Overview #17 - Growing Up

This week's challenge was fun, but I'm not sure I did as well as I could have. Part of the problem, I suspect, comes from having The Wordsmith grow up in Third Person limited to everybody else but him. I think I did all right showing up he grew up to be all nervous and quiet and eventually grew out of it (since we already know how he died, I figured showing what led up to him being willing to die would be a nice change), but it felt like I was showing the other characters more than I was showing him. Still, I think I have something of a baseline on him, and that's always a good feeling.

If You Give Me a Chance

Garrow was almost out of knives, and they were backed into a corner. There was a way out - there had to be a way out.

Austin was out of ammo. The string of words that spilled from her lips would have made the Principalities have heart attacks - if they had hearts.

“What the hell do we do now?” she yelled.

“Find an emergency exit!” Garrow said. He reached for the sheaths at his calves, spun the knives, waiting for on the fools to pop up and take a hit.

“The only emergency exit is in the arms of the Grim Reaper!” Austin said.

“There was a legend,” The Wordsmith began.

Garrow glanced over his shoulder.

The Wordsmith unbuttoned his cardigan with swift hands. “I heard it once, from the Elders, and then searched for it when they left me alone in the vault later that day. There’s a tunnel that leads from here to the Vault and then below the lake.”

Garrow’s eyes narrowed. “What the --? No. Keep your shirt on, kid.”

The Wordsmith cast the cardigan aside, unknotted the tie, started in on the buttons of his shirt. “I can find it if you give me a chance. Austin, come trigger me.”

She blinked, darted a nervous glance at Garrow. “What?”

The Wordsmith’s gesture was impatient. “Come on! He’s only got two knives left.”

Austin hesitated once more, then slid up beside him, pressed a hand to his chest. Whispered in his ear. Garrow bit down on his lip to keep from crying out when he saw the kid’s eyes go blank, then dead, and then the words came, spilling and tripping over each other as if trying to rip themselves out of skin.

And then they were clear, three sentences, exact directions.

The Wordsmith said, “Go.”

And collapsed.

(300 words)

The End

"Major! Come on, we have to go!" Steven laid down suppression fire, trying to give his commander a chance to fall back.

"I said get them out!" David squeezed off a few rounds, making each bullet count. Brian was down but alive.

"But David..."

"I said NOW!"

Steve hesitated a fraction of a second more and then ran to the others, helping Mark to carry Brian out of the engagement zone.

David gritted his teeth in pain as one bullet ripped through his shoulder, and another took him in the thigh. He knew that he would not be getting out. David limped backwards, firing off rounds behind him, setting blocks of C-4 as he went.

David felt fire in his lower back and them nothing, he collapsed in the corridor, holding the detonator in his hand. His vision was getting fuzzy, his breathing labored as his life flowed out of the hole in his back.

He blinked, trying to clear his field of vision, his grip tightening on the mechanism that would complete his mission. David heard pounding feet coming and readied himself.

Arianna, I'm coming. he pushed the switch.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve was at a loss for what to do. David was dead, Brian was in critical condition and Joe was presently AWOL. David would know what to do.

Steve sat down on his commander and friends bunk, and heard a crackle of paper. He reached under the covers and pulled out a sheet of paper, it was covered in Davids careful script.

'Steve, I'm sorry to leave you like that, but I knew it would happen eventually. Don't worry, you will know what you need to do...'


(David is not cooperating with me. I had to force this so that I could get it up. I'm not really happy with it, and I am pretty sure that this is not what really happened. He does not want to tell me how he dies. I mean it's not like he is a Jason Bourne type super soldier, but he will not talk to me at the moment. So this one will most definitely change.)

Promotion

It had been seven years since Arianna's death.

David strode through the compound beside his commander. It was one of many bases that he had become intimately acquainted with since the night that he had gone seeking revenge. Seven years of training and missions.

"What is the job Sir?" David directed the question to the man beside him.

"No job son, this time it's different." Commander Hayes mouth twitched in a brief smile.

"Then what Sir?"

"You will see."

Hayes lead David down a side passage towards the barracks, stopping beside a door.

"Captain, you have acquitted yourself remarkably well these last seven years. It is my pleasure to introduce you to your men as their commander."

David's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "My men?"

"Yes." Hayes opened the door to the barracks and barked, "Attention!"

Four young men scrambled out of their bunks and snapped to attention, saluting smartly.

David looked them over. They all looked very young. David briefly wondered if he had ever looked that young to his Commander. "At ease men."

The men fell into perfect parade rest, their eyes trained on the man before them.

Hayes pointed them each out in turn, "First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood, Second Lieutenants Brian and Mark Allard, and Second Lieutenant Joseph Kendrick." Each of the men saluted again as they were named off.

