Daniel Bradbury
Bio
Big fan of long walks in the woods, rye Manhattans, Spanish literature, jazz, and vinyl records.
Lover of all things creepy and crawly.
Stories (22/0)
Top of the Charts. Runner-Up in The Mystery Box Challenge.
Have you ever looked at the liner notes on a CD? Maybe you were on a road trip, bored of watching endless stretches of farmland roll by your window and you needed something to distract you. Maybe you're one of those rare people who gets curious about who and what goes into making a record and you decided to find out. If either of those apply to you, there's a chance you might have seen my name. You wouldn't remember it, of course. Just a handful of tiny black letters populating one of those overcrowded blocks of text, tucked away in the liner notes of an album. "Blake Mickens: bass guitar on tracks 2, 7, and 12." "Martin Aubuchon: drums and percussion on tracks 3 and 11." "Special thanks to Chloe Hall, Calvin Hawkins, Jorge Dominguez and Sylvia Adzoh." If you pick up the right record, I'm somewhere in there.
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Horror
Transients: The Story of a Band
Within two hours, the tiny band of transients and their new gear were huddled in the belly of a ferry and headed for the island of Cretir: a place their newfound benefactor claimed to be the home of the site they needed to cast their spell. “If the writings are correct, the music should be inscribed on a Witches’ shrine on the north side of the island.” Morgana paused to steady herself as the boat met a rough wave. “But given the attitude towards Witch-Faith at the time of No'kjül’s writings I think we’ll probably be looking for an hidden shrine.”
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
Transients: The Story of a Band
The pacing of Hollie’s companion was rigid and meticulous enough to play metronome for the ancient Orchestra. Five minutes, Hollie had been at her locker. All that time, she watched Guardswoman Jace tear up and down the locker room, gnashing her teeth. If she'd noticed Hollie, she gave no acknowledgement. Did Hollie dare ask?
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
Transients: The Story of a Band
The Drummer was held hostage at a table for four in a ritzy café in the Karthian capital. Well, morally hostage, that is. As he poked at a salad of which he could neither identify all the components or pronounce the name, he stared over his fork at this “Morgana.” She bailed him out of a lifetime in the slammer, bought him an expensive lunch, then coyly claimed that he could decline to fulfill her request, if he found it inconvenient or troublesome in any way. Likely. A look at her choker made his stomach contract with dread. Midday light through the arched windows made the pale green of the Aeolian Order’s sigil gleam in his eyes, mocking him. Odds were, he was tiptoeing on the edge of a trap. Order or not, bringing in three transients herself, including one as—he didn’t mean to boast, but—noteworthy as himself would set Morgana up for life. As lauded scholars and defenders of the High Governors and the people of Karth, Order members never wanted for a meal ticket, but maybe she was sick of dining on expensive, bitter greens. Could he see ambition in those cold, blue eyes? Maybe she wanted to eat with kings.
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
Transients: The Story of a Band
Simone woke to the smell of thornswine strips being fried over a camp stove. Still groggy, she roused herself and half-dragged her body to the other side of the truck. “You really can’t handle your shit, huh?” The Drummer smiled wryly as he turned a strip over.
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
Transients: The Story of a Band
The Drummer climbed into the driver’s seat of his truck, exhausted more in a mental sense than a physical one. He was digging through his glove compartment, trying to find the right tape to play while he sucked on some devil-flower and relaxed, when he felt the truck shift. It would seem his adventures for that evening weren’t over yet. Reflexively, he undid the clasp on his stick bag and slid them out into his hand. If one of these country assholes thought they were going to get the drop on him, they were wrong. He threw open the door, his adrenaline already surging for the second time that night. “Alright you motherf—” the words caught in his throat.
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
Transients: The Story of a Band
Seventy miles from the capital’s wingspan, the Drummer sat in a bar called Respite, eating his last job’s pay and turning over the bar’s name. Between bites of brisket, he recalled hearing a teleradio actor, in the middle of an otherwise compelling scene, cry out for respite. Only he pronounced it re-SPITE. The Drummer thought it was some isolated mistake one guy made on the air. Then, however, the Drummer heard someone else say it that way. Re-SPITE. Then someone else. He tallied it up one day, and realized he’d heard maybe one person besides his master say it the right way. It was RE-spit. Right? He chewed.
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
Transients: The Story of a Band
It was early morning on the thirteenth day of the month of Harvest, and it was cold. Not the stinging freeze of winter. More insidious than that. It was a damp, creeping chill that no number of hot drinks or warm blankets could pry from someone’s skin once it had gotten its claws in them. Most people were inside that day if they could help it or sequestered away in the warmest possible corner of their work, dreaming of Bloom, months away. The Drummer had never minded the cold.
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
Stryggid
The light of an early November sun drifted lazily through the trees of the grotto, casting it in shades of ochre, yellow and umber. Its crisp, cold light seemed to dance as the trees swayed in a wind that smelled of ozone and overripe apples, heralding the arrival of a storm in the next hour or so. Styrggid sighed to himself, unwinding his body from the aspen he had been resting in. The rain wasn't dangerous to him, not like it would have been if he were a few centuries younger, but that didn't mean he enjoyed being caught in it. It was time to return home.
By Daniel Bradbury2 years ago in Fiction
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