itlog

In the Land of Giants (itlog) is a five book, middle grade, eco-fiction series, set in a future where global warming has reshaped the world and erased most what we know today. Fetch and his friends, Loo and Dody, are in a desperate search to find his father and save the Riverfolk from the invading Chikagoy. Just one problem, his father is leading the invasion.

The story line came from a short story, “Giants”, I submitted to the Writer’s Digest Fiction awards contest in 2015. I really liked the original story, since it was all narrative and scene, and only two lines of dialogue, which was a big change for me. It was fun to write and all my feedback was positive, so I went for it.

It received an honorable mention in the May/June issue of WD, and I dashed to the nearest B&N to see for myself. The feeling of picking a magazine off the shelf, opening it, and seeing my name was incredible. I was so excited, I started showing it to total strangers in the store, but the best part was showing it to the hipster douche-bag who constantly looked down his nose at me as I bought book after book on writing. Satisfaction never tasted so sweet.

Now the first book is complete, and based upon some agent feedback, is in rewrite. I have also started the second, and I am very excited about how it is flowing. I really like the characters.

So here is the original story.

Giants

By M J Hurd

He pushed on the pole and let out a low melodic whistle, slipping the skiff a little further across the mirror lake. The tune was something he learned from the Grumpa. The old man had a dozen or so tunes that he made up and taught to the Kiddos. Their rhythm made work easier and a lot more fun. The lake was deeper than usual and swallowed his pole just about up to his wide, brown, hand, then tugged against his swaying pull as it came back out for another sweep. The skiff was loaded down with all the things he fetched that day. Rusted cans of maybe food or something rotten, long strands of wire coiled neatly, and an assortment of empty containers. The Grumpa would like the red and silver ones. He said they reminded him of the dry days before the big melt.

The sun was beginning to fall off the noon hour and finally the tide was starting to pull him along. His trip back to the Patch would be a little faster now. He adjusted the scarf across his eyes, the slits had started to droop and block his view of the Giants. They stood tall and white in the afternoon light, their arms slowly rotating, but if he didn’t pay attention, one could sweep him up and send him flying into the lake’s soup. The crocs and gats would be more than happy to fight over him as easy prey. For now they just watched him slide by as they sunned at the feet of the Giants.

For three years now his Maddy let him go fetchin’ by himself. He loved the whispers of the Giants and the buzz of all the buggers, and if he was lucky, he would find something special for her. Since Paddy died in the last ‘cane, she didn’t say much except when he brought her a special something. He patted the bag at his waist. It was a good one this time; a long, thin, yellow metal chain with a green sparkly as big around as his thumb. How none of the other boys ever found it was beyond lucky, but he didn’t care. His Maddy would love it and maybe sing a little song for him tonight when he went to bed.

Something tugged at the boat. He stopped his tune and slowly pulled the pole all the way out of the water, then stood motionless. It was a Mama. A big one, she rolled a little and eyed him carefully as she and he baby slid under the boat. If he startled her she could flip him over with a powerful sweep of her paddle like tail. He looked to his right and left, a row of gats on each side lifted their heads to watch the encounter. They could go after her or the pup, but seemed to like their prey more defenseless than an angry Mama Tee. Besides, he had seen a swarm of Mamas take on a couple of crocs, and the crocs lost. She rolled back and continued on her way.

He let out a sigh and was about to start a new sweep of his pole when all of the gats jerked their heads up toward the sky, then thrust themselves into the water. The water sprayed with some powerful tail thrashes and they were gone. Not after the Mama. They were running from something. That was when he heard it. A faint rhythmic thumping that was being carried across the water. He scanned the surface of the lake, but the water was as smooth as glass as far as he could see. The Grumpa said the lake went from the Rock Mountains, out where the sun did its settin’, all the way to the risin’ side, where the Apple Mountain people lived. He just knew about the Nola Sea, the Misty Delta, and Plains Lake. Maybe when he became an Hombre he could go searchin’ and learn some other places.

The thumping was a little louder, but would occasionally be drowned out by the breathing sound of the Giants. They never lost a second, their arms sweeping in unison for some, the others swinging to their own beat. When the wind was stronger their arms spun faster. Now the thumping was starting to drown them out. It was coming from over his left shoulder. The Grumpa called that way the Norpo. He told story after story of the dry days before the lakes came, and the twenty years of ‘canes so strong they swept everything away into the Big Blue beyond the Nola Sea.

