Short Story - Ash, 2020

Dear Reader,

This is a Cyberpunk 2020 short piece I put together about a year or two ago after playing the TTRPG. I tried, in places, to pay homage to the ethereal writing style of William Gibson's Neuromancer. I hope you enjoy. 

~H.J. Buck

Flash Fiction - The Company of Rats

 Dear Reader,

This is a short story I wrote for a fiction class last year. This piece is near and dear to my heart because, as I was writing this, my now girlfriend was in the room with me and I realized then that I was in love with her. 

~H.J. Buck

Flash Fiction - DeHUMANized

November rain fell from dark skies. It hammered in an endless barrage through the chill air and landed in a pool of blood which stained the city streets of New Chicago. The liquid poured from bullet wounds in a nameless body. I took out a notepad and began to jot down some notes regarding the scene before me. A raindrop hit the page and I attempted to brush it away, but only succeeded in smearing my words. I cursed. I never knew why I insisted on using paper over datapads; I don’t have any claim to nostalgia. After all, I am not human.

My name is Able. This was one of my first cases as a detective in the NCPD and, especially as an ‘alien,’ I wanted to do everything right. Hogbats were only recently allowed to join the NCPD; the eyes of the world were on us. But, the job had begun to chip away at the last of my optimism. A few embers remained, but I could feel the inevitability of them being snuffed out. 

The body was face down, but it was easy to see that the victim was one of my kind. He had the lanky body, head crest and rough skin that were distinguishing features for Hogbats. When I turned him over, I could still see the fear in all four of his dark eyes. He had been shot in his neck and lower torso.

As I studied the lifeless body, two other police officers -- both of them human -- returned from their hover-car with metallic pillars in their hands. These men had found the body earlier and I decided to come see if I could help. They placed them around the scene which connected with a beam of yellow, holographic light. It read the all-too-familiar words of: CRIME SCENE. DO NOT CROSS. Both cops were human, one older and one younger. They looked at me with visible annoyance, but they did not speak. Instead, the older man handed me a datapad with their report. It read: Hogbat, dead in alleyway on 64th. 

“Had a few run-ins with him before,” the older man said. “This guy was a crook. Probably just pissed off the wrong gang and got fried. Case solved, Detective.”

He said the last words with sarcasm and scorn. Technically, I was his superior, but that didn’t matter when you were a Hogbat in a human city. I looked at him, but I did not speak. 

He simply snorted before saying: “You’re actually gonna take the case, aren’tcha?”

“I am.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s a waste of time. There’ll just be another one tomorrow.”

He was not wrong, and that was the problem. This was business as usual, dead Hogbats in the streets.; my kind lived and died in those streets. After he spoke, the two officers turned around and headed towards their hover-car. I stood there in silence, icy rain utterly drenching my coat and suit. Then I heard the voice of one of the men call out: “Don’t worry about cleaning up the mess. It’ll happen sooner or later.” 

They disappeared into the rainy night and I found myself thinking again. They assume before they try to understand. Indifference is almost as bad as hatred, and it’s easy to dehumanize when there’s no care. Humans and Hogbats; we’re not all that different. We’re all broken, they just have power. As I turned back to the alleyway, a part of me hoped that things would get better. But that ember of hope was beginning to fade.

The Past’s Future: Looking Back and Forward on the Art of Syd Mead

Dear Reader,

I recently put this piece together for an art paper in my college. It is one of the last papers I will write for my undergraduate career, so there's definitely some weight to it. I wanted to honor Syd Mead, one of my favorite artists. I hope you enjoy.

~H.J. Buck

A Brief Introduction

 Dear Reader,

Welcome to Boundless Roads, a blog where I will mainly write about nerdy things such as fantasy or science fiction. I have always had a passion for writings and these genres, so I suppose this is a wonderful union. If you enjoy reading anything from Asimov to Tolkien, I hope this blog will find you well. I named Boundless Roads after a fun writing side-endeavor I have, a fun little fanfiction where I essentially just catalogue in prose when I play Skyrim. As for this blog, I will often be writing thoughts on existing work, but I will also share original writing and some thoughts on writing in general. 

My name is H.J. Buck (what those first two letters stand for will be a mystery), and I am a young writer about to finish up my undergrad in English Writing. My goal is to be a published author, but I have no delusions about publishing a best seller right out of college. So my current goal is to become an editor, sharpening my skills like a sword on a whetstone. This will also be a nice way for me to keep up the habit of writing. I hope you enjoy my, often incredibly ADHD, thoughts! 

~H.J. Buck

A Thought or Two

 

Dear Reader, 

I realize that it is very easy to be swept up in the idea of being a writer. It is adventurous, romantic and freeing. Through one’s imagination and work, they could share a story that could capture the hearts of others and convey whatever they wish. There is beauty in this. However, it is so simple for we who call ourselves writers to grow arrogant and complacent in this identity. 

I will never forget the first time I considered myself a writer. I had just read Eragon, a book that was written and published by a fifteen year old, and, being a boy of fifteen myself I thought: “I could do that” rather confidently. This confidence was soon shattered when I realized that my work was terrible, that being a writer was not just something to say and it was beyond just something you do. It took me much longer to realize that being a writer is something you work at. It takes time, understanding and the willingness to practice and learn. 

I hope I allow my heart to be humble enough to learn. I am writing this blog in hopes that you will enjoy reading what I wish to convey. I hope that my stories or thoughts are engaging and worth reading. Being a writer is vulnerable because, in order to be a writer, you need to be willing to grow. 

~H. J. Buck