An intro to The Cleric

This is to announce the publication of

The Cleric
A humoristic tale of moderate adventure with a dash of romance

Now available at:

CreateSpace  

and

ASIN: 1470009811	The Cleric: A humoristic tale of moderate adventure with a dash of romance     Product Type: Book
	List Price: $ 8.00          Amazon's Price: $ 8.00	Buy Now!

ASIN: B007EHUKLG	The Cleric: A humoristic tale of moderate adventure with a dash of romance     Product Type: eBooks
	Amazon's Price: Price N/A	Buy Now!

Check out my Facebook Fan Page for more about my writing  

Here is more about the book:

God made man in his image and it was good . . . sort of. The Cleric follows Ian, a young man filled with so much curiosity that his home town conspired to send him on a path of self-discovery, preferably a long one that didn't lead back home.

Along the way, Ian meets a seductive witch, a con-wizard, an obnoxious magical creature, and a large man with an enormous sword. Ian cheerfully leads this band of misfits into a satirization of the world we think we know. Each step leads the party closer to an ultimate prize which, with luck, will horribly kill the would-be hero of the story.

Colorful characters fill this whimsical farce, from King Teshi, ruler of Evilania, to Mr. Shrumpkin who carries a personal grudge against language. The story unfolds in a style similar to Terry Pratchett's Discworld. That is, it takes whatever's not bolted down and runs with it. However, unlike Discworld, this one is built properly round and may be considered an outline God used for creating the Earth we live on today.

The story serves as a way to take a satirical look at our world. Life, love, good and evil; nothing is spared. So while the characters discover romance, fight necromancers, or discuss the options of home decor, you may find parallels to subjects we often take way too serious.

In order to help with this process, God (first name Gerald) has provided remarks at the beginning of each major section. This commentary provides insight on the story that follows it.

So grab your pack and draw your blade . . . on second thought, put the blade away. That's really dangerous. Then head out on this amazing adventure which mixes action, romance, self-discovery, explosive statuary, mushrooms, and much more.

Publication Date: Feb 09 2012
ISBN/EAN13: 1470009811 / 9781470009816
Page Count: 144
Binding Type: US Trade Paper
Trim Size: 6" x 9"
Language: English
Color: Black and White

PROLOGUE

“BANG!”

~Gerald’s Catchphrase~

Gerald Owen Delaney was not an ordinary person. In his youth, he had two major characteristics that made him . . . different. First, he hated everything and everyone. His ideal world would be one where he was completely alone. Second, he discovered how to unmake reality. Gerald was a genius who specialized in the highest forms of math and physics. The study of which revealed to him how he could unravel existence.

The combination of these two characteristics resulted in the destruction of all. Everything from a monstrous galaxy to an insignificant dimension, all were unmade . . . well, almost everything. To Gerald’s surprise, he found that he still existed.

At first, this did not bother Gerald since this was exactly what he had wanted. He spent countless moments in the pure bliss of nothingness. Eventually the bliss turned into boredom, which turned into annoyance, which concluded in creation . . . ?

Gerald, to his astonishment, found that he missed things. Light, for instance, and the ability to see seemed to gnaw at him the most. Working himself up, Gerald put forth effort to create. It was like doing physics backwards and inside out. The end result was a brilliant luminescence. Gerald thought it was a bit dazzling and somewhat flashy, but it definitely fit the bill. In all, Gerald believed it was a nice first step.

Thus began the long process of Gerald’s creation. As with all things, he found pitfalls. For example, he tried to snap his fingers. That was when Gerald noticed he had no hands. After hands were roughly formed, he tried snapping again. The action looked right, but there was no sound. So Gerald installed sound and tried again, only to find the same results. What seemed like an eternity passed before Gerald discovered the problem. He had no ears to hear the snap.

The first body he created worked wonderfully for about one minute. It heard the clear snap of his fingers, but it had one major flaw. The body had to breathe, so it died. Gerald floated beside his body, examining it. It dawned on the would-be maker that he was getting ahead of himself. He needed a more basic approach to this whole Immaculate Conception idea. For that was the problem, it wasn’t perfect. Therefore, he devised a plan where he could create everything in seven steps.

Gerald decided to call the stages days. Calling them anything else would probably take too long. He figured transforming the past into the present and the present into the future would be the final touch to everything; however he hadn’t made the time for it.

