TR Goodman – Science Fiction and Fantasy Author

Photo Credit: Flickr, Pedronet

I’ve been writing off and on about Elan the gunmancer for a few months now. I thought it would be interesting to show just what happened to get him into a certain tricky situation that I wrote about previously.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

TR Goodman

The sound of the tent flap rustling caught Elan’s attention. By the time his gaze shifted from his half-polished pistol to the entrance of his borrowed tent, the uninvited guest was already inside.

Before he managed to ask just what she was doing in his tent without an escort, the kharren woman knelt at as respectable a distance as could be managed in the cramped tent and folded her paws in her lap. Most of her body was covered by robes, but he could see her cream-colored fur around her wide emerald eyes and on her paws.

Her gaze met his for an instant before falling to the ground. She wrung her paws and rocked a bit before she spoke. “You are shooter of troubled things, yes?”

Elan smiled, though the corners of his lips twitched. Kharren females were never allowed to be alone with men who weren’t their husbands or kin. He was neither, and this kitten was probably either of marrying age or just about to be. The longer she stayed, the more dangerous it would be for either of them. Still, he wasn’t about to be uncivil. “Something like that.”

She bowed down and touched her forehead to the floor. “Kind man, I have troubles that I beg you to shoot.”

He set his pistol aside. “I’m not looking to get involved. Now, I appreciate that you all didn’t leave me to die out in the sand, but I don’t want some kharren clawdancer to get the wrong idea and think I’m making time with someone who ain’t mine. If you got troubles, it’s best that you deal with them in the tribe.”

She rocked harder and tensed her paws over and over. The tips of her claws scraped against each other as they slid in and out of their sheaths. “I am not yet married, but the warrior my father made chosen for me is not kind. He lets none see, but he makes hurting on all his women. I need to go, before I am his to make the same.”

As she rocked, Elan could see bare patches over her wrists where the fur had been rubbed away, and he was sure he saw what looked like claw marks along the back of her left arm. This wasn’t part of the plan. He was just going to travel with the kharren for a few days, get his strength back, catch a sandskimmer at the next trading post, and head back to the City. Running off with some scared kitten with an angry fiancé on their collective tails was not part of the plan. No. There was no way. He was absolutely, positively not going to get involved.

Scorch it. Sand scorch her, him, and everything else. He knew that he was going to regret this later, but that never stopped him before. He always did have a weakness for damsels in distress, and if he didn’t learn to set that aside, it was going to get him killed. “All right. Come full dark, you meet me at the paola tree at the east side of the oasis. I’ll take you to the City, and you can make your way from th-”

She was on him before he even finished agreeing to help her. She threw her arms around his neck and thanked him with a hug of such impact that the two of them fell back onto his bedroll. This fact was not lost on Elan, and the sensation of an all too feminine body on top of him made for some uncomfortable confinement in a tent already too small for one.

She let out a rumbling giggle that was half-purr as she started to draw back from him. Her veil came loose, and he saw for the first time just how young she was. The fact that she was probably on the lee side of her mid-teens flavored his physical discomfort with a heavy dash of guilt and more than a little shame.

She lowered her gaze, though the corners of her eyes crinkled as she gave him a trembling smile. “Please forgive me, kind man. I was not in my manners.”

He tried to dissolve the tension with one of his winning smiles, though even the best smile he could muster seemed on the edge of collapse. Sands, the tent was small. “Quite alright. Maybe now’d be a good time for us to introduce ourselves. What’s your name?”

Her lips parted to speak, but she was cut off by a roar from just outside the tent. “Ketair!”

A massive paw tore away the tent flap. Sunlight strained to push into the tent, but none could squeeze past the hulk standing in its path. Now, Elan wasn’t the sort to panic under any circumstances, but the look on the kharren warrior’s face when he saw the object of his search half-sprawled across Elan on the bedroll sure made it look like a good time to do just that.

The whole desert seemed to quake with each step as the warrior pushed into the tent.

Elan swallowed, his gaze locked on those claws as Ketair buried her face against his chest, her whole body trembling against his as he tried to raise his hands in what he already knew was going to be a futile gesture of peace. “Now, Re’shad, before you go and do something everyone involved will come to regret, I suggest we all take a minute and lay out just what exactly was going on here.”

The warrior Re’shad roared and pounced. Somewhere in the mists of pain that followed, Elan thought he heard Ketair apologize. Then the darkness took him.

