Writer
A powerful story begins with a foundation of words. John has been crafting stories since he was a child. It is within the crafting of evocative visual prose that a story can take flight across a page or a screen. John has written and produced numerous screenplays, including his short film Simply Sandra. He has contributed to Video Maker Magazine and most recently authored the first novel of his forthcoming fantasy series Singularity.
Writing
Below is the opening two chapters of the novel Singularity. The first book in a planned series.
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A Singularity, all time in the breath of a single flame, flickering in the darkness of eternity. Here we find Renascence, a clockwork metropolis of gas lamps and steam engines at the height of a new industrial age.
There reside three friends. Marie Holdstead, a doubt-ridden artist of low means, dreaming of a better life. Edgar Isenstein, a kind young professor and secret purveyor of an illegal medicine. And Mardin Covington, a clever writer and dedicated cynic, disinherited by his family for the crime of speaking truth to power.
Singularity, set in a steampunk fantasy future, is an adventure mystery of cosmic revelations, a journey of love and friendship that shakes the fabric of time and dimensional possibilities. When terrorists attack the clockwork city, the three friends will be drawn into a web of secret societies, dangerous conspiracies, and the awakening of the hidden potential of the soul.
SINGULARITY
Time is Dying.
The hours wither, losing all semblance of warmth or purpose. Thoughts fade into forgetfulness. Soon there will be no memory.
Jericho breathes in sharply. None would believe what he knows. The sleeping masses, the well-to-do men, the kind mothers, the highest nobles to the lowest beggars, all will drown together. The deserving and undeserving alike, swept away. A fall abetted by blind fools and vengeful madmen.
All that is, all that could yet be, is being devoured.
Jericho must do what he can. Though one may as well try to hold back the ocean. But it is his duty. Forestall the enemy for as long as possible.
Golden light kisses the rotating gears of the Cathedral Clock Tower. Jericho crouches in the rafters, silent, waiting. The deep droning knock of the great pendulums surrounds him. He watches the mechanical apparatus measuring time in a manner so precise, so assured; a confident rotating lie.
A small sparrow appears, landing on the rafter across from him. It chirps to the music of the winding wheels. Birds don’t feel time. They live with each breath, lost to the cares of consciousness. Jericho longs for such a feeling. Consciousness is curse enough for most men, but he is no longer most men.
A chamber door scrapes across the floor below, startling the bird into flight. Six men in dingy gray robes, faces wrapped to obscure their features, stalk slowly into the chamber. They fan across the room taking care to be quiet.
A thorough circuit is walked to be certain they are alone. Every inch of the tower is accounted for, everywhere except the clock gears above.
Jericho watches, unseen.
The intruders huddle together in the center of the chamber and begin to un-wrap their packs. They pull forth explosive fire sticks and small bags of black powder. Their odd clothes mark them as fanatical cultists of the Hex Pathos, martyr zealots committed to a mysterious and dangerous religion, something to do with relinquishing worldly vice and comforts.
Jericho is not versed in their dogma, but he remembers them from his earlier days as a member of the clergy, when life was… simple. He pushes the past from his mind. Today he has one goal, defend the clock tower.
The sun is setting. He glances at the ornate clock faces, six twenty in the early eve. A grim resignation washes over him. There is no satisfaction in what he must now do. Jericho closes his eyes and concentrates, calling upon the power of his hidden gifts, the power of Metasis.
The air around him warps and ripples, a halo of silvery light pulses at the periphery of sight. His vision amplifies in clarity. He exhales, forcing time to slow and bend to his will; such is the nature of his power.
The world comes into a wild spinning sort of focus. All is clear to his mind’s eye, even before he jumps. He feels the ground rushing up to meet his feet, the movement of his midnight green cloak, the silence to follow the slaughter.
Jericho drops with a panther’s stealth.
His sleeves open and twin scythes unfold from their hiding places along his forearms. His boots reach the ground silently, cushioned by the flowing power of slowed time. In a flash he is amongst the zealots, low and deadly.
He cuts throats and limbs with the grace of a dancer. Four of the men are dead before they hit the floorboards. Two survive. One falls with a cry, holding a near fatal wound where his neck and shoulder meets. The other is lucky enough to fall backwards out of range.
The chamber is streaked with red. Jericho stands full up, looming over the fallen survivors. The bleeding man chokes desperately. With a whirling flick of his wrist Jericho ends the man’s suffering.
