John C. Wright's Journal

Lost on the Last Continent is on hiatus for the month of October. Episodes resume November 7th. In the meanwhile, tales from the Unconquered Earth Sequence, my earliest foray into science fiction, will be posted in this space.

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Silence Deep as Death

by
John C Wright

As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time                              

— Thos. Campbell (1774–1844)

Walter Szczepek Kolanin was a silent, patient man. It was ten years since he had returned to Earth, but his eyes still held that, quiet, fixed, and distant look which the solitary crewmen of orbital astronomical stations were wont to have, and his face was still the face of one who had seen the grandeur of the naked stars. Yet even his patience had an end. Beneath his quiet features, he calmly contemplated the dreadful deeds.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” he spoke from the podium, and his voice echoed from the rear of the auditorium. “I have come to discuss the destruction of the Earth.”

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Lost on the Last Continent is on hiatus for the month of October. Episodes resume November 7th. In the meanwhile, tales from the Unconquered Earth Sequence, my earliest foray into science fiction, will be posted in this space.

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Twilight of the Gods

by
John C Wright

Originally published in Federations, ed, John Joseph Adams, Prime Books (April, 2009)

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Tall golden doors loomed up behind the dais of the throne.  Behind those doors, it was said, the Main Bridge of the Twilight of the Gods reposed, a chamber dim and vast, with many altars studded all with jeweled controls set before the dark mirrors of the Computer.  But Acting Captain Weston II found the chamber oppressive, and did not like the mysterious dark mirrors of the Computer watching him, and so, since his father’s death many years ago, this white high chamber before the golden doors was used as his hall of audience. Read the remainder of this entry »

Apparently, How to Build a Treehouse is fun to translate. Bruno Moreno was kind enough to translate this into Spanish:

Cómo construir una casa en un árbol

John C. Wright

Aquí las cosas son distintas. No es como en la Tierra. Acércate desnudo al árbol, sin hacha ni sierra. Explica tu pena con voz clara, pero no uses palabras. Canta. Nuestros árboles conocen el lenguaje universal de la música. Quizás haya cosas que no se puedan expresar con ese lenguaje, pero estas, las importantes, sí pueden decirse.

Una vez que el árbol haya entendido a quién has perdido, se moverá. Sus raíces se extenderán hacia abajo para encontrar el cuerpo de tu esposa, sin importar a qué profundidad esté enterrado. El fruto de la vida madurará, porque aquí no hay invierno. Una vez que ella sea llevada a la superficie, exprime el zumo del fruto y deja que caiga en su boca. Una gota es suficiente. Dos la convertirán en poeta y tres en profetisa.

Las ramas del árbol se entrelazarán para formar una morada en su copa. Allí podréis habitar, felices y en paz, hasta el final de los días.

He olvidado mencionar algo. Para preparar el árbol, cuelga a un dios de sus ramas y deja que su sangre se derrame sobre las raíces, el fruto y la tierra de alrededor, de modo que el poder del amor infinito… ¿Qué quieres decir con que ya tenías un árbol como ese en la Tierra? Entonces, ¿por qué has venido? La casa que puedes construir en ese árbol será sin duda una mansión, ya que, según dices, tu dios es el hijo del carpintero.

Así volverás a verla. Tu fe en las historias sobre mi extraño jardín fue suficiente para que emprendieras el viaje hasta aquí.

¿Por qué no creer en Él?

Here is my ultra-short shortstory ‘How to Build a Treehouse‘ translated by James H London into Afrikaans, for our Boer readers. 

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Hoe om ‘n boomhuisie te bou
deur John C Wright

Hier verskil dinge. Dis nie dieselfde as op Aarde nie. Benader die boom naakt, dra geen byl, geen saag. Verduidelik in ‘n helder stem jou hartseer, maar gebruik nie woorde nie. Sing. Onse bome ken musiek as ons universieële taal. Miskien is daar veel wat nie kan uitgedruk wees nie, in so ‘n taal, maar dié dinge, die belangrike dinge, kan so wees.

