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Glen Proctor

Sunday, 06 December 2009 12:59

Glen Proctor has been writing for eighteen years. He has had a dozen short stories published under various pseudonyms, ghost written in the employ of the published nonfiction author Andrea Vander Pluym and have been praised by the late Marion Zimmer Bradley for his, “rare ear for dialogue.” Glen has studied at the college level ancient Middle-Eastern archaeology, ancient Greek and Latin, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sumerian cuneiform, Russian and Japanese. He is currently finishing a fantasy novel which is written partially in the artificial language Lorune, a language complete with a book of grammar, an original alphabet and font, and an English to Lorune-Lorune to English lexicon of thousands and thousands of linguistically properly constructed lexemes.

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Incarnadine Stars

 
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We want you to enjoy the stories, but they may not be reproduced, or otherwise used, without express
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Magenta moon and... - Editor


 




Incarnadine Stars



by Chris Deal

“When's the sun come up?” he asked from the other end of the bench, his voice quiet, not his
usual boisterousness. He was shrinking into himself as the night drifted.
“Not for another hour.”  I looked up, past the lamp's halo, past the city’s lights, into the
pale gray of the birthing day.
“Shit.” He spat the cigarette butt away, onto the walkway.

“Think you'll make it?” I light a another smoke and hand it to him, his hand shaking, weak, then
I do another for myself.
“Nah. Wish I would, but don't believe it to be.”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and there's a smudge on the black leather of my left shoe. With a
clean handkerchief I wipe away the dull incarnadine.  It came from him.
“Stars sure are clear,” he said.

“Yeah.  I figure that’s 'cause it's so cold.”

“How's that?” He coughs, and it is the sound of a blade cutting through wheat.

“I think it's the cold, it keeps the molecules in the atmosphere from vibrating, making the stars
appear clear.”
He grunted, or made a sound that could be construed as a grunt.

“But I ain't a scientist or nothing, so I don't know.  Could be we’re closer to them in orbit
or whatever.  I don’t know.”
He didn't say anything, and neither did I, for several minutes, we just sat there, looking up at the
sky, and it was getting to be a brighter shade of gray, the same color of the ash that was growing
on his cigarette, between his fingers, unmoving on the armrest, the cherry dying, fading.
“Sorry it went down like this,” I said.

I stood and walked toward the car, stopping only to pick up the lone casing, then away, towards
where the sun will soon be.
©2009


 
 
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<pre>A New Story from Short-Story.Me!

Incarnadine Stars
LEGAL NOTE: All Short Stories and other material on our site or that we distribute are Copyrighted.
We want you to enjoy the stories, but they may not be reproduced, or otherwise used, without express
written permission.

_Magenta moon and... - Editor_

INCARNADINE STARS

by Chris Deal

“When's the sun come up?” he asked from the other end of the bench, his voice quiet,
not his usual boisterousness. He was shrinking into himself as the night drifted.

“Not for another hour.”  I looked up, past the lamp's halo, past the city’s
lights, into the pale gray of the birthing day.

“Shit.” He spat the cigarette butt away, onto the walkway.

“Think you'll make it?” I light a another smoke and hand it to him, his hand shaking,
weak, then I do another for myself.

“Nah. Wish I would, but don't believe it to be.”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and there's a smudge on the black leather of my left
shoe. With a clean handkerchief I wipe away the dull incarnadine.  It came from him.

“Stars sure are clear,” he said.

“Yeah.  I figure that’s 'cause it's so cold.”

“How's that?” He coughs, and it is the sound of a blade cutting through wheat.

“I think it's the cold, it keeps the molecules in the atmosphere from vibrating, making
the stars appear clear.”

He grunted, or made a sound that could be construed as a grunt.

“But I ain't a scientist or nothing, so I don't know.  Could be we’re closer to them
in orbit or whatever.  I don’t know.”

He didn't say anything, and neither did I, for several minutes, we just sat there,
looking up at the sky, and it was getting to be a brighter shade of gray, the same color
of the ash that was growing on his cigarette, between his fingers, unmoving on the
armrest, the cherry dying, fading.

“Sorry it went down like this,” I said.

I stood and walked toward the car, stopping only to pick up the lone casing, then away,
towards where the sun will soon be.

Click here to end Your Subscription, if you must
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This is system-generated short story distribution; please do not respond

Our "Best of" ANTHOLOGY NOW AVAILABLE!:
--To buy the electronic version for the Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003F777ZQ
--To buy the print version in our E-store: https://www.createspace.com/3445134
--To buy the print version in the Amazon Bookstore:
http://www.amazon.com/Short-Story-Me-Genre-Short-Stories-Anthology/dp/1451593201/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1271975184&sr=1-1
</pre>

<pre>A New Story from Short-Story.Me!

_Magenta moon and... - Editor_

INCARNADINE STARS

by Chris Deal

“When's the sun come up?” he asked from the other end of the bench, his voice quiet,
not his usual boisterousness. He was shrinking into himself as the night drifted.

“Not for another hour.”  I looked up, past the lamp's halo, past the city’s
lights, into the pale gray of the birthing day.

“Shit.” He spat the cigarette butt away, onto the walkway.

“Think you'll make it?” I light a another smoke and hand it to him, his hand shaking,
weak, then I do another for myself.

“Nah. Wish I would, but don't believe it to be.”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and there's a smudge on the black leather of my left
shoe. With a clean handkerchief I wipe away the dull incarnadine.  It came from him.

“Stars sure are clear,” he said.

“Yeah.  I figure that’s 'cause it's so cold.”

“How's that?” He coughs, and it is the sound of a blade cutting through wheat.

“I think it's the cold, it keeps the molecules in the atmosphere from vibrating, making
the stars appear clear.”

He grunted, or made a sound that could be construed as a grunt.

“But I ain't a scientist or nothing, so I don't know.  Could be we’re closer to them
in orbit or whatever.  I don’t know.”

“Sorry it went down like this,” I said.

I stood and walked toward the car, stopping only to pick up the lone casing, then away,
towards where the sun will soon be.

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