He squinted now, and could see it a ways off. It was shiny, but flew like a dragon bugger with two wings on each side. It seemed to be coming right for him. He turned away and thrust his pole and gave it a mighty sweep. The tide was moving at full flow now back to the Big Blue and he was making really good time, but the sound kept getting louder. He could hear it clearly and it was starting to scare him. What if it was Thievers? If they had a flying machine, they could get to the Patch before the watchers could warn anybody. He’d never seen a flying machine before, but the Grumpa warned everyone that they never brought anything good.

The skiff was practically flying itself, skimming over the water as he plunged his pole time after time into the tidal current. The sound was still behind him, but now it was loud enough so he could hear the machinery’s grinding and hissing. He paused from sweeping just long enough to glance over his shoulder and it saved his life. The big flying bugger had a Thiever hanging out its side with a net that he had just spun down towards him. The bobbers on the edge of the net circled frantically as it fell, the mesh getting bigger and blacker as it came. He grabbed his pole with both hands and plunged it into the lake right in front of his boat. It flexed into a deep bend as the bow of the little boat rode up on it, but it stopped his forward motion in an instant. The net splashed right in front of him just as the bugger machine roared past.

He was panting as he yanked the pole out of the bottom muck and swung it back into position to spin his boat toward the bugger machine’s path. It looked like the Thiever’s machine was not very quick on the turn and maybe he could keep behind them. He heard a gurgling slurp as the net pulled out of the lake and began to slide and skip across its surface following the machine. He pushed as hard as he could to follow it. As long as he was behind it, they couldn’t take another shot at him.

But the machine was just too fast and now he was fighting the current. The net was being pulled back into the machine as it started to circle back around. Thievers were the worst. They wouldn’t fetch their own stuff, they just took everyone else’s. And if you fought back they would get their bang sticks and make you die. Doody’s Paddy died that way. Thievers found them out on the lake raftin’ to Kay City with a big load of gat skins. The Paddy fought back and sent two of them to the bottom, but another had his bang stick and shot him in the head. Now Doody wouldn’t even go out on the water, let alone go fetchin’ with him. Since Doody didn’t fetch or hunt anymore it was hard for them to live. Most familias at the Patch shared and traded what they had so everyone could get a livin’, but Doody’s family had little to trade.

The bugger machine wasn’t coming back around yet, it was circling way up like it was thinking about what to do next. He was drifting with the current now, trying to catch his breath and keep an eye on the Thievers. They made one more circle, then thumped off toward the risin’ side. He slumped down into the bottom of the boat wrapping his arms around the pole. It would take a couple of hours to reach the Patch. The Dark would be coming soon, but he should be home in time for soup.

His eyes fluttered open. The thickness of the air had changed. It was heavier. He sat up and rubbed his eyes through the scarf, then realized he didn’t need it. It was dark. Not from the settin’, but from the clouds. It looked like a ‘cane was brewing on the Big Blue and was moving up fast from Delta Town. The wind started with a breeze like the Giants were exhaling all at once. The tidal current was still strong, but the breeze was coming at him, and soon he would be fighting the storm surge running in front of the wind. He looked towards the settin’ side. The blue Giant in the distance was past his starboard quarter putting him halfway home. He would have to get going or end up spending the night on the water and riding out the storm with the Giants.

The breeze was starting to ripple the water. His Maddy would be worried. Since he was her only Kiddo she would fret and fidget every time he went fetchin’. He was taller than most of the Kiddos, and knew his way around the lake better than most of the Hombres, but it didn’t matter, he was her only family and she needed him. That thought gave him new strength. He began sweeping and whistling one of the Grumpa’s fastest tunes as he put the blue Giant behind him.

By the time he finished the tenth whistling of the tune the breeze had been replaced by a strong headwind, and the lake seemed to be rushing toward him. All the crocs and gats were gone. They always hid from a storm, especially a ‘cane. He had no idea where, but he wished they were right where he could see them. He didn’t like surprises and surprises on the lake were usually deadly.