As Gerald worked, each day turned out to be a nightmare. Anything he tried to create needed to be fashioned out of something. The problem was that he liked things to be unique. Therefore, he made umpteen amounts of elements. Each element at its smallest form was similar to its other elemental siblings. From there, he began sculpting all that would be.

Without a true concept of time, it was impossible to say how long it took Gerald to create things like organs, sand dunes, wave patterns, etc. Of course, the theologians he created later said it was seven days. Since that was good enough for Gerald, it was good enough for them. Plus, they got to go home early for lunch by avoiding debating the issue.

As Gerald shaped reality, he found he could multitask. He decided if these things he called fish were going to breed, he needed to create their descendants. As he got the hang of it, he found he could make entire generations of fish in a matter of moments.

As each day ended, he looked about him and thought how good it all was. When the seventh finally ended, Gerald sighed and slept. When he awoke in his beautiful universe, he felt like some company. The first attempt at company was a massive amount of winged people. They were pretty, genderless, and had a pension for prancing about. As nice as they were, they weren’t very complex. If there was anything Gerald had discovered about himself it was that he liked complexity.

So on his next crack at it, he removed the wings and began with a more basic design. The image of this creation came from his vision of himself. As nice as this was, the creation was simply a statue. Seeing how intricate this endeavor would be, Gerald smiled, anticipating the challenge.

First, Gerald decided on a skeletal framework. This was something he had used in most of his other creations. This framework would serve to house organs and keep the structure of this new being. After struggling with tissues, vessels, and other such things, Gerald had created his first prototype. He was most proud of the object he called a brain. This brain was one of the most intricate living substances he had ever created. It allowed his creation to adapt to nearly anything. It also enabled the creation to form understandings and theories. Happy with this design, Gerald created a mate for his invention.

For a while, all things were going smoothly. Then some trouble started, which upset Gerald and he had the urge to remake his creations. It was a conflict as old as time: a tree, a snake and two naked people. In spite of these bad feelings, Gerald still loved his children. So, he gave them a chance and let them be on their own.

The urge to recreate never stopped though. Every time he came face to face with one of his children, he unmade that individual. Gerald had to stop associating with them. Therefore, he worked through intermediaries in order to help his world. After establishing a communication system, he moved on to making new worlds in hopes that one day they would meet his favorite world he called Earth.

CHAPTER 1

“Sometimes you need to create something exactly in your own image for two reasons. Firstly, it is fun. Secondly, because you can.”

~Wisdom of Gerald;
Unpublished~

The day was nondescript. It had no real clouds; there was only a sun that seemed to be half-heartedly shining around. The light didn't even appear to be directed anywhere. It randomly cast itself on everything without forethought. Nothing shone with a brilliant color or hinted at anything that might prove important in a later chapter. The only thing of note on this lackluster day was a birth in a small town which was known only for its unremarkable nature.

“I'm going to kill you, Richard!” A woman's voice tore through the silence. It issued from a bland little house at one end of the town.

“Now dear, let's be reasonable,” Richard soothed in a bored voice. “I'm sure this is nothing new. We can just ask the . . .”

“No, Richard Bartholomew Muntz! You’re the one who put this thing in me and once it’s out, I will rip off your head, grab the largest pile of dung, shove it down you and ask you to push.” A very wicked smile crossed the very pregnant woman's face. “Oh, and lets not forget, I'll be there to help you through it all. Perhaps I'll say things like NOW THERE!” A cry of pain escaped before she was able to say something really nasty.

A moment should be taken to describe the initial three players of our drama. The first was a woman in bed. She had brown hair the color of ripe chocolate or, if you prefer, of overripe grapefruit; eyes at least as blue as a partly cloudy sky; and, in her current state of pregnancy, she was at least as round as she was tall.

The man standing next to her, and the target of her ire, can loosely be described as her husband. He too sported a mop of brown hair, but his was more the color of dirty dishwater, or at least what passed as clear drinking water for their town. His eyes were blue like stormy clouds; clouds that, if given the choice, would gladly spew their bowels upon the earth. As for his height, he was about average.

