your face before you join us. This is a kitchen, not a den of bears.”
Flustered, Dindi took her basket of soap to where deep clay pots had been sunk as a cistern in the earth. This was the darkest corner of the kitchen, smelling of dirt hardened with aurochs dung and the memory of pools in ancient caverns. A single Blue nixie floated on his back in the depths of one of the jugs. He winked up at Dindi. Puddlepaws extended a tiny paw to reach him and almost fell in the water.
She took out a lump of soap, splashed water on her face and rubbed up a quick lather. The soap did not lather well, but rather than struggle with it, she rinsed her face again, dragged her fingers through her wild hair and hurried to the platform where everyone else sat.
She shoved herself between her female cousins, Jensi and Tibi. Dindi peeked curiously at Aunt Sullana, at Zavaedi Abiono, at Mama, at Papa, hoping for a clue to the real reason behind their visitor’s purpose.
They stared back at her in amazement.
“Yes, I can see why you were asking about Dindi,” Papa said to Zavaedi Abiono.
TO BE CONTINUED
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September 13, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
Minutes Before Sunset by Shannon A. Thompson
She was undoubtedly a shade, but I didn’t know her.
Eric Welborn isn’t completely human, but he isn’t the only shade in the small Midwest town of Hayworth. With one year left before his eighteenth birthday, Eric is destined to win a long-raging war for his kind. But then she happens. In the middle of the night, Eric meets a nameless shade, and she’s powerful—too powerful—and his beliefs are altered. The Dark has lied to him, and he’s determined to figure out exactly what lies were told, even if the secrets protect his survival.
…
He had gotten so close to me—and I couldn’t move—I couldn’t get away.
Jessica Taylor moves to Hayworth, and her only goal is to find more information on her deceased biological family. Her adoptive parents agree to help on one condition: perfect grades. And Jessica is distraught when she’s assigned as Eric’s class partner. He won’t help, let alone talk to her, but she’s determined to change him—even if it means revealing everything he’s strived to hide.
Minutes Before Sunset is available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Kobo, Diesel, Sony, and Apple.
Excerpt
Eric
“Camille.” I grumbled as I moved through the lifeless forest, leaves crumbling under the pressure of my feet. I hated it when she played stupid games. It was cold, really cold, and I was wandering through the woods trying to find my guard. Despite being twenty-one, Camille hadn’t changed from the day she was assigned to me. She loved annoying me.
It didn’t matter that she was my guard. We were supposed to be together whenever possible, but, after twelve years, Camille was annoyed with responsibility. If she were assigned to an average shade, she’d be free during daylight, the only time we were allowed to be human, but she wasn’t. She was assigned to the first descendant. I gained my powers at my naming. I was thirteen, and four years passed quickly, even though everything had changed.
My father remarried to a naïve woman. The Dark was our life, yet she didn’t even know what the Dark was. Mindy was oblivious that she’d married a practical king, and she never would. The Dark was a secret for a reason. We protected the humans from evil, because they aren’t capable at determining evil for themselves.
The Light was evil, and it always had been. Forget archetypes. They’re completely wrong, and they always will be.
In our history, the Light and Dark accepted one another, but it wasn’t until the elders deciding separating our energies was the smart thing to do. Idiots. We turned on one another, and the power was taken away, only to return when the true descendants were born. Thousands of years later, that was exactly what was happening, and, lucky me, I was one of them.
Our prophecy was in the making, and the only thing the Light had to do to gain power was prevent the rest from happening. Seemed simple enough until everyone realized only the descendants held the power. In turn, only the descendants could fight the battle, and killing one of them would define who won.
No worries. No pressure at all. I shook my head as I stomped through the only forest in our small Midwest town. I only had to save my kind or die myself. At least I was aware.
I was raised with three simple rules:
1. Fight defensively and offensively.
2. Under no circumstances is it safe to reveal your identity. (Unless it’s Urte, Pierce, Camille, or anyone else the elders deemed an exception.)
3. Win.
The last rule is my favorite, because of the dishonesty. Win didn’t mean win. It meant murder. It meant I had to kill the second descendant, the power of the Light, and I had no choice. I would get blood on my hands.
I brushed my hand along the shivering trees as my gaze darted around the darkening forest. I rarely had time to leave our underground shelter and use my powers, and I didn’t feel like wasting my night chasing Camille around in the dark.I threw my senses out around me. The forest reeked of evergreen and pine. I could feel every prickly leaf and see every shadow. From stump to stump, I searched the darkness for Camille’s body heat. No one could avoid my radar.
