BODY MAGICK Chapter Two: A Magickal Night

 
Chapter Two

A Magickal Night

The Healer marched as she could between the three houses--one hut was very poor and dirty, one house was of moderate size but clean, and one large house was very well appointed and immaculate for a village dwelling. She instructed the three young wives as to what to expect, steeled the three husbands’ resolve as to what must be done. “I cannot be everywhere at once!” she scolded them. She then tramped diligently back and forth with her bag full of vials and jars in hand, from door to door, table to table, and bedside to bedside, with only a hastily sipped cup of cooling tea and a bite of bread to keep her going.

The Healer was followed, she knew, by the old man they called The Hand. “Not yet!” she called over her shoulder at the darkness where he hid in the trees. There was no reply. She expected none. “But soon!” she yelled.

She had just left the hut--where the father to be, Dent, was sorely drunk and of no help at all--when three screams pierced the night. “Right,” she said and turned on her heel in the mud and tramped back inside the poorly lit, one-room dwelling. “What have we got here?” she said, setting her bag onto the rough hewn table.

Dent stood staring down at the bloodied bed holding the bedpost to steady himself. “Una blanca,” he spat. The Healer moved him aside to find the panting wife holding in her arms a screaming baby, covered in goo. It was a girl, and she was white as new driven snow drifted from head to toe.

“Oh my,” was all The Healer could think to say, though something shined in her dusky blue eyes.

Through the open door, the old man entered. He stood silently hunched, clothed only in rags and bits and ends of cloth strung haphazardly together with twine. He clutched a small pouch in his tattooed gnarled hands. He did not say a word.

“What does he want?” Dent bellowed. “Get out!” But Dent did not move towards the old man. Everyone knew he was magick. Anyone could see so by looking at him.

“He comes to name her,” The Healer said simply.

“Well,” Dent sputtered, “he ain’t cutting on me.”

“Get out.” The Healer shushed Dent towards the door. “Besides, he is not going to cut on anyone, and I have two other babies to tend to shortly.”

“I already named her. Blanca,” Dent said in a low voice, “And HE” he said, pointing at the old man, “stinks of pigs.” He slammed the door on his way out.

“Now, Tilly,” The Healer said to the young woman crying in the bed, “The Hand will not hurt your child. It is just a mark on the back of her neck is all,” then after a moment’s pause, “to protect her.” The Healer held the girl child to her chest and cradled the back of her head on her broad shoulder. She looked at the old man and nodded. “Get on with it, then. We have two more to go.”

The old man they called The Hand, pulled a pen of sorts, made of bone, from his small bag and moved silently forward with purpose.

BODY MAGICK Chapter One: Rain Mountain

Chapter One 

Rain Mountain

The little old man slipped quietly through the cold sodden forest towards the mountain. The rain told him that he was near, though in the darkness of the storm he could barely make out the outline of its peak. The threads of the old robe he wore provided no protection against the wind and rain, but he did not care.

Occasionally he touched a red symbol on the inside of his wrist which glowed briefly and warmed him some from the inside. The heat emanated from a spot in his stomach and spiraled slowly outwards through his groin and chest, his neck, then thighs and arms, and finally settled in his hands, feet, fingers and toes. He shook his hands vigorously and small blue sparks flew from his fingertips. He wiggled his bare toes in the mud and fine blue lines ran circles around his filthy, long toenails.

Lightning flashed, revealing the old man’s wire-thin body which was covered from head to toe in writing: symbols, glyphs, and words from every language in the world covered him from his bald head to the soles of his feet. In the flash of light, the symbols in myriads of colors--blue, green, red, ochre, black, every color imaginable--all seemed to be moving across his skin from back to front, pulling him forward.

There would be a cave, he knew, on that mountain. There would be a cave and a fire and a man waiting for him. There would be a cave and a fire and a man and a village below in the valley. There would be a village below in the valley and there would be three children, two girls and a boy, born at the exact same moment just as the sun crested the mountain above. But that would be years from now. How many years he did not know.

Now, he must find the cave and the fire and the man, and he must begin to write. He must write it all down, covering the walls of the cave and the mountain and village with all the words he had learned. But first, he needed the one word to start it all—and the man would come and he would carve it into the old man’s tongue, and the old man would never speak True Words again until the One Word could be spoken.

