Phenderson Djèlí Clark

Brief Bio

2007-06-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

Phenderson Djèlí Clark

Afro-Caribbean-American writer of speculative fiction. Raised on genres of fantasy, sci fi, horror and the supernatural, I felt a need for more diverse tales with more diverse characters drawn from more diverse sources. To that end, I put pen to pad and fingers to keyboard, seeking to Imagine, Dream and Create new realms to explore.

Insurgency

2007-06-11T18:53:00.000-07:00

Genre: Sci-Fi, Futurist, Novel/Vignettes

Synopsis:

Against the backdrop of a futurist and war-torn landscape: Insurgents wage guerilla tactics against a powerful foe. An embedded reporter attempts to tell a story and maintain his objectivity. Religious fanatics fight a bloody crusade under the banner of Heaven. A young man must decide which path he will walk. An occupation soldier attempts to keep faith in his mission and stay alive. A trained healer must come to terms with his "oath." A lone denizen of a shattered and lifeless land finds an unlikely companion. These vignettes, each their own story, give glimpses into the front lines of battle, as those engaged in games of war and death vie for power and survival in the midst of occupation and insurgency.

Excerpt:

Shadow had been part of the resistance since the beginning.

To sit and grovel at the feet of the invaders was just not in her. She wanted to fight back, to show these occupiers that conquering her home wouldn’t be so easy a task. At first she had only been a courier of messages, relaying encrypted code through the insurgent underground. Then she had become the founder of their weekly data sheets, a type of electronic news system that not only kept the far flung resistance cells informed, but provided vital information on occupation troop movements, strength and more. But finally she had abandoned that project to some eager students, taking her battles to the front lines—becoming a guerrilla fighter in the truest sense of the word.

In fact they had a bounty out for her arrest or capture. They called her a terrorist and a criminal, saddling her with more crimes than she could easily remember. The attacks on enemy troops, installations and machines she gladly took credit for. But the others, the more unsavory acts, she vehemently denied.

There had probably never been such a thing as a perfect and sanitized insurgency, and this one would be no different. Counted among their ranks were indeed terrorists and criminals. In the Midwest there were Disciples of The Lamb, a Christian fundamentalist extremist group that often killed indiscriminately—kidnapping civilian workers, or some of the other beings brought here to toil, and setting them ablaze on camera, claiming to carry out Christ’s will.

Then there were the Patriots, a North American resistance faction that swore loyalty to the former United States, wearing strips of red, white and blue and carrying small copies of the Constitution, which they memorized and chanted day and night. They killed not only the occupiers, but also anyone considered to be assisting them—using car bombs, suicide attacks and more. Most of their victims in fact had been ordinary people unfortunate enough to take up what was often the only remaining means of employment.

And there were others. Former soldiers out for revenge, mobsters who felt pinched by the occupation, fanatics out for glory, crusaders blazing a path to heaven, freedom fighters and madmen—you name it. What united them all in their dissimilar tactics and beliefs was their ultimate goal—to drive the Ragnarok overlords from their home world, or die trying.

Insurgency, Chapter 1: Shadow and Akila

Messiah

2007-06-11T17:06:00.000-07:00

Genre: Sci Fi, Novella

Synopsis:

Maryse St. Michael always knew her son was special. Born in the midst of tragedy, he had become her shining symbol of hope. Throughout the years Maryse had watched as sinister forces threatened to destroy him, while others sought to protect him, with neither side ever telling her why. Demons and Angels she called them, waging a holy war for the soul of her child--the one she had aptly named, Messiah.

Excerpt:

"Come on Messiah!" Maryse yelled, pulling her son along in a mad run down the subway steps.

The sound of a train rumbled below, and she knew it was their own. They had stayed too long at the church courtyard. And there were several afternoon photo appointments she couldn’t afford to miss. She slid her subway card into the turnstile and grunted when it didn't work. She tried it again, and still nothing.

"Ma'am, you gonna have to wait a few seconds before you can try it again," the woman behind the counter said, never taking her eyes from a book.

Standing irritated while glancing at her watch, Maryse tried the card again. She was rewarded with success. With Messiah in tow she bounded off down a corridor before meeting a set of stairs. At the top of the steps they could see their train arriving.

"We gotta run Messiah!"

It was Saturday. She didn't want to wait twenty minutes for the next train. A wall of people met her on the stairway. It was like trying to move through a beehive. She pushed her way through the swarm to the subway platform below, Messiah firmly in her grasp. She knew she had to get into one of the cars before their doors closed. She hoped they could find a seat.

The blow to her side came hard, like something sharp and fierce had been pushed into her insides. It was a red-haired woman in a dark coat that had passed her. The woman's elbow had dug into her kidneys, almost as if the blow was intentional. Maryse stumbled and fell to her hands and knees in agony, trying to catch her breath. Momentarily dazed she looked up to find people still moving, most ignoring her near prostrate form. A hand moved to clutch at the stinging pain on her side. And then it struck her. That hand was supposed to be holding Messiah.

Maryse came alive in moments, eyes frantically searching the mass of moving people for her son. She stopped when she found him. He was across from her, near the other side of the platform. His eyes stared back at her helplessly. Someone held his arm firm, dragging him as they went. It was the same red-haired figure in the dark coat. The woman seemed engrossed in staring down at the watch on her wrist, paying little heed to the struggling figure she held firm.

"Messiah!" Maryse cried out to her son, startling many around her.

At her words the red-haired woman looked up and turned about, staring from beneath dark glasses. Maryse inhaled in horror as she gazed back at that blank expression. The woman was a demon, she was sure of it. A demon had her son.

Maryse pushed up to her feet, ignoring the pain at her side. She had to reach her son. She had to save him. But the demon saw her coming. It stopped at the platform edge. The sound of an approaching train could be heard in the distance. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that.

The demon grabbed Messiah by his shirt, lifting him high into the air and dangling him over the ramp. When Maryse cried out again, everyone suddenly seemed to notice what was going on. A few jumped to their feet and sped towards the red-haired demon that held her son aloft. But they were too late.

"It must be!" the demon snarled loudly, looking down the dark tunnel at the approaching train.

As effortlessly as one would fling a doll, the demon-woman heaved Messiah to the tracks below, directly in the path of the advancing train. Maryse's horrified scream filled the air.

Messiah