Bingo. I grinned as I locked onto a girl by the river. I sprinted through the thicket, pushing pastscraping branches and leafless oak trees. As I neared the forest’s opening, my body sunk into the shadows, and my skin tingled as it morphed into the chilly air. It was the greatest feeling—other than flying, of course—and I relished in the moment. The blackness of night flowed with me as I floated along the trees, the leaves, or snow. I was enveloped in silk.
I only solidified when I reached the forest’s edge. Just as I thought, a girl stood on the river’s guardrail, but she wasn’t Camille.
She didn’t have Camille’s white hair or mischievous dark eyes. In fact, this girl didn’t even look Camille’s age. She was my age, and she had the dark hair, pale eyes, and the pale skin complexion that our sect had.
She was undoubtedly a shade, but I didn’t know her.
My fingers gripped my jacket as I moved backwards, trying to conceal myself in the darkness, but the girl spun around and stared at me. She was perfectly still when her purple eyes met mine. She didn’t budge. Instead, she pointed at me, and the dark magnetically trailed her fingertips.
“Who—” She stepped off of the railing, and her eyes widened. “Who are you?”
I put my hands in front of me and stepped out of the forest. This must be one of Camille’s illusion jokes.“Who are you?” she asked, backing up against the river’s guardrail.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I flew through the shadows and reappeared in front of her. My body heat escaped me, and she froze, completely petrified by my closeness. I laid my hand on her cheek, expecting her to disappear like any of Camille’s illusions, but she didn’t. She was real, and we were centimeters apart, teetering over the edge of the river.
She didn’t move. I had the ability to hypnotize any shade, but I hadn’t used any power. She was shaking—shivering—beneath my touch, and her heartbeat thundered her energy through my veins.
How odd. She was powerful, yet fear suffocated every bit of her being.
“Shoman!”
A shout split the air, and I sensed a body rushing through the forest. Camille was coming for me. “Where are you?”
Reflexively, I released the girl and turned to the forest, waiting for Camille to appear. Over here, I said, sending her a telepathic message. Immediately, she appeared in a beam of light.
Her dark eyes were ablaze as she picked sticks and dried leaves from her glittering hair. “What the hell, Shoman? At least tell me where you are going if you want to be alone.”
“I was with—” I closed my mouth as I waved my hand towards the nameless girl, but the ground where she once stood was empty. Nothing. No marks or anything signifying her leave. She was gone.Impossible. No shade had ever been able to stay off my radar, yet I hadn’t felt her leave. It was as if she had never been there.
“With who?” Camille asked, trudging up to me.
“Shh,” I held up my hand and threw my senses out.
Camille tensed, and her black eyes darted around. “What are you looking for?”
“Be quiet,” I said, spinning in tight circles. My senses were useless. Nothing was there. Not even a bat or a plane. I was being blocked.
I grabbed my guard’s boney shoulders. “Camille, who else was out here tonight?”
“No one. Everyone is at the Naming,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If you haven’t forgotten, you’re supposed to be there.”
“I don’t care,” I said, ignoring the ceremony of the last harvest. It was hard to forget. A thick layer of frost coated the dying grass, and I knew that the first layer had fallen yesterday morning. As the first descendant, I always went, but my father hadn’t in years, and I was beginning to forget the point.
Camille touched my arm. “Is something wrong, Shoman?” she asked, widening her eyes. “Was someone here?”
“No,” I lied, patting her palm. “Let’s go,” I said as I dissolved into a shadow.
September 12, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
12. The Judgment
The Unfinished Song: Initiate
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| “Stoning VII” by arturobandini |
Kavio
…reasons why, others simply placed the stone according to their choice.
Unfortunately, his mother’s plea moved many people to pity him. When all the rocks had piled up, the orange mat held the most stones.
Exile.
Kavio swallowed hard to conceal his reaction. You have murdered me all the same.
Father pounded the rain stick.
“Kavio, you have been found guilty of the most heinous of crimes—hexcraft. Though you remain a member of the secret societies that initiated you and are therefore spared death, nonetheless you are forbidden to enter the Labyrinth, to take with you anything from the Labyrinth, or to study with any dancing society of the Labyrinth. Do you understand and acknowledge your punishment?”
“I understand it all too well,” Kavio said through gritted teeth. “But I will never acknowledge it as just.”
“So be it,” Father said tonelessly. “Bring the pot of ashes.”
Two warriors hefted a ceramic pot from where it had rested in the shadow of the tall platform. They forced Kavio to lean back while still on his knees. They smeared him with a paste and rubbed in the gray-black powder. His bare chest and clean shaven face disappeared under a scum of grey crud. Humiliation itched, but like poison ivy, he knew it would be worse if he scratched it. He forced himself still as stone while the warriors slapped on more mud.
