Miguel da Ponte
Bio
Bartender by night, disc golfer by day. Lover of breakfast foods and the same music my dad probably listened to. I live on a boat and I like to write sometimes.
Achievements (1)
Stories (8/0)
The Landowning Classes
The sea was blustery and gray and battered against the shoreline, which was in itself rather gray and crumbling, almost as subject to the wind and terribly subject to the sea and what was inside it. The shore was soft soil dotted with the roots of small plants or more rarely the longest roots of the nearby treeline jutting out of the exposed slope. In all parts it was plagued with the unceasing, rhythmic pounding of waves which alternated between soft strokes that were a respite and sometimes left debris and things stolen, and rising attempts that broke over the precipice and impatiently claimed land that was not yet theirs.
By Miguel da Ponte3 months ago in Fiction
TSOD Chapter 1
I was writing my submission for the #200 Challenge and I talked a lot of game about writing and publishing more often, and I figured I better put my money where my mouth was and get to it. So I had the idea to write a novel in serial form, to keep me busy and keep me creating. I knew I needed something I was interested in and would have fun talking about if I wanted to have any hope of staying consistent, so I thought I would play around with some of my favorite things: sailing, survival, and life-as-we-no-it-ending plagues.
By Miguel da Ponte5 months ago in Chapters
The Olympians Breathe Fire. Runner-Up in Christopher Paolini's Fantasy Fiction Challenge.
For eons, dragons ruled over the land from their perches on Mount Olympus. Gifted with a mastery of magic and bodies of insurmountable strength, they coaxed all other life into subservience through the force of awe and threat. From humans, they demanded worship; offerings and sacrifices in exchange for benevolence. Repressed but ever-relentless, humanity grew, building palaces of their own, houses of learning and the arcane. Dragons, although the undisputed masters, were no longer the sole wielders of magic.
By Miguel da Ponte2 years ago in Fiction
The Fifth Voyage
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It sounds like that old riddle, doesn’t it? You know the one: if a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? I’d say of course it does. It hit the ground, it vibrated, it made a sound. You might argue that without hearing it I could never prove it and that my opinion is no better than conjecture, to which I would shoot back that just because you aren’t there to witness it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and besides, there were probably plenty of organisms around that did hear it fall, even if there happened to be no human present. And you’d say, “so you would ask them what it sounded like?” to which I would clench my jaw and think of some equally-condescending retort. We could go around in circles like this forever and never get anywhere. I’ve never liked riddles like that. So let me ask a more real question, one that’s been on my mind every night since I landed back on Earth: your husband is floating in space and you’re reaching out for him, but your gloved hands come up inches short and those inches are growing by the second. The visor of his helmet is reflecting Mars below you but the planet’s crimson beauty means nothing because you are looking only into his eyes, and for a moment he smiles, for a moment you think everything will be alright. And then something cold and sharp and evil pierces his chest. A handful of particles scatter, but most just float idly; bits of him, bits of his clothing. The terrible thing withdraws and leaves a hole in his spacesuit, in his body, and you’re shocked by the fact that he’s barely bleeding. His mouth contorts and twists, opens wide, wider than you knew was possible, but you don’t hear a thing. There is no air between you, nothing to carry vibrations, nothing at all. You watch him die in silence. So I ask, if your husband is killed by an alien in the vacuum of space, and there’s no air to carry sound, does he scream?
By Miguel da Ponte2 years ago in Fiction
Baby Andrew
A gust of wind parted Danny’s housecoat when he opened the door. Embarrassed by his exposed boxers, adorned with clipart saxophones blowing the title “Jazz Man,” he securely tied the rope around his waist and, semi-hidden behind his door frame, peered down each side of the street for potential witnesses. To his relief, not so much as a sprinkler stirred. As usual, the neighbourhood was empty in the early afternoon; the breadwinners were busy breadwinning, the children still a tortuous few hours away from spilling out of their school buses into the pop-up games of street hockey and four square that would dominate the street until their parents yelled dinner. It was a family community for sure. But that didn’t explain why there was a baby at the end of Danny’s porch.
By Miguel da Ponte3 years ago in Humans
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