The final person crammed into the Muntz’s small abode was the midwife. This man had a soft quality of the kind found in overflowing dough or misshapen clay. Upon this swollen mass of humanity sat a couple of handfuls of graying hair, which looked eager to escape the cranial edifice. The overall feel of the individual was that of grease rather slimy, but good for cooking some things. His name was Mr. Johnson.

True fear gripped Richard. Turning, he gave Mr. Johnson a desperate look. “Isn't there anything you can do?” He gestured toward the woman. “Eleanor is using my full name and that only means trouble.”

The rotund midwife raised his eyebrows. “I thought the whole bit about shoving dung down you and asking you to push would be the more worrying part.”

Richard shook his head, completely unconcerned. “No, she does that all the time . . . she calls it dinner.” Richard patted his clothes and pulled out a pipe from somewhere. After taking a long drag, he removed it and used it to point to his yelling wife. “No, you see, when you're married you need to pick up on what's important. That's what defines a good marriage.”

Mr. Johnson pointed at Richard’s pipe. “Don't you think . . . ?”

Richard shook his head and smiled. “No, no, she's quite used to it. Isn't that right dear?”

“You piece of . . .”

“Isn't there something you can do?” Richard interrupted. He rubbed his temples. “It's really starting to give me a headache.”

Midwife Johnson sighed and nodded. “I have been working on a technique and I think it might help.” And with that he began twisting Eleanor into a position that would make a pretzel cringe. After he was done he asked her, “Does that help?”

“. . . I . . . Richard you're a . . . huh.” She looked up at the midwife from the tangle of limbs. “Yes, this is quite nice actually. You are a rather good midwife, Mr. Johnson.”

The fleshy mountain of a man smiled. “You know, you wouldn’t believe how I became a midwife.”

Both Richard and Eleanor smiled. People schooled in society would recognize the sign that neither of them cared. Fortunately, Mr. Johnson had not attended this school of uselessness and continued.

“I admit, in my youth, I was a bit of a pervert. I was completely fascinated with the birthing process.” Mr. Johnson stared out the window at the middle distance. He would have examined the far distance, but his eyes weren’t as good as they used to be. “I would come up with all manner of excuses. Once, I even claimed I was a bed inspector and my inspection could not be put off.” He turned to the married couple.

Trying to maintain civility, the couple smiled back. Taking it as a sign to explain further, Mr. Johnson went on.

“Well, on one such occasion, I believe I was a midwife shoe inspector, old Mrs. Langley had a heart-attack. We helped her as best we could, but there was no way she could deliver the child. So, yours truly stepped into the breech. Now, I deliver most of the babes around these parts and I couldn’t be happier.”

The couple felt trapped by the massive midwife. Something had to be done. Thanks to the new position she was in, Eleanor had the presence of mind to change the subject. “That picture really is dreadful, Richard,” Eleanor remarked in her usual calm tone, which Richard was more accustomed to ignoring.

“Yes, dear,” he responded blandly.

“And you really must get to fixing the roof.”

“Of course, dear.”

“You know the weather is not at all remarkable today.”

“Right, my darling.” He turned to midwife Johnson. “Look is there any way for us to move this thing . . .” He waved his hand impatiently. “You know . . . along?”

“Well actually,” midwife Johnson began. “She can now have it any time she wants. That's the beauty of this position I placed her in.” He moved a hand towards Eleanor. “I call it ‘The Tired Crab Which Found a Carrot and Has Beat Down Two Pigs with it Backwards,’ since that's what it looks like.”

Richard nodded appreciatively after looking at his wife for a moment. “That it does. No question about it.” Realizing the pace of the whole event now resided in his wife's hands, he queried the distracted Mrs. Muntz. “So my love, are we having a child today?”

Eleanor looked up a bit surprised. She had found some needlework on the side table and was furiously at work. “Oh, I don't know. Honestly I can really go for another month.” Then she went back to her work.

Quickly, Richard turned toward the midwife, who was rubbing his chin contemplatively, and inquired, “She can't really do that, can she?”

Johnson shrugged. “Actually a whole year would be the next time she might feel any discomf . . .” He was broken off by Richard shaking him violently.

“You will get that child out of there, or by all the gods I will . . . I will . . .” Richard stopped since his wife and midwife Johnson were both staring at him with shocked expressions. Richard recovered. “I mean, it's my child as well. I'd like the chance to hold her, him . . . it, at the earliest convenience.”