“You must wear mud and ash for the rest of your days,” the Maze Zavaedi concluded. His voice broke. “I am ashamed to call you my son.”
Kavio struggled to his feet. The warriors escorting him sur- rounded him with a hedge of spears. Did they fear him, even now?
“You never could just trust me, could you, Father?” Kavio asked.
Father’s jaw jutted forward. A muscle moved in his neck. Otherwise, he might have been rock.
“Escort my son out of the Labyrinth.”
Dindi
Dindi and Hadi climbed down a ladder to the kitchen in the main house. Puddlepaws was not invited but the kitten scrambled down the ladder after them. Smoke dimmed the whitewashed walls to grey and hazed the air with spicy fumes. She searched the room for an important guest. In the corner opposite the ladder were three beehive-shaped ovens, each with its own adjacent ash pit. Mixed with lard and soaproot, the ashes would be used to wash clothes in the stream—which reminded Dindi of the chores she should not have let the fae do for her. Nearby were quern stones for milling corn.
Beyond the querns was a deep, cool pit for storing jugs of milk and water. The two walls extending from the cooking corner were lined with shelves above and jars below. The shelves were crammed with spices, cheeses, dried fruit and tools knapped of chert. The rest of the chamber was given over to a broad clay platform at knee height, which served as an eating-place. As a tot, she’d danced there, pretending to be a Tavaedi, earning…
Author’s Note
The art is from arturobandini on deviantART.
TO BE CONTINUED
Download the complete book for FREE or buy it on Amazon as an ebook
September 12, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
Witch Magic (The Cindy Chronicles #1) by RaShelle Workman
From a seemingly insignificant word comes the most magical of fairytales.
Life sucks.
Possessing magic sucks.
What doesn’t suck? Fashion, Cindy’s boyfriend Gabe, and her best friend, Snow White.
Cindy (Cinderella…shhh, don’t tell) was born a witch. It’s part of who she is. But there’s more to her than that. She loves deeply. And has a big heart. She’d do anything for those she cares about, including risk her own life to save theirs.
When her fairy godmother demands she leave Salem, Massachusetts and return to the land she was born to rule, she has two options. Tell her fairy godmother no, and seal a death sentence on complete strangers. Or, leave all she’s ever known behind, including the love of her life, for an unknown land she’s fated to save.
So, yeah, life sucks.
But Cindy is determined to change that.
Download Witch Land from Amazon.
Excerpt
If the world was created with a bang, then magic began with a whisper.
The utterance of one word.
Bloomous.
That single declaration, articulated softly, started it all.
It’s the reason I’m bound to a stake, fire licking at the tips of my shoes.
Know this. I didn’t ask to be a witch. Up until three years ago I had no idea witches really existed. Turns out they do, and I am one. And that’s not even the weirdest part of my story.
It all began with my best friend, Snow White. A Hunter bit her a few years ago. She was transformed into a revenant and finally became a vampire—the Vampire. Those events changed the course of not only her life, but mine as well.
Before her fateful night and consequentially mine, my life consisted of hanging out, working at a local Italian restaurant, shopping, boys, and more shopping.
No more though. Not since I went to Mizu to save Snow’s mother, Ariel, and had a vision… or a dream… or whatever you want to call it. In the dream, my “Fairy Godmother” told me about Polonias, a land I knew nothing about.
Now I’m in said land, framed by the vile sorceress Mizrabel for crimes I didn’t commit. Bound by enchanted chords and condemned to a fate there’s no escaping.
“Cinderella, by issue of King Loyalor, supreme ruler over the land of Polonias, you are hereby sentenced to burn at the stake until such time as you are dead.” The bulky guard reads from an unrolled parchment, his beefy fingers gripping it steadily. He glances at me. And through the billowing smoke, I hold his gaze. He clears his throat. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Only one word pops into my head. “Merde.” A curse word in French. One of my favorites. Truthfully the one I remember most often.
The man rolls his eyes along with the parchment and steps off the podium into the noisy crowd.
Some of the people are crying. Okay, one person is crying: my Fairy Godmother. Beside her, dabbing her bright lavender eyes with a hanky is my friend Violet. She’s a talking cat, specifically a talking spotted leopard. Yeah, I know. Bizarre. But it’s a fact.
Next to her are two oversized brown bunnies with white ears. Each stands two-and-a-half feet tall. They also talk and spend some of their time as one five-foot-tall woodland fairy thanks to a spell gone wrong. At the moment they’re holding each other, bawling enthusiastically.