So, what did you think? Are you interested in reading more about Elan, his adventures, and his world of sand and steam? Please share your comments below and feel free to share this story on Facebook, Twitter, or whatever flavor of social media you prefer.

Thanks for reading!

Overall, I think it turned out well.

To be honest, I was never entirely happy with the original cover for My Name Is Michael Bishop.

That’s not to say that there was anything wrong with the art.  The artist did a great job and gave me exactly what I asked for.  I’ve just found over the months since the book was released that the cover I chose didn’t reflect the fantasy or steampunk genres very well, and I think this made people reluctant to give it a try.  I’ve been working to learn a bit more about how cover design works, and put that knowledge to use in creating a new cover.  By no means am I an artist, but I think it turned out well.

Stay tuned for future updates regarding My Name Is Michael Bishop, as well as my next project, which I have already hinted at in the past.  In the meantime, what do you think about the new cover?  Have you ever seen a book cover that did not reflect the story very well, or a cover that just demanded that you pick up the book?  Let me know in the comments below.

Photo Credit: Flickr, Jimmy Harris

Last week, I wrote about Elan, an armsmancer in a tricky situation.  I liked the character, so I decided to flesh out the world a little bit more and write another quick story about his adventures in the desert.  This edition of Flash Fiction Friday introduces a new character and takes place a short time before last week’s story.  I hope you like it.

Fun and Consequences

TR Goodman

“Now, now, Risti, you might want to take a minute to consider this before you do something you’ll regret.”

Risti shifted a hair toward him and raised the tip of her sword, which already hovered near enough to Elan’s throat to make him question just how much she liked him. Close as it was, he could easily make out the word Onale, which he knew to be the name of said sword, inscribed along the length of the blade in copper-infused red gold. His gaze slipped up the length of the blade to meet Risti’s amber-eyed glare.

“There is nothing left to consider, armsmancer. You should be grateful that I’m leaving you your gun and dumping you so close to the kharren’s tradelines. If you’re lucky, one of the tribes might come along before the desert takes you.”

With a flick of her wrist, the tip of the sword skated across his throat. She did not actually draw blood, but he knew that she was more than capable if she felt the need to put him down. He swallowed out of nervous reflex, and the tip of her sword kissed his flesh again. He spared a glance over the railing of the ship to the desert beyond and wondered which was worse: dying of exposure or having his throat slit now. He didn’t particularly want to learn any more about either.

“Still, you have to admit that it was a hell of a lot of fun.”

Her eyes narrowed at him and her nostrils flared as she leaned a little closer. The sunlight glittered off her brass and leather flight goggles where they rested just above her bangs. Despite the posturing, he thought he may have seen a touch of softening in that murderous glare, but he had to admit that it was just as likely that she had a hair or speck of sand in her eye. When it came to Risti, there never was much sand between love and rage.

“Fun?” she spat at him. “I don’t see how you leading a dozen Guildsmen to my ship is fun for anyone. Do you realize what would have happened if I hadn’t unloaded my cargo before they showed up?”

He gave her a broad smile, one of his best. “You would have done just the same as you did this morning, and no one would have been the wiser. I dare say you can be quite intimidating when you set your mind to things.”

Now he was sure that he caught a softening to her features. Her plum-colored lips relaxed a tidge and some of the rage-lines around her eyes faded as her coffee-colored skin smoothed. “You’re not half as charming as you think you are, Elan. If the desert doesn’t kill you, someone else will. Maybe even me.”

The sword arced away from him, singing in frustration at being denied blood as it sliced through the air before slipping back into the scabbard at Risti’s side. Elan let out a breath he did not realize he was holding, then lowered his hands. “That may well be so, but until that day comes, at least I have my smile.” He flashed her another for emphasis.

Risti shook her head and grumbled, “Of all the arrogant, self-obsessed…” before she grabbed a handful of his tribal robes and jerked him toward her.

Her lips fell on his with all the ferocity of a swordsinger in the heat of battle. They were full and warm, and the kiss they ripped from his lips left him scrambling for purchase as the deck seemed to shift beneath his feet and he forgot which way was up.

When her lips broke from his, it took him a moment before he remembered that he should probably breathe. When he took a breath, it came in a shudder that ran from the top of his head all the way down to his toes. “So,” he breathed against her lips, “Does that mean all’s forgiven?”