"Men," Hayes continued, "This is your new Commander Major David Cole."

David's head whipped around to look at his commander. Hayes threw him a wink and then faced the men again. "Major Cole will see to your specialized training."

Hayes turned to David, "Carry on Major."

David snapped off a sharp salute and watched his commander walk out the door. He turned to look at his men. "Lets get to know each other. Let's start with you." He nodded to Steven.

All Apologies

Garrow curled his hands into fists. The English language had been turned on its head when boys that like that made the Virtue Choir.

“What happened out there, Smith? There were seventeen arrests, and all anyone remembers is the kid in the ugly sweater scooting out the back door,” Kory said.

The Wordsmith ducked his head, swiped a lock of hair out of his face. “I -- it was my idea,” he began. “I just wanted to - to hear some music. And Garrow said he knew a cool place, and then I was talking to this girl and her, ah, boyfriend became angry, so I threw a punch --”

Kory arched one eyebrow. Garrow wanted to facepalm. Words swirled across The Wordsmith’s torso, writhing up and down his arms and scrolling across the lines of his ribs. They all said the same thing in a hundred, a thousand different languages lost and dead and spoken all around the world: lies.

Kid couldn’t lie to save his life - but at least he’d tried to save a friend.

“It was Garrow, wasn’t it?” Kory asked. “He started the fight.”

The Wordsmith lifted his head, jaw set stubbornly even though his hands were shaking. “No. It was me. I hit the man first.”

Kory rolled his eyes and turned. His gaze fell on Garrow and he beckoned once, sharply. “Get over here. The Authorities want to talk to you.”

Garrow followed Kory toward the elevator that would take him deeper into the bunkers, down to where the Authorities lurked. As he passed The Wordsmith, he reached out and patted the kid on the shoulder.

“Better luck next time.”

The Wordsmith mouthed, “I’m sorry.” A litany of apologetic poetry across his skin swirled into being.

“I’ll be fine,” Garrow said. He was a much better liar.

(300 words)

The End of Innocence.

"Come on Ari, this is the fifth time I've left you a message. Did you forget your phone again? Call me back." There was a smile evident in the message.

David hung up the phone, still smiling. Arianna could be so scatterbrained sometimes.

They were both Seniors this year, they were planning to go to collage together. They had both gotten in to Columbia University. David was saving up so that he could ask her to marry him.

At ten o'clock David was starting to get worried about her. He scooped up his keys, quickly making up his mind to go look for her. David drove her familiar routes to and from her job and the school, scanning the area for her car. He spotted her car near the alley near their favorite coffee shop.

David walked towards the shop, but stopped when he heard a noise coming from the alley. David poked his head in the opening and stopped cold. Arianna was lying on the ground a short way from the mouth of the alley, breathing heavily.

David rushed to her side. There was a wide gash in her side. He dropped to the ground next to her and placed his hand over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. "Ari, Ari! Wake up!"

Arianna opened her eyes briefly and a ghost of a smile played on her lips. "David..."

"Shh, don't talk, I'll get you to the hospital." He stood up with her in his arms.

"Ari, who did this to you? Ari, please wake up."

Arianna stirred a little, trying to form coherent words through the haze of pain. "Grant.... Brenna."

David drew in a breath sharply in shock.

"I Love you... David." Arianna sighed and closed her eyes for the last time.

Seventeen Years' Time

At seventeen years old, The Wordsmith was tall, taller than Haschen remembered, but then he’d never really looked, had he? He had no choice but to look now, lying on the ground beside the open Vault, while fires ravaged the halls of Rosenkreuz and the children from the Vault revealed their true loyalties.

The Telekinetic had The Wordsmith in a vice-like grip and was shaking him sharply.

The Wordsmith ducked his head but didn’t try to pull free - he’d learned better than to fight back. The Biokinetic was at his back, ready to knock out the Wordsmith for transport on the mark, either from The Telekinetic or The Oracle.

After a moment, through the haze of bleeding out, Haschen could hear their words.

“We can’t just leave them to die,” The Wordsmith said. Ink swirled on his skin, formed muzzy words in lovely classical calligraphy, distress and fear and compassion; years in the Vault had given the boy nothing but time to perfect his hand.

The Telekinetic said, “The Knights of Grau are coming. We can let them claim us as prizes - or we can go to them willingly.”

“But - Elder Haschen and the others --”

“Tortured you,” The Biokinetic spat. She tossed her head angrily. “I’m surprised you’ve survived as long as you have, soft as your are.”

“I’m not soft,” The Wordsmith insisted. “Haschen --”

“Will be finished off by the Gregori in seven minutes and thirty-two seconds,” The Oracle said.

The Wordsmith bowed his head. “And Lena, the girl who visited me?”