The lone survivor stares at his fallen comrades. Jericho considers questioning him. Information is currency and the Hex Pathos are a strange lot. The more he knows the more he can anticipate their next moves.
He snaps his wrists, releasing the locks on his scythes. With a grating click they fold back up against his arms. He kneels before the last man.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks in a commanding bass.
“You are the Nephilim!” the man says, a note of accusation in his voice. His accent is unfamiliar.
“Is that what they call me now?” Jericho asks.
At last count he has four titles, Reaver, Anguls Mortius, Rat Stalker, and End Bringer. This is a new one, though it sounds familiar. Perhaps referenced in the scripture he once held sacrosanct. Jericho frowns in the depths of his hood.
A human touch is perhaps needed. He reaches up and draws back his hood. His black skin catches the light, reflecting a luminescent purple hue. His golden eyes gleam like that of a great hunting cat. He lets his expression soften a touch.
“And what shall I call you?” he asks, mildly.
“It does not matter. We have served the House of All,” the man says softly.
Jericho’s eyes narrow. The what?
“I mistook you for Hex Pathos,” he says.
“This is where we begin,” the man responds. “Now we serve All.”
Jericho feels a chill of uncertainty prick his shoulders. This is all information he’s never heard before. More mysteries.
“Now we are as free,” the man declares.
“Free?” Jericho asks. “You came here to martyr yourselves. No? But you failed. The clock tower stands. You live. You shall keep on living… until I decide otherwise.”
“No,” the man replies. “Our goal was to draw out the Nephilim.” He smiles. “To draw you out.” A slow impending dread forms at Jericho’s core.
“Draw me out,” he repeats. “Why?”
The man looks at him, his eyes wide and mocking, delighting in the turning of the tables. Jericho grabs him by the collar of his robe.
“Why?”
“You would have interfered,” a deep otherworldly voice booms behind him, a foreboding rumble like the onset of an avalanche.
Jericho freezes. Another intruder is directly behind him. He should have heard this new threat approach. He unclips the latches at his wrists. Jericho spins low as his scythes return to his hands, striking in one fluid motion. He stops short, still crouching on one knee, disbelief banishing all other thoughts.
Just beyond his reach towers the biggest man he’s ever seen.
Long dark, gray streaked hair cascades in a wind that isn’t there. As do the folded layers of a gray tattered cloak. The man’s torso is stripped, striking in its nakedness as it is lined from neck to waist in strange intricate tattoos. Each one connects to the other as if his body is home to the constellations of the night sky. Below them he wears black trousers and high worn boots.
Jericho dares to look the being in the eye.
Half the man’s face is hidden behind a dark gray mask. Ancient eyes regard him. Jericho is utterly transfixed. For in that gaze he beholds knowledge, weariness and an all-encompassing power. Jericho had been warned to watch for one such as this. A terrifying being his masters called the Apostate.
“You,” Jericho says in mingled terror and awe.
“Let us cleanse your conscience,” the Apostate rumbles.
The bells toll, filling the belfry with the crashing tones of half past six. Jericho feels it in his chest, a welling weight, as if the whole tower is coming down on top of him. The Apostate seems ablaze with a nimbus of surrounding light, an aura that illuminates and consumes everything around it. Heat waves on the horizon dancing with shadows. The man slowly begins to raise his right hand.
The movement ignites an animal instinct in Jericho.
He lunges, but barely makes it a step before being pulled into the air by unseen hands and thrown violently against the far wall. Stars explode in his eyes. He struggles to move. To think. The clock tolls loudly in his ears.
He looks up through a concussive haze and what he sees is impossible. The fanatics he just martyred are on their feet, standing in a circle around the Apostate. The huge man looks down. Blinding light emanates from the center of the circle. The light hits Jericho like a blow.
Darkness overtakes him. He dwells in it for a time before all sensations fade. He opens his eyes, his ears still ringing. The clock tower holds the last rays of the failing sun. It could only have been minutes. He remains where he fell, a dull ache in his right side. He staggers to his feet.
The terrorists are all gone. No bodies. No blood. No sign that the last few minutes had ever occurred.
Jericho hears a low booming in the distance, like heat thunder. He makes his way to the door that feeds out onto the observation balcony, high above the Hyperion Quarter. From up here he can see the whole city skyline.