And that day might never come.

And that day might never come.

Body Magick: Poem

 

The following is a bit of a re-post, but I was thinking about it today and am getting ready to write. The first three books of my YA fantasy series Body Magick are all in full drafts, and I am shopping for agents. After a self-publishing run for friends and family, I have decided to give the series a shot as a traditional publication. Following is the poem I wrote as an undergraduate that served as the basis for the series' premise. Anee-Marie Thomas and I then talked out the plot of the first book on a road trip from Fayetteville to Dallas to visit friends. The plot changed a lot while I was actually writing the first book, but the premise remained the same. The idea may have been based on Farazara, Spain (image above LINK), which is really cool, but I only saw the village after I wrote the poem, so the origin is still a bit of a mystery. The poem was published in several magazines. Here it is!

The Hand

By

C. Jason Smith

The old man we called The Hand

Wrote on Everything in our town:

Top to bottom and inside and out,

He covered our walls with words.

He wrote with paints and pencils and pens,

Scribbled words with knives and sharp rocks and bone.

With his fingers dabbed daubed poetry 

using mud and blood and juice and pie.

The Hand wrote poetry and prose on walls;

Shopping lists and bucket lists on doors;

History and predictions and fictions on chimneys;

Sonnets on monuments and drama on outhouse walls—

Inside and out.

Thatch was rewoven in the dead of night

So words leaked wetly down onto bedroom floors. 

He liked to paint curse words

On passing migrating birds.

He wrote "Suddenly, there's bears!"

Down the Midwife's stairs. 

In time he wrote on our bodies as well:

He tattooed us from head to toe to tail.

Hide and seek is not a game our children play:

It is our daily life as graffitis of bodies 

wander our graffiti streets.

The old man we called The Hand

Wrote his way into our lives 

For uncounted years until he died.

We found his lettered body by smell

Leaning cold against the lettered well.

His lettered bones lie there still.

(1994)

GOOGLE DOC (comments enabled)

BODY MAGICK: Cover Letter

Hi everybody!

I have been working on my cover letter to agents for my fantasy novel Body Magick. I will be sending it out to agents with sample chapters starting in a few weeks. It still sounds "dry" to me. Thoughts? You can comment here or on the document itself using this LINK. 

___

Hello: 

I am writing to inquire about potential interest in a unique Young Adult (YA) fantasy series I am working on, titled Body Magick. This series stands out with its innovative blend of YA fantasy and Science Fiction, offering a fresh and intriguing reading experience. Each book in the series operates as a standalone work, ensuring full reader engagement without requiring prior knowledge of the series.

Synopsis: When the dark stranger came to the village Word, he opened the door to worlds beyond anything they could have dreamed of. Three children were born in the Village of Word, on the same eve, at the same time, with their fates intertwined. The old man they called The Hand wrote on their bodies a story and a prophecy. One to become a hero. One to become a queen. One to become a god. And, the fate of kingdoms came crawling to their door. 

The series' premise is derived from The Anthropic Cosmological Principle (1988) as described by John D. Barrow and Frank J. Tipple. Essentially, the protagonists of the series exist in a virtual world created by a cosmic computer that is “storytelling” as part of its evolved programming. Though not explained in the first several books, evidence builds through flashbacks and events that seem to repeat as more than memory: seemingly “magical do-overs,” if you will. 

Not unlike The Chronicles of Narnia, the events of the Body Magick series will all happen in the same universe. However, after the first novel, the subsequent works will focus on different characters’ points of view, with overlapping narratives and time frames that are reminiscent of Holly Black’s works, such as the Modern Fairy Tales series. Other structural influences on this work include Julio Cortázar’s Hopscotch (Rayuela, 1963), Jorge Luis Borges's story “The Garden of Forking Paths” (“El jardín de senderos que se bifurcan”, 1941), and Isabelle Allende’s The House of the Spirits (La casa de los espíritus, 1982).