Those plum-colored lips curled into a wicked smile as Risti eased back a step. “If you don’t die out there, maybe we’ll see each other again. Now, get the hell off my ship.”

She spun him around and shoved him over the side. On the way down, some corner of his mind realized that the shifting of the deck was due to more than just one hell of a kiss. While Risti was bidding him a fond farewell, the ship came about to assume a course back toward the city.

Of course, there was little time to reconcile the events of the previous few moments before the sudden reality of his situation hit him like a mouthful of sand after a twelve foot drop to the desert floor. He coughed and spat out as much sand as he could manage, then raised his head to watch the sandclipper float through the air toward the horizon.

Risti stood at the stern of the ship. She waved and blew him a kiss, then pulled her flight goggles down over her eyes. She turned and walked away with a cocky sway to her ample hips before she disappeared from view. Not for the first time in his life, he wanted to both strangle and kiss her.

So, what do you think about Elan’s latest adventure?  Is this a character you would like to see again, or would you like to see more of this world and its characters?  Do you have an idea for something completely different for next week’s Flash Fiction Friday?  Leave a note in the comments below.

Thanks for reading!

Photo Credit: Flickr, Moyan Brenn

Elan, the main character of this short, will be one of the main characters in this new series, which is still untitled. Enjoy!

A Matter of Honor

By: TR Goodman

Elan sank to his knees at the crest of the dune. His vision blurred. The exhaustion, not to mention two days without water, left him unable to recognize the approaching figure as anything more than a dark blob against the sand. Even that blob was further distorted by the waves of heat radiating off the desert floor. The only thing that he knew for certain was that the blob was getting bigger.

Soon it filled almost his entire field of vision. “Now you will think another time before touching a man’s woman, eh?”

There was no time to respond before the figure kicked him with enough force to send him over the edge, tumbling down the leeward side of the dune. When he finally came to a stop, it was within a small patch of merciful shade at the base of the dune. He coughed and tried to spit out a mouthful of sand, but was far too dehydrated to get it all.

The pain in his gut sent enough of a shock through his system to help clear his vision. When his eyes focused, the first thing he saw was the glint of sunlight against a brass object hanging from his assailant’s belt. He recognized the double barrels, runic engravings, and realwood grip as belonging to the very same pistol the brute stole from him before leaving him to die in this Valos-cursed strip of desert.

The massive figure slid halfway down the dune, then stalked forward with measured steps. His tail lashed back and forth behind him as he drew nearer. “Perhaps that we are now without others, this matter of honor can be made settled.”

Elan coughed once more and sank down to lie flat on the ground. He would only get one chance to defend himself before the beast killed him, and this time there would be no chieftain to stand in the way. If there was to be any hope of success, he needed every ounce of strength he could muster.

“The girl came on to me, Re’shan. Hardly seemed polite to turn her away.”

Reshan’s bared his teeth, and his ears flattened as his tail lashed behind him like a whip. “She was not your woman to accept, human. She will carry your stink for all days, and my tent will not be cursed with your hairless smell.”

The pistol did not appear to be damaged, but even a working pistol did Elan no good when it was out of reach. It may as well be on the other side of the bled. Sand scorch that girl for putting him in this position, and sand scorch himself for letting her.

He sucked on his tongue to coax a bit more spittle to form, then rolled his tongue to gather as much sand as possible before spitting again. He just needed to draw the homicidal kharren a bit closer, and then he could grab for the pistol. Of course, that would also put him well within slashing range, and Re’shan’s claws were already beginning to protrude from his massive paws.

Deep breaths now. “You know, Re’shan…she never told me exactly why she came to me that night, but I reckon she had to be unsatisfied at home if she was going to sneak on over to pay me a visit. I thought a big, strong warrior like yourself’d be more than a sweet little kitten like her’d be able to handle.”

It was working. The fur at the back of Re’shan’s neck rows and his lips curled, revealing still more needle-sharp teeth. He growled low in his throat and slid closer. With each step, his center of gravity dropped as he prepared to pounce.

“I will warn you, human. Honor says you die, but honor does not say that torture cannot be first. You can be a long hours before I give you to the dark, and you can feel much pain.”

So close now. Just a few more steps. This close, Elan could read the engravings on the pistol. It looked like someone fiddled with the firing configuration. He could not tell what exactly would happen when he fired, but just about anything was better than being disemboweled by an angry kharren with marital issues. He just needed Re’shan to take a few more steps.