He released his grip on Johnson and laughed that nervous laugh that tells everyone in earshot how much of a real jerk you are, but, hey, you're at least trying to fake it that you are not a bastard. After all, you are laughing.

“Right.” Johnson nodded, evidently not accustomed to normal society. “In that case, the next thing we'll need is some sand.” Both Eleanor and Richard looked blankly at the midwife. “I think I have some outside with the rest of my things. It should only take four moments.”

To Johnson's credit, it only took two moments to get the sand. In the third moment, he was letting sand slowly escape from his hand. In the final moment, they had a baby.

As Johnson cleaned the sand away, he explained, “I think the sand affects the whole crab portion of the position. And so when women hear the sand they . . .” He continued to ramble on, but no one was listening. The new parents were absorbed in the mysteries of child birth. In their own way, of course.

Eleanor, who was untangling herself from her own legs, looked at Richard, who was holding their new son. She smiled as motherly pride washed over her. Her baby had a head full of wild-looking, dark brown hair and wide inquisitive blue eyes that seemed to say, “What’s that and can I have five of them?” Strangely, her son hadn't even cried. It's odd; he kind of looks like that guy Ian I went to school with.

Richard, on the other hand, had thoughts all his own. I thought this was going to be a girl. Now I'll be expected to raise it. At least with a girl I had the choice of ignoring it and letting Eleanor do all the raising. He peered closely at the child. It seemed to be possessed of a divine life and if there was one thing that Richard could not stand, it was luminescent babies. Therefore, he preferred to think of the infant in more mundane terms. It looks like that guy I went to school with. What was his name? Ian!

Their son, completely fascinated with the big object in front of him, reached out and grabbed. Pulling the pipe out of his father’s mouth, the baby emptied it out over the front of Richard’s shirt and then threw it back.

Richard yelped, first from the hot remains of his pipe burning into his chest, then from being poked in the eyes by his pipe. Using all of his will power not to throw the baby away, he placed it in the arms of a mostly unfolded Eleanor.

“He's quite the investigator,” Richard muttered through gritted teeth while he rubbed his eyes.

“Indeed, and it looks like he's doing a little bit of baby measuring.” The baby was indeed doing just that, having turned his investigation from his mother’s left breast to her right. After a moment, he determined it was slightly larger by one wiggling thing, that wiggling thing being his finger.

“. . . and so I've been afraid to use water since the child may hit the wall . . .” Mr. Johnson finally stopped talking since he just noticed that no one was paying him any attention. Looking over, he mistook the tableau before him as family bliss and he smiled. For Mr. Johnson's sake, it was close enough. And in this moment, he ventured a question, “So what's his name?”

Simultaneously, Eleanor and Richard replied, “Ian.”

Midwife Johnson nodded his approval. “Good name. You know, I went to school with a guy named Ian. He kind of looks like him.”


“Everyone searches for answers in their own way. Some are just more creative than others.”

~The Many Soothing Words of Gerald;
Volume 297 p.853~

From baby to young boy, Ian's inquisitive nature continued and grew more complex. He would explore the village and find things that needed better explanations. Like how did Ms. Rooker's goat keep getting on the roof of her house? Why was the well located at the top of the hill? If Mr. Gillmore is married to Mrs. Gillmore, why does he sneak into Mrs. Court's house almost every night?

At first, many of Ian's questions received kind answers. However, Ian’s questions didn’t stop. So the answers became harsher. Still, Ian pressed, until finally the villagers worked out a standard response to his endless questions, “Only the Gods know, my boy, only the Gods know.”

Of course, this did not dissuade Ian. Instead, he found new ways to acquire knowledge.

Reaching back to his infant stage, he recalled measuring things with his hands. Thus began a long period of time where people weren't surprised to find Ian's hand prints on everything. From cattle to under-things, people would run across a small child's handprint wherever they looked. Therefore, the town met regularly in the village hall to discuss Ian and how he inconvenienced their lives.

“The boy's a menace. Just last week I found his handprints all over Mrs. Court's bed,” Mr. Gillmore complained.

Mr. Court stood up next. “And all my cattle look like they've been slapped around.” It was a well known fact that Mr. Court had an obsession about his animals.