Keeping the skiff moving forward was harder now, and he no longer had the breath to share his effort with one of the Grumpa’s tunes. Looking downstream he could see that the wall of the ‘cane was almost over the Patch. Soon it would be raining hard against the side of their tank and the rain would make the metal sing a sad song that echoed through all the tanks in the farm. All the older Kiddos would put their ears against their walls and sing soft little night songs together so the little-ones wouldn’t get scared. Through the drumming of the rain, soothing refrains would seep through all of the farm. The thought of it calmed him down.

The lake was fully fighting him now and it was clear he was getting nowhere. There was an old lady Giant just to his left. She was missing one of her arms, so the other two would just swing back and forth like she was rocking a baby, except there was no baby. Maybe he could be her son for tonight. He swung the bow in her direction being careful not to go too far or the wind and the storm surge would carry him backwards past her. If it did, he would never get to her before the rain came.

He was struggling to keep from sliding sideways with the current by sweeping the pole down just the one side of the skiff. The surge kept pushing the boat against the pole making it hard to pull it out of the muck at the bottom of the lake, but this also kept him from slipping too far past the old lady Giant. As he came alongside her footing, which, was no more than a ring of jumbled up stones with iron spikes sticking out everywhere, he jammed his pole into an opening between two flat rocks to anchor the skiff. He looped his only length of yellow rope around the pole just as his Paddy taught him, then tied the other end to the shackle at the skiff’s bow.

That wasn’t going to be enough to keep him or the boat safe all night, but it will have to do for now. The wind was beginning to blow strong enough that waves were slapping hard at the side of the little boat, and yanking on the pole like a caught fish. He would have to get the skiff up on the flat rocks, but it was too heavy with all his stuff. He began to hop in and out, carrying the bags with the rusty cans, the containers, then the coils of wire, stacking them all on the highest flat rock. A little luck found him, this rock had iron spokes growing out of it like the ones at the Patch, each with a hook on the end. He tied the bags and containers to the spikes with some of the wire and gave it a good yank to test it. They weren’t going anywhere. The empty containers began to jump and flop in the wind ringing like his Maddy’s chimes. The only thing left in the boat were the drinkin’ bag, and his morning drape. It was getting cold and he was starting to shiver as he wrapped the thick brown cloth around his shoulders and slung the half empty bag around his neck.

Rain would be hitting the Patch now with a big blowin’ right behind it. He could smell it in the wind as he huffed and pulled on the rope to get the skiff up out of the water. Finally it was up on the top rock with his stuff. He pried the pole out of its anchor and sat to catch his breath while taking in his surroundings. On his first fetchin’ alone, he broke the rules and spent a whole day crawling all over a bunch of Giants. There wasn’t much to them. They were so tall you had to tilt your head all the way back to see the top. And they were round, about as big around as a small tank, and white. Well, mostly white. Around the base of most of them was a ring of rust about as tall as him. Some had holes in them, big and small, which made them weak and wobbly. A few had fallen and died, but most of them stood as far as the eye could see and much farther than he had ever gone.

The arms of this old lady Giant were rocking back and forth, her breath and creaking suffocated by the sound of the wind. He looked up and counted the ticks between each sweep of her blades. Six ticks. Longer than before. The wind was driving her arms further and further in each swing. He took a long look to make sure they couldn’t catch him, then began to make his way around her. As he climbed and scrambled along her feet, he could feel the warmth of her skin still holding the heat of the sun. It was like their tank at home. When the day ended and the Dark came, the walls of their tank still kept them safe and warm.

As he climbed around to the side opposite of her arms, he noticed a large hole about a man’s height above his head. It was dark, but big enough to hide him from the rain that would be there any minute. He scrambled back to the skiff, grabbed the pole, drinkin’ bag and his drape, and made his way back to the base of the hole. At first he tried to jump to catch the edge, but it was just too high. As he looked around he noticed a pile of smaller flat rocks. Just big enough to make some steps, but no too big for him to move.  He started stacking them in position when he realized that somebody else had done the same thing a long time ago, and the pile had simply fallen over the years. It scared him a little to think of what he might find up there, but the rain was just about to hit and it would be worse outside than inside.

He scampered up the rocks and into the hole just as it slammed into the Giant. The floor of the hole was like his tank at home, hard and smooth, still warm like the Giant’s skin. It was too dark to explore further into the old lady, so he found a spot where he could keep an eye on the storm outside and get some sleep. Using the drinkin’ bag for his head, he curled up in the drape, and softly sang night songs until sleep came.