“Now me, I’m not the sort to help myself to what’s not mine…” He was. “…and I’m certainly not the type to spend the night with a woman I barely know…” He definitely was. “…so before you start coming after the neighbors, you might want to make sure your own house is in order. ”

Of course, the fact that he had indeed spent the night with her was tangential to the problem at hand. When she showed up at his tent, she was beaten, bruised, and crying, so, being a gentleman, he wasn’t about to turn her away. In a moment of either weakness or chivalry, he offered to steal her away from the tribe, but she refused. He didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter much now, either.

Re’shan hissed and sprang toward him. His claws stretched out, thirsty for blood as they sliced through the air. Elan wasted no time. He threw himself at Re’shan’s chest, hugging himself close to the massive kharren to avoid those claws as he fumbled for the pistol.

They toppled over and over each other once they hit the sand. Elan’s fingers curled around the pistol grip, and he pulled it free as he pushed himself away. Then they came to a stop, the muzzle of the pistol was bare inches away from Re’shan’s left eye and humming with energy begging for release.

Elan coughed and spit up another wad of sand. “Now then, how about you be a sport and pass on that waterskin, and we’ll discuss this like gentlemen.”

So, what did you think of your first taste of this new world?  This world has been gestating in my brain for a few months now, so I have lots of different characters and ideas, that will be fleshed out as the book progresses.  Leave your thoughts in the comments below, and if you have any suggestions for future Flash Fiction Friday entries, let me know.

Thanks for reading!

Photo Credit: Flickr, Dawn Huczek

This week’s Flash Fiction Friday features an experimental piece that I wrote a little earlier on in the week.  It has been snowing off and on here for the last few weeks, and I had the idea for this story when I looked outside and saw a squirrel trying to make its way across my snow-covered yard.

A spot of burnt red stood out against the snow as something new entered Collin’s field of vision. It was the first bit of color that he had seen since he entered the city two days before. Everything else had been gray, white, or too obscured to make out.

When the colored dot drew close enough to make out in detail, he could see that it was a squirrel. Collin had never seen a living squirrel before. It made its way toward him in a series of hops, almost live a waveform as it bounded across the snow. He could not estimate how long it had been since the squirrel last ate, but it was lethargic in its movements and appeared thinner than the photographs he had seen.

He considered that perhaps he should not give the last of his food to an animal, but dismissed the idea of keeping it. He had no use for it now, and it might allow the squirrel to survive long enough to find more. His arm strained with effort, but he managed to remove a small chunk of bread from the bag lying half-buried beside him and tossed it toward the squirrel.

At first, the squirrel disappeared behind the trunk of a nearby tree. It was not surprising that the squirrel was frightened. Judging by his recent observations, this section of the city had been abandoned for at least six years. Collin had not seen any signs of life for days, so he surmised that the squirrel had likewise believed that it was alone.

When the scent of the stale bread reached the squirrel, it popped out from behind the tree, nabbed the bread, and scampered up into the branches of the skeletal tree. Most people to whom Collin had provided food did much the same, but they also thought to thank him afterward. The squirrel did not.

That was the thing about squirrels, of course. They were not people and could not be expected to behave as such. Given their lack of higher brain function and inability to communicate with him, Collin decided that the lack of table manners could be forgiven. Of course, the fact that there was no table also had to be taken into account.

It took seventy-three seconds for the squirrel to consume the bread. When no more remained, it slid down the tree and made a quick search of the ground, just in case there was more hiding among the snow and ash.

Collin knew that there was nothing to find, but there was no way to communicate that fact to the squirrel. It continued its fruitless search for twenty-four seconds, then skittered toward another tree to commence another search.

Collin watched as the squirrel moved from one tree to the next, kicking up little gray clouds in its wake and leaving a trail of dotted footprints to mark its path. Collin estimated that it would take the squirrel three minutes, nineteen seconds to reach the end of the block, given the depth and viscosity of the snow / ash mixture, as well as the relative distance between trees.

When the squirrel was no longer in sight, he turned his head from where it lay on the ground to look up at the sky. He knew that it had been blue once, but now there was only gray. Spots of darkness obscured his vision as the snow continued to fall, but he could not brush them away. He no longer had the strength to lift his arm.

When the last of his energy was depleted, Collin’s ocular sensors fell dark, followed thirteen microseconds later by his auditory pickups. In the two point seven seconds before his central processor also ceased to function, he only processed one final thought.

Goodbye, squirrel.