Seriously, I blame a wonderful woman for the next Tale's inspiration, or at least the flame that ignited it.
Around the cusp of May and June, I took my girlfriend for a ride to show her some of the places that populate my world and, since I had just purchased a 4wheel drive vehicle, I could go to the places I hadn't before if I wanted to enjoy air-conditioning and no bugs in my teeth. Besides, I was planning on traveling further than the quad would be comfortable on and the picnic lunch was packed. It was a wonderful day and we ended up just past the old Dandrea Ranch, the remains of where my grandmother would play now just a flat spot and some low, crumbled stone walls. It's a great place for plinking, target shooting, and there's this old tree there that is probably now at least 80% lead in some places from the decades of targets placed before it. It was a really great day.
I was able to show her a few places beyond that old ranch such as taking her through Poland (I refuse to use the horrifically lame and completely stupid name some developer plopped on it at one point) to see the entrance of the old Poland-Walker tunnel as we made our way back to the world of paved roads. At the beginning of our adventure, when we first left such roads behind, we began with the Walker Kiln. This is a stone kiln for the production of charcoal used at the Howell's smelter and other industry in the region. There is a whole history behind this that doesn't matter because I stole the kiln and gave it a new one.
This theft was predicated by a question from my date as to what I was going to write about this structure of stacked stone standing like a great beehive in the forest. I had to admit I had not thought of anything but that conversation fired something. Bursts of ideas began sputtering on the ground, half formed worms with no chance of wings. The obvious was too damn obvious... I mean, kilns are for fires and gosh, what else would you write about with an old kiln, right? What was I to do?
"A Memory of Flame" is an example of a story going completely off the rails, out of control and, well, there's some really fucked up shit in this but I do love my payoff. At 9,586 words, I was able to connect this story, which takes place in 1954, to the Sultans from when the town boomed three quarters of a century before. It also allowed me to play with my two new favorite toys, unnamed in the Tale for the POV would not know such, but described in violent fury. It has action, adventure and, at last, in the madness, dread.
I am pleased with my characters and yes, the whole damn thing here is intentional. I needed names and I looked at those known through our collective consciousness to be represented in such a time frame and ran with it 'cause it was fun. I make no apologies for that though I must explain one thing that crossed my mind when I chose my lead. Looking over my potential cast of names, one stood out beyond that which demanded presence of POV. Knowing the prejudices of the time of the Korean War, there was one character in the popular representation who was portrayed in a way that, if it were so in truth for that character presented, the consequence would not be simply dismissal from uniform, but imprisonment for a long time.
It is better to see honestly the horrors we, the whole of humanity, have imposed upon others for reasons that truly have no meaning. I say we for none are innocent of prejudices in some form or another. At 53 years old and having grown up in the days when a pandemic spread with the sinister stain of prejudice behind it, it is nice to see the sloughing off of impractical idiocy. We ain't perfect and never will be, but I think the momentum needed has at last arrived. That doesn't mean we should sugar-coat historical fiction with the mores of today. When that happens, the Reader is rent from the tale and the return will never be complete. The ugliness must be confronted in order to be exposed. As well, the expressions we today understand, those mores pounded hard into us on the schoolyard pecking order blood-bath, were not always so black and white. People are people and ya'll be surprised if you looked at what the range was doing back in the day before the day's day. It stayed on the range though 'cause the towns had brothels. Foxholes at the front don't have brothels either, at least from everything I've read. I've never been a mid-20th century soldier. Comes with being born decades too late.
This story also gave me the name of one of the Sultans who would gather at that final dinner in "Sestina of the Sultans". I had at that time four of the cast solid, one pretty much available and one with a generic place-holder name. With "A Memory of Flame", that place-holder name became a Mr. Charles Chesterfield. I learned this because his grandson... Chesterfield was into his forties before siring any children and his son kept collecting daughters until his own son showed up late... made a prominent appearance here. It was this namesake, the third so christened, who brought the rest together and funded the hunting trip that this story is. Lot of deer up in those mountains.
This is a hard story, a harsh story. That I'll admit. It isn't for the faint of heart and quite possibly for the beating of heart. It is hard yet, I still can't seem to delve into the sub-genre "splatter punk" nor write with a focus on gore. When what happens must be though, what happens must be. Inevitable ends follow conditions that arise.
It was a month between "Kachina" and "A Memory of Flame" and I was on track to meet that foolish goal I had set and a brand new idea was crawling around in my mind, one whose importance to these Tales cannot be overstated.
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