The ‘cane was not as bad as others, but it had blown most of the night and had a lot of rain. Now the morning lights were cutting through the last of the clouds. If he was lucky, the surge would be running back to the Big Blue and he could ride a strong current all the way home. He stuck his head out and looked down at the makeshift steps. The top stone had slid off in the night, but the rest were still in place. He was about to slip out onto the first step when he heard the thumping of the bugger machine. It was still far off, but seemed to be getting closer. He could stay and hide, but if they saw his boat, then they might steal it. He vaulted out of the hole and down the rocks to his boat.

It wasn’t where he left it. He circled around the Giant and found it under her arms, upside down on the rocks; the swing of the old lady’s blades sweeping right above it every four ticks or so. It would be easy to get to, but flipping it over without her arms sweeping them away, and then getting back to his stuff would take too long. The thumping of the bugger machine was getting a little louder. He went back and got his pole and the drinkin’ bag. Back under the arms, he couldn’t hear the bugger machine anymore, only the whooshing sweep of the massive blades. Every time they swept past him her breath would push him away as if telling him to run. It didn’t scare him, all night he could feel the rhythm of her breathing with each sweep, even through the pounding of the storm. It had helped him sleep like he hadn’t for a while, but right now the Thievers did scare him, and he definitely needed to run.

He jumped toward the boat and slid off the bow just as her blade swept by, missing him by an arm’s length. He grabbed the yellow rope still tied to the shackle and yanked the boat off the rocks to the water’s edge. With the same skill he used every morning, he flipped it over and jumped in with one smooth motion, pole in hand and bag slung over his shoulder. Once again he was standing in his favorite spot. He plunged the pole into the water and it leapt forward. As he completed his second sweep he heard the bugger machine. It was much closer this time. He glanced over his right shoulder and saw it swinging around in his direction.

The surge, and the fact his boat was empty, gave him an advantage of speed and agility that he did not have yesterday. He began sweeping toward the Big Blue and a special Angel Giant he knew from his first fetchin’. The bugger machine was lined up on him now and starting to close. He was sweeping as fast as he could, his body twisting back and forth in a quick rhythm with a strength that surprised him. The bow of the little skiff was up and he was riding the storm surge while the pole whistled from side to side. Up ahead was the Angel Giant. This one had two great arms with massive hands spinning in the wind that was still blowing up that high. Each hand was bigger than the Meetin’ Tank at the Patch, and he could even hear their steady roar over the thumping of the bugger machine. They turned so fast it was hard to see each blade, which made them look like huge angel wings. When the blowin’ changed, the wings would swing back and forth as if they were flapping like the pink ‘mingos’ wings.

He looked over his shoulder, the Thiever was hanging out of the side of the bugger machine starting to spin the net. The bobbers on the edge of the net were red and gold and flashed in the morning light as they spun, making it look like a fiery mouth. He put every ounce of strength into his pole. It whipped and whistled and dove into the water. He was moving so fast the gats and crocs scattered and plunged into the lake scared by all the commotion. He looked back again just as the Thiever let loose. The net spread out and shot toward him right as he swept under the wings of the Angel Giant. Suddenly, the net seemed to come to life on its own and shot up toward the closest wing. The bugger machine was close enough now for him to see the Thiever’s face. His look of surprise twisted into a scream as the net was caught in the angel’s spinning blades and tore him from the inside of the bugger machine. He screamed until he reached the end of the rope tied to the machine, and stopped as the angel tore him in half. That force was enough to drag the machine into the angel’s vortex and its mighty hand sucked it in and shredded the bugger. He swept on hard leaving the sounds of tortured metal and souls shrieking against the power of the Giant behind him.

Finally, beyond the Thiever’s shrieks, he slumped to the bottom of the boat. Riding the storm surge he would be at the Patch in an hour, a few ticks afterward his Maddy would be holding her new gift. His fingers felt for the pouch at his waist; it was still there. His stuff could wait; old lady Giant would keep it safe just as she kept him safe. He smiled up at the arms of another Giant as he silently slipped by. The Giants would continue to protect the Patchers and the Patchers would continue to respect the Giants. Maybe they would sing a new tune for them. That would be good. He could make a new tune just as the Grumpa did when he was young. He looked up at the now pale blue sky and began with a low whistle.

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