“The Talentless wench?” Another toss of the head from The Biokinetic. “Dead. Elders had her culled because she talked to you. Let’s go.”

“Seventeen years,” The Oracle said. “Isn’t it time?”

Numbers scrolled across The Wordsmith’s shoulder blades, and he bowed his head. “It is.”

(300 words)

The Boy

She was Talentless and lucky she hadn’t been culled by the Talented who terrorized the halls of the school, but she wasn’t sure this newest assignment was much better. Still, she was alive, so she took a deep breath and stepped into the vault. Elder Haschen stood at the lock, and would wait while she cleaned. She’d been given one instruction - not to touch the boy.

The boy was a slender teenager, pale, shivering on a cot in the corner. He straightened up when she stepped into the room and flashed her a nervous smile, a twitch of wide lips, eyebrows arcing gracefully. He had large, long-fingered hands folded neatly in his lap. She could count his ribs and trace the line of his collarbone.

“Hello,” he said cautiously.

Elder Haschen hadn’t said anything about not talking to him. “Hello.” All of the students at the school, talented or not, spoke English as well as German. He sounded American, like a television show.

“What’s your name?”

“Lena,” she said.

“Nice to meet you, Lena. Did you need something?”

“I’m here to clean. Your room.” ‘Room’ was a loose term for a vault lined with ancient moldering books, occult relics, and antique weapons.

“Oh.” He looked nervous. “Am I not keeping it clean enough?”

“The Elders didn’t say,” Lena said.

“Oh. All right.” He wilted for a moment, then straightened up. “Would you like to hear a poem?”

Lena nodded warily. “That would be nice. What kind of poem?”

“Any kind you like.”

She darted a glance at the shelves, but didn’t see a single volume of poetry. Was he going to make it up?

“Poe,” she said. “I like Poe.”

He smiled and began to recite,

“It was many and many years ago
In a kingdom by the sea...”

(300 words)

Meeting of Fate

At 16 David was well liked. Not quite popular, he was to aloof to have that classification. He was kind, but kept mostly to himself. He had landed at last in Seattle with his Uncle and Aunt after his fathers death a few years before in a plane crash. He had bounced from family to family, school to school until he arrived where he was.

A handsome boy, with a tragic past was all the girls needed to know to make them sigh over him. His intelligent cobalt eyes and black hair were the topic of many conversations.

Tall and slender David was a runner, his physique was well defined. He liked the physical exertion and the solitude that came with the sport. The school coaches were constantly trying to recruit him to one team or another.

David sat in the back of all his classes, his ever present sketchbook on his desk. He sat bent over it, his hair falling into his eyes, ignoring the girls that always chose to sit next to him. He never volunteered in classes. It was a waste of time. These people were not going to teach him anything new. Anything that he wanted to know he looked up in the library or on the internet.

David was walking out of his History class when he rammed right into someone that was coming in the room, knocking them down. He automatically reached down to help the person up. A cool hand grasped his firmly and stood up with his help.

"Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going." the girl said.

"No it's my fault." David smiled at her.

"My name's Arianna. What's yours?"

"David."

"Nice to meet you David."

""Nice to meet you too Arianna." David said. She had a pretty name

Going away

David was six the day that his father took him aside and explained to him that it was time for his mother to go away. James had watched the ever diminishing brain scans over the last few years, and hope hand diminished with it.

"But dad, you said she was only sleeping and that she would wake up. He had just been reading a volume of Tennyson to his mother.

"I know son, I always hoped that she would, but she's not. And it is time for her to go to heaven." James embraced his son.

David looked at his father quizzically. "What is heaven dad?"

James swallowed hard, "Heaven is where you go when you die. People become Angels."

David's brow furrowed. "So mom will be an Angel?" He had heard about Angels. They were some type of ghost, but better. David pictured wings and a halo on his mother.

"Yes she will."

"Will she come to see me?"

"I don't know son."

"But if mom is an Angel then she will be doing good right? She will be awake even though she is dead?"

"I think so." James embraced his son.

David looked at his mother's face, "I think mommy would be happy as an Angel."

(208.... I reworked it as you can see.)

Here But Not Here

David smiled up at his father; proudly showing off the kite that he had made. His little hands were sticky with glue, and there was paper everywhere. String was tangled up on the floor next to him.

"It's beautiful David, lets go show your mother." His father picked up his young son, only four years old and carried him with his prize in to see his mother.

A heart monitor beeped quietly in the background, a hiss of air from the compressors accompanied it. The room was large, light and airy. David scrambled up into the bed next to his mother. "Do you think that she will wake up today Daddy? It would be a good day for it. The first day of spring."

David had never seen his mother awake, but his fathers assurances that she was only asleep, and that one day she would wake up was enough to make him happy, and to hope that it would be today.