As die boom verstaan wat jy verloor het, wil dit beweeg. Wortels sal afreik om jou vrou se lyk te vind, al hoe diep gegrawe. Die vrugte van die lewe sal blom, ons het geen winter hierso nie. As sy aan die oppervlak getrek is, druk vir die sap in haar mond in. Een druppel is genoeg. Twee wil vir haar ‘n digster maak, drie ‘n profeet.

Die takke sal vir hulself in ‘n bruidskamer op die boom se kroon vleg. Daar mag julle in vreedsame geluk vir alle dae woon.

Ek’t vergeet om te noem: om die boom voor te berei, hang vir ‘n god van sy takke af, en laat sy bloed in die wortels, die vrugte, en ooral daarom gaan, sodat die krag van oneindigende liefde – Wat bedoel jy, jy het alreeds so ‘n boom op Aarde? Hoekom het jy hierso gekom? Die huis wat jy in daardie boom bou is ‘n w’ragtige herehuis, as jou god die timmerman se seun is, as jy so sê.

So jy gaan weer vir haar sien. Jy het vir verhale van my vreemde tuin genoeg geglo, voordat jy eers hierso aangereis het.

Hoekom glo jy nie vir hom nie?

Lost on the Last Continent is on hiatus for the month of October. Episodes resume November 7th. In the meanwhile, tales from the Unconquered Earth Sequence, my earliest foray into science fiction, will be posted in this space.

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Not Born a Man

by
John C Wright

Originally published in Aberrations #24, October (1994)

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Rhadamanthus O’Brian woke choking, with thin spidery tickles touching his face.  During the night-watch, a cluster of fleshy, gray vines had crawled in through the window, breaking the thick bottle-glass pane out of the crude wood windowframe, dislodging a stone or two from the wall.  The gray vines fell in through the window, spread in a thicket over the bed.  One vine had thrust a root-tip into his mouth as he slept, and reached down his throat; thin vine-twigs were clinging and crawling over the flesh of his face, groping blindly.  The whole mass of wet vines was trembling with slow glee.

Rhadamanthus gave a gargling grunt of fear, and tore the root with both hands from his mouth.  There was blood on the root-tip. The tendrils shivered and tightened, trying to catch him in their thicket.  He slid from under the wool blanket to the floor-boards.

On a peg in the stone wall above his bed, next to his musket, hung his poison-sprayer.  It was too far; the grotesque fleshy leaves were already beginning to stir and thrash, and several bulbous knots along the vine-lengths squeezed open, revealing pale round eyes.  Stings and thorns, dripping venom, slid trembling out from the root-ends.

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A word of explanation: Once upon a time, I was in an on-line comments box discussion about a particularly bad scene penned by an SFF author of modest gifts.

I have nothing against this other author, and bear him no enmity. But the scene being discussed combined depravity, boredom, rigidly one-dimensional characters, and a complete lack of humanity. So when someone quipped “I’d rather read John Wright writing instructions on how to build a treehouse” I took it as a challenge to see if I could write a SFF short story small enough to fit into a comments box.

So here is my instruction on how to build a treehouse.

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How to Build a Treehouse

By

John C Wright

Here, things differ. It is not as on Earth. Approach the tree naked, carrying no ax, no saw. Explain in a clear voice your sorrow, but do not use words. Sing. Our trees know music as our universal language. Perhaps there is much which cannot be expressed in such a language, but these things, the important things, can.

Once the tree understands who you have lost, it will move. Roots will reach down to find your wife’s body, no matter how deeply buried. The fruit of life will bloom, for we have no winter here. Once she is drawn to the surface, squeeze the juice into her mouth. One drop is enough. Two will make her a poet, and three, a prophetess.

The branches will weave themselves into a bower in the crown of the tree. There you may dwell in peaceful happiness for all days.

I forgot to mention. To prepare the tree, hang a god from its branches, and let his blood go into the roots, the fruit, and all around, so that the power of infinite love — What do you mean you already had a tree like this on Earth? Why did you come here? The house you will build in that tree is a mansion indeed, if your god is the carpenter’s son as you say.

So you will see her again. You believed in stories of my strange garden enough to brave the journey here.

Why not believe Him?

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