Pete Marquardt
Bio
Gamer, nerd, pragmatist, newshound, and dreamer.
As a writer, I work to create narratives that make dynamic use of their own framework as much as the contents of that framework; the setting, the characters, and the story itself.
Stories (3/0)
Two Travelers' Journals
Two Travelers’ Journals Record of Traveler Elliott, Liminalis Pathfinder | I’ve fallen in with a band of young valley folk, from what I can gather dispersed en masse from the settlement that is their home. I’d place them mostly in their early twenties, and at the limit of my discernment they go to some place or are in search of some collective achievement, then home again. Their words have come surprisingly easy to me. The transit’s drain on my animus and its substrate wire is, it seems, immediately evident.
By Pete Marquardt3 years ago in Fiction
Chorus of Dreams I
Dream Recounted by a Seeker at DeVee: |In a dream, I saw a vision of night. Ordered on the earth and about it and above it were the currents of fortune and wonder and endeavor that, in unison, sing the world, and the word of that song is Life. And the better good hearts love freely, compete bravely and cooperate generously, the purer the song becomes. The song will never be the same in any two instants from first to last, but where a spring breeze for a moment blew the troubles from a person’s mind, or when strangers caroled gladly around a fire, and when the souls of men and women and children looked outward into the stars at night, the song became not audible but real and solid. Coin found in the wash that can be spent free of worry. Laughter and the smell of soup and baked bread. The feeling of a gentle tug on the rope that binds one heart to another.
By Pete Marquardt3 years ago in Fiction
Cask 947
It was two in the afternoon and you were standing outside the restaurant when it happened. Crickham Street was a rabbit’s nest and even in daylight the shadows were strong. Ahead of you was your favorite place to eat on this side of the valley, The Happy Ghoul. A sign on the door showed a smiling skull gulping down a bowl of noodles, and you sighed in hunger and contentment. It was a Friday, almost BuckBuck hour, and your mouth was watering.
By Pete Marquardt3 years ago in Fiction