Horror closes his throat and crushes his heart. Smoke rises against the twilight sun. Fires pulse along the distant avenues. The clock tower was a decoy.
The city of Renascence is burning.
Wolflight is an early endeavor about a young man who discovers a new reality.
Wolflight
By John Joyner
The jagged stones of the mountainside were wet with snow. Landon Banner’s mind raced, as ice buckled under the weight of his boots. Blinding clouds of snow dusted into his face. His camera, hanging from his shoulder, knocked against the stone. He clawed at the cliff face, finding a small jutting rock to wrap his gloved hands around.
Desperately he probed his boot along the wall searching for a foothold. Wind raged, pulling at him. Finding a small crack, Landon dug his toes in. He stopped moving, holding hard to the cleavage of stone.
The camera slid awkwardly down into the crook of his arm. Part of him just wanted to drop it. The only reason he was up here was the damn camera. But that thought only reinforced his need to save it. It seemed sick, but at that moment the camera was as important as his own survival. It would yield proud rewards… if he survived.
Trying to control his breathing, Landon looked back to where the cliff had broken away. His equipment still rested where he had set it down, a few feet from the drop off, ten feet or so from where he was now.
Calm.
He needed to stay calm. Panic would be fatal here.
Landon prided himself on keeping his head in emergencies, it was his job as an extreme photographer, but he had never been in a situation quite like this one.
Calm. Think.
Just as clarity began to wash away the panic, Landon’s camera swung hard in a blast of wind. The blow forced him to shift his weight.
His boot slipped and he realized he was falling.
He slammed face down into a snowdrift. Stars flashed through his vision. Snow enveloped him. He felt nothing. Cold mingled with void weightlessness.
Then sensation landed on top of him.
Landon heaved, gasping for air. Snow stung his eyes. Pain erupted through his center rippling to hands and feet. He shuddered in the would-be grave in the snow bank.
He held his sides forcing cold air into his lungs, each breath wracked by fits of coughing. A dull pain was forming in his middle. How far had he fallen?
Shaking he pushed himself up onto his knees. Another rush of pain seared through him from his center, a throbbing pain.
I’m really hurt.
The thought came unbidden and obvious. Then he saw his camera and knew why his middle hurt so much.
He had landed on it.
The lens lay a foot away, half buried in snow. The main body was cracked. The film coiled out of the open gate in a disjointed knot. In disbelief he fumbled through it.
All wet, all ruined.
Landon’s face flushed. Anger quickly overwhelmed pain. Fury sparked behind his eyes. The last day of climbing and all the images captured burned in the gray light of day.
A third rush of pain made him cry out.
What the hell?
The throbbing was getting worse, stronger.
A heart attack?
A fourth rush flogged him. The pain and anger competed. His muscles strained, squeezing him. He howled and distantly realized the pain had launched him to his feet. Tears froze in his eyes, even as they formed.
A fifth beat and everything changed.
For an instant, Landon could feel every nerve in his body. A burning that made him want to tear off his skin as if it were on fire. The wind seemed to swirl and freeze his bones even as the fevered throb pumped in his ears, burning away his flesh. A loud popping sound accompanied by what sounded like a thick branch breaking silenced every sensation… except panic.
He was sure he was dying.
Then the mists rolled back and light streamed through the clouds. Brilliant hues of gold and red. Landon blinked.
The sun was huge on the horizon, bathing the mountainside in rich orange light. Somehow it seemed to soothe him. Slowly the overload of sensations dwindled into memory.
What had just happened? Landon marveled.
Thunder rumbled distantly in answer.
The fog seemed to be parting in the middle, forming an ocean of billowing fiery clouds above and below. The sun blazed at the center. Lightning struck, up from the clouds beneath.
Landon started back.
A second strike and a third flashed back and forth among the mists. He brought his hand up to advert his gaze but stopped short.
A huge clawed hand rose into his vision, massive and matted with thick white fur. Landon’s jaw dropped. He raised his other hand.
It too was a clawed hand; white furred and three times the size of his own.
The light seemed to shine on him as never before. The lightning seemed to dance. The thunder tolled like a gong. As if some great clock had come crashing down.
Landon Banner threw back his head to scream for some hold on reality, but all he heard was a low mournful howl, echoing across the mountains.