“I think that boy has been influencing my sweet angel Jamie for the worse,” said Jamie's mother. She thought the world revolved around her child. “My little Jamie left his handprint on my good apron.” Jamie’s mother was continuously giving useless comments such as these at every meeting.

“Now, now,” the leader of the group called out over the complaints. “We all agree that Ian is a problem and steps need to be taken in order to minimize his impact on our lives.” Richard, Ian's father, paused to make sure he had everyone's attention. “This blight on our land must be dealt with in a reasonable and kind way.” He held up a hand when the crowd started to get rowdy. “I know, I know, my wife says we'd be barbarians if we were to simply tie him to a tree and wait for nature to run its course. So, as reluctant as I am to agree with her, we need some suggestions.”

Richard had started this group because he had become tired of dealing with everybody's complaints on a one-to-one basis every day. He thought it might just be easier to deal with them all at once. He never realized how much he would actually enjoy the meetings.

An elderly man slowly got to his feet and began speaking in a hesitant, mind-dullingly, unhurried pace. “Well . . . if all of you wouldn't mind . . . there has been something that's been moving around in my brain. You see . . . it's been coming to me since the first time the boy's been scampering around these parts . . .”

The speaker’s name was Mr. Shrumpkin. He had not attended the previous 21 meetings. It was believed that he meant to attend, but only just arrived.

Mr. Shrumpkin was well-known for his long winded approach to any conversation. It was as if he had a personal grudge against words and decided the best route to victory was outlasting them. According to later writing by Ian, he actually succeeded at this goal. The writing states that Mr. Shrumpkin started a conversation in which he used a slang word and by the end of whatever he had to say, not only was the word forgotten, but no one could even tell you what Mr. Shrumpkin's point was.

Thankfully, on this occasion, Mr. Shrumpkin was being unusually brief and ended his assault on language after only four hours. “And so you see . . . with all that has been said before . . . why exactly I might be leaning towards that very thing. The thing I said . . . is what I'm getting at.”

As Mr. Shrumpkin wound down, the person set on this hour's watch clapped their hands in order to wake everyone up.

Once the group refreshed themselves, a summary was given. Ms. Dudley, the secretary, recited the major points. “According to Mr. Shrumpkin, the boy should use his imagination to measure things. And so that nothing gets out of hand, we can construct a board in which all of Ian's findings can be posted.”

Everyone blinked. No one was certain as to how it had happened, but they all thought this was a grand idea and it was passed by a unanimous vote. This, however, was probably the single worst decision the group ever made.

Ian, without a doubt, was excited by the news. Not only were they asking him to be imaginative, but they also wanted the information he provided. With a hop in his step, he went out to begin this new quest for knowledge.

The first order of business was to measure everyone's height. Since his hands were out of the question, Ian needed to devise a whole new way of looking at the world.

“I must separate the people into like categories,” Ian pondered aloud. Observing their idiosyncrasies and behaviors, it came to him. He remembered what his parents called each other. Father typically calls mother an old sow. So women will be measured in pigs. And mother calls father a jackass, so men will be measured in donkeys.

The very next day, the village was treated to a full accounting of all their heights in this rather odd manner. One column listed women: Mrs. Gillmore, 3 sows 4 piglets tall, 2 sows wide; Mrs. Court 4 sows tall, 1 sow wide; Ms. Gardish . . . The other column listed men: Mr. Gillmore, 1 ¼ donkeys tall, 1 donkey wide; Mr. Court 1 ½ donkeys tall, 1 ½ donkeys wide; Mr. Shrumpkin . . . And each day new lists were put up.

Some of the lists people liked, such as trading values of grown vegetables in a barter system. Some lists only a select group of people liked. One such list dealt with the size of the women's chests. Mrs. Court was ranked as ripe melon, with Ms. Heartly ranked as unhealthy apple. Some lists even became competitions, like the weight lifting results. Mr. Court could lift 12 Ms. Heartlys, while Mr. Shrumpkin could only lift 1/2 Ms. Heartlys. As fun as it was though, Ms. Heartly was tired of everyone picking her up.

After the more obvious features of people were examined, Ian needed more challenging experiments. Ian decided to make the investigations more personal. There were studies about how many times Mr. Gillmore grabbed Mrs. Court when he thought no one was looking. There was a study that told how far Dr. Fuller, the village veterinarian, could kick Mrs. Reily's annoying dog. And there was even studies that no one, but the person involved, seemed to understand. One such study involved Mr. Court where it stated, in one week's time, he slept with 5 cows, 2 goats, 2 pigs, 1 chicken, and 1 Mrs. Court. For some reason Mr. Court took some pride in this study.