The series draws thematic inspiration from strong YA influences, including Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games series, Sarah J. Maas's Court of Thorns and Roses series, and Veronica Roth's The Divergent Trilogy, among others. As a YA literature professor, my extensive reading in the genre has shaped the series, making it a familiar yet unique addition to the YA fantasy landscape. The series as a whole could be categorized as “romantasy”. Though sexual themes are light in the first novel, they will intensify in subsequent installments. 1 A brief sample and concept art are available below. Thank you for your time. 

Christopher Jason Smith 

If I Only Had the Balls

So here I was working on an entry on food (shout out to all the FBers assisting, but especially Jennifer for passing the word along on her page) and SF-ninja Mark Bould posted this cartoon:

And it just so happens that one of my early conference presentations was about The Wizard of Oz and was entitled "If I Only Had some Balls". I forget the subtitle, but I think I dropped that one off my resume (aka Curriculum Vitae) at some point. I probably should put it back now that I am a full professor and have tenure (and crayons, which is another matter, but I do like crayons). That said the literalness of this little gem (go Mike!) is haunting. I'd like to see that movie. Is Terry Gilliam still making movies? My argument went something like this:

Wants                   Symbolically Represents
A Brain                  Intelligence
A Heart                  Emotions
??                          Courage

Taking the male body from top to bottom, what does the cowardly lion want?

And before anyone who knows me well asks: yes, I have finally found a way to recycle every single idea I have ever had! I love blogging. Academic publishing can bite me--excepting those editors who will soon see more stuff from me, of course.

ABOUT ME

Writing is a way of thinking.

Writing, the study of writing, and the teaching of writing, both as a reader and writer, is my life and I am a prolific writer with over 35 years publishing in regional newspapers, popular and trade magazines, trade journals, and have a very active life as a content creator for websites, blogs, and a wide variety of social media outlets including Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. 

I founded and run my own small freelance writing business, Discipline & Publish, and an independent creative group and press, Faerie Treehouse Creative. I am involved in all aspects of these two endeavors and work on everything from writing copy for advertisements and product features to website design and monitoring and evaluating market trends. 

As a freelance writer I have worked with diverse clients from individuals needing a remake of their resumes and cover letters to corporate clients such as The World Bank Group to streamline government grants and reports and prepare concise precis and briefs for the lay reader from scientific research and technical reports. I am the primary website administrator and content creator for several small businesses and have written blogs and posts across every major social media platform and design graphics and, if local, shoot and post photography for my clients. Much of my freelance work has been in technical, professional, and scientific writing, the majority  of these assignments being either feature writing for trade magazines or the composition (or revision) of user-friendly reports for public institutions. 

As a Professor of Writing and Literature for the City University of New York, I worked often with professionals in other disciplines and fields to write, administer, and evaluate grants and proposals of all types imaginable. The student population at LaGuardia Community College of the City University of New York is considered to be one of the most diverse in the world and I was required daily to communicate with them on a wide variety of levels and address myriad cultural, educational, and linguistic backgrounds. 

I look forward to hearing from you.

Christopher Jason Smith, PhD

 

 

A Poem: The Hand

 I have begun writing fantasy/fantastic poetry again for fun. This one is fun!

The Hand

The old man we called The Hand

Wrote on Everything in our town:

Top to bottom and inside and out,

He covered our walls with words.

He wrote with paints and pencils and pens,

Scribbled words with knives and sharp rocks and bone.

With his fingers dabbed daubed poetry 

using mud and blood and juice and pie.

The Hand wrote poetry and prose on walls;

Shopping lists and bucket lists on doors;

History and predictions and fictions on chimneys;

Sonnets on monuments and drama on outhouse walls‒

Inside and out.

Thatch was rewoven in the dead of night

So words leaked wetly down onto bedroom floors. 

He liked to paint curse words

On passing migrating birds.

He wrote "Suddenly, there's bears!"

Down the Midwife's stairs. 

In time he wrote on our bodies as well:

He tattooed us from head to toe to tail.

Hide and seek is not a game our children play:

It is our daily life as graffitis of bodies 

wander our graffiti streets.

The old man we called The Hand

Wrote his way into our lives 

For uncounted years until he died.

We found his lettered body by smell

Leaning cold against the lettered well.

His lettered bones lie there still.