Seeing them here, knowing they care, lifts my spirits. A little.
The one person I wish was here isn’t and it breaks my heart. His name is Leo. He’s the king’s son. I’ll admit I have feelings for him, but never to his too-perfect face.
Everyone else, including the fairies, the water sprites, and the gnomes, is screaming obscenities and throwing rotten fruit. At me. A tomato smacks me in the forehead and its juices leak into my eyes.
Not my finest hour.
At least I look gorgeous. Or I did, before the dumb guard lit the wood piled around my feet on fire with that stinking magical word. Bloomous.
My Fairy Godmother, Quilla Templeton, created a strapless blue gown. The bodice fits perfect, and the gauzy skirts float around me like cotton candy. I magicked my favorite shoes, Manolo Blahniks, to Polonias so I could wear them with the dress. They match perfectly. I look perfect. Magnificent, in fact. Ready to go to a ball fit for a princess.
At least I did. Leo was supposed to ask me something. I think I know what. Or I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.
I never made it. And I haven’t seen Leo since yesterday.
“Ugh,” I groan, searching beyond the upset crowd to the land beyond. Smoke washes out the landscape, but not enough to hide the colorful loveliness.
I’m a little afraid. I’m not ready to die. But I don’t see a way out of my situation.
Closing my eyes, I steady myself. If this is how it must end, then I’ll go gracefully. Frightened butterflies dance in my belly. Memories—some recent and some from long ago—careen across my mind. And I wonder if I could’ve done anything differently, something to prevent my demise. But as with any horrific event, my predicament is the culmination of many choices, each one pressing me forward to this fateful moment.
September 11, 2013
- in Uncategorized by Tara Maya
Not Yet Forgotten
Red sand blew over the wasteland. It gummed up my rebreather, and coated my faceplate. My one-suit, once shiny white, had faded to dingy taupe under the ceaseless coatings of dust. I stumbled along, already exhausted after three hours on the morning shift of the dig, discouraged because I’d found nothing.
Then I tripped over it: A rock, barely above level, with a distinct right angle. An Arnellian artifact.
Most of the ruins on Arnellios V were buried under the dust. Millions of years of dust, solidified into sand, into mud, and finally into solid rock. My job was to unearth the buried secrets, to unlock the technology that had vanished with the Arnellians themselves half a million years ago.
I called in the excavators. The robots used laser to patiently and delicately dislodge the artifact from the surrounding rock. I took a water break at the base camp tent. I monitored progress on my faceplate, but I knew an artifact of this size—it would probably be 2.3 kilometers square, like others we’d found—would take half a day for the robots to excavate. The little bit I’d tripped over was literally just the tip of the artifact.
I should have felt elated at the find, but instead, I sank deeper into my malaise. It’s depressing to tramp through the ruins of a dead civilization day after day. The hope is that their technology will one day be of use to humans, but since we have no way to crack their language, the chances of that are slim. Our computer translators are excellent, but the fact is, without a basis for comparison—a known language, or a live speaker—it’s pretty much impossible to crack a dead script.
Bruno G. found me. I was lost in my own gloomy thoughts and didn’t notice him before he clapped me on the back with a huge whoop.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” he cried gleefully.
“Huh? What? Oh, the rock. Yeah, another one.”
“It has writing!”
“Most do.”
“Look at your screen!” he ordered. He could barely contain his grin.
I peeked again, but still didn’t see anything special. The Arnellians used a distinct blocky script, and the stone was covered with it. There was also a curly script beneath it….
I felt my stomach drop.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, “Is that Gyrlish?”
“It sure is!” Bruno whooped again. “We’ve found it! We’ve found our Rosetta Stone! The translation computers are chugging away now, comparing the two alphabets. We’ll have a full translation program for Arnellian by the end of the day!”
“I can’t believe it.”
My depression evaporated. I whooped along with Bruno. The rest of the team heard the news and gathered at the base camp tent. We took out the good stuff, that we’d be saving for the end of the dig, and poured it out until we were all tipsy. We sang old camp songs and told dirty jokes.
The first translations started coming in from the computers by the end of the evening shift, just as Bruno had predicted. He handed me a print out on a plastisheet. We didn’t normally print, but it was tradition for the first formal translation of a new alien language.
“The honor belongs to you,” Bruno said. “It’s the translation of the stone you found. What does it say?”
The whole crew of thirty-one archeologists fell silent as I looked down at the plastisheet. It was already slightly pinkish from dust.
“It says…” I began.
My throat choked up. Not just because of the importance of the moment, but because of the words.
“It says: In eternal memorial of those who gave their lives for us. You are not yet forgotten.”