Now, after a while, one might imagine that people would stop helping Ian gather information, but that in itself was difficult. The problem was that Ian was so cheerful and determined. It was like a pack of puppies trying to snuggle someone to death. The expression sounded cute, until you got to the point where they started succeeding.

As time wore on, the villagers couldn't really say anything bad about Ian. Everyone simply knew that they had a deep, everlasting hatred towards him. All except for Jamie, that is.

Jamie was Ian's only really close friend. Standing at half a donkey tall and one donkey wide, Jamie was the poster boy for simple. Stringy brown hair topped a placid looking face that made cows look like very expressive individuals. His eyes shone with a brown dullness that was reminiscent of ugly rocks and slow snails. The kind of snail other snails make fun of, but not to their face. Growing up with a mother that liked to smother him every chance she got, it was only natural that he became friends with Ian. The reason being that Ian reminded Jamie of his mother, both were relentless in whatever they obsessed over.

“So what'cha gonna study now?” Jamie asked as he tossed another stone over the pond, hitting a tree on the other side. Most kids threw stones into ponds; Jamie was still working on that.

“Forty-five,” Ian counted Jamie's forty-fifth stone toss. “I don't know. I'm running out of ideas. After a while, people just live in the same pattern they're used to.”

Jamie tossed another stone. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Every morning my mom dresses me and color coordinates my socks based on each day of the week.”

“Forty-six.” Ian nodded. “The only thing that even was remotely different this past month was that herb salesman.”

Jamie paused, attempting to use his memory. It took some time since his mother wasn't there to remind him how it all worked. Finally it found its way to the surface, almost like a lost traveler who discovers that they accidentally came to the right place.

“Oh yeah,” Jamie said with a hard-won sense of accomplishment. “His stuff smelled pretty bad.”

“Yes . . .” Ian murmured slowly. There was something about the smelly herbs. What was it? They did something. It was odd that the man was trying to sell anything, since all the herbs he was selling grow in abundance just outside the village.

“Forty-seven,” Ian mindlessly counted, as his brain went down several paths of thought at the same time.

While Ian was deep in thought, Jamie explored mental paths all his own. The living intensity that is Jamie’s brain whorled with possibilities, deep thoughts competing for his limited attention until one clear winner emerged. “I should throw a smooth one.” Evidently, that was this round’s winner.

Jamie started winding back for his next throw, but was interrupted by Ian.

“Jamie!” Ian stood with almost an audible boing sound.

“Ahh!” Jamie yelped in fright, the smooth stone in his hand slipping out, landing squarely in the pond.

“Forty-seven and a half.” Ian turned to his friend. “Don't you remember, Jamie, about the narcotic herbs?” Jamie looked blank. “About the smelly ones?” asked Ian, trying to encourage his slow-witted friend.

When Jamie's expression simply said, “Sorry, out of business. Brain activity closed down due to poor sales,” Ian just completed Jamie's thought process for him.

“The man said that the smelly roots acted as a narcotic.” To emphasize his point, Ian's hand flared out.

Unfortunately, Jamie's mind mall was still closed.

Ian sighed. “Look, my problem is the villagers are the same. Day in and day out, they do the same things. Now if we administered a small narcotic it would change their behaviors. And . . .” Ian led, hoping Jamie's winded fat man of a brain would catch up.

“Then . . .” the tendrils of thought slowly moved inside Jamie’s mind, “then, they would . . . be smelly?” Jamie finished hopefully.

Ian took a deep breath. “No Jamie,” he said calmly. “Giving them a narcotic would alter their behavior. This means I could study the new changes.”

Still not following his friend’s line of thought, Jamie's poor excuse for a main computing system rallied. “But they'd still be smelly?”

Ian opened his mouth to reply and then shut it. After some time, he finally answered, “Yes . . . I suppose they would at that.”

As the two boys got up to head back into the town, they each smiled to themselves. Both felt they had accomplished some good cerebrating today. One had found a novel way in looking at the world; the other thought people were going to be smelly. And in their own way, both boys were going to be horribly right.