"Perhaps it will be today, perhaps tomorrow. C'mon son, lets go put that kite up into the sky."

"Okay! I'll be back later mom." David kissed her cheek and patted her hand and ran out the door with his father following.

James looked back on his comatose wife. "Please wake up soon," he whispered and went to join his son.

Value of Silence

Where most children fidgeted while adults stared, the little Wordsmith sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, and stared down at his bare feet. The breeches he wore - uniform cast-offs from an older Rosenkreuz student - came a couple of inches above his ankle and pinched too tightly at his already-thin waist, but he made no complaint.

“How old are you?” Haschen asked. Every moment of the boy’s life was documented in boxes and boxes of files, but he liked to hear the boy speak. So rarely did the boy speak for himself - his skin spoke for him - and so his voice, a nervous tenor, was a pleasant sound.

“Seven, sir.” The Wordsmith met his gaze briefly.

“What’s your name?”

At this, The Wordsmith looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“What is your name?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“What do people call you?”

“I am The Wordsmith,” he said.

Haschen smiled. “Perfect.” He rose up, gestured to a stack of books some minion had set in the corner. “Absorb those in time for our next meeting.” And he left.

He paused outside the door to listen to the soft gasps of a boy trying to suppress the pain of absorption. The last Wordsmith had been a girl, and she’d screamed so prettily, but Elder Deinen had been right - the boy had learned the value of silence.

(227 words)

Better Than Reading

“What does it say?” Haschen asked.

The rest of the Elders looked dubious; the toddler sitting on the patchwork blanket in the middle of the Vault gazed up at them with wide, solemn eyes.

“What does it say?” Haschen repeated.

“ ‘He who bears the cross and the rose will rule the world,’” the boy said.

The Elders smiled, pleased to hear the ritual words spill from a child’s lips in such a sweet child’s voice.

“But can he read?” one of the Elders asked.

“Better,” Haschen said. “He’s learned early.” He leaned down and stroked a hand over the boy’s spine, whispered in his hear.

The little boy screamed and arched away from Haschen’s touch, every muscle tighter than piano wire, but it was too late, the work had begun. The Elders stared as ink, lettered in a toddler’s unsteady hand, spread across the tiny torso, and formed ritual words, an image of a cross bound with roses and thorns.

“How old is he?” another Elder asked.

Haschen said, “Two.”

(170 words)

Left on the Steps

“You found him?”

“On the front steps.” Haschen glanced at the video feed where a girl lay dead at the gates, the torn hem of her ragged dress fluttering in the wind. The bundle in his arms was wrapped in a thin patchwork blanket and was strangely silent.

“Let me see him.”

Haschen parted the folds of the blanket, shifted the bundle awkwardly. A pair of big brown eyes peered myopically out at the world. A chubby little fist waved free. The baby had wisps of dull brown hair and a wide, toothless smile. A happy baby, unaware of his circumstances.

“And no one seeks him?”

“Mastermind scanned the bearer,” Haschen said. “The infant is illegitimate and the bearer had a falling out with her family - no one even knows he’s alive.”

“Perfect. And The Biokinetic says...?”

Haschen stared down at the baby. “He’s an ink-bearer.”

“Have one of the Matrons fix a bassinet in the Vault. Ensure he’s fed and changed at appropriate times.”

“And if he cries? Shall we assign him a nurse?”

“He’ll learn not to cry.”

(181 words)

Sart at the Beginning

He was pink and wrinkled as most new born are. Frail and tiny with a healthy set of lungs which he gave vent to in full volume, but it was a beautiful cry, not the mewling whine of many others. After a moment he calmed down.

He was placed his mother's weak arms his eyes wide, a sharp, intelligent gaze. Dark cobalt eyes seemed to absorb everything around him. Tiny fingers grasped at the air, and his mouth worked on nothing.

"...So handsome..."

The doctors were not sure if she would make it. They had brought her in from a car wreck, two others had died.

A nurse approached with a clipboard and started asking questions. "The name?"

The woman's dark hair was in her eyes, matted to her head with the effort of bringing her son into the world. "David." She smiled gently and held her son close.

"You will do great things David, You will be a great man."

(I'll probably edit posts as these characters develop.)

Project #17: Growing up

First of all, serious apologies for not getting this up in good time, as it means some double posting will undoubtedly go down. But this week's assignment is fairly simple. Maybe hit up the famous Shakespearean soliloquy The Seven Ages of Man or whatnot, but you have seven days in which to write a light, birth to earth, womb to tomb, one entry a day (or possibly two to catch up, the entire life of a single original character from seven different spots in that character's life. Feel free to tell if needs be, as this is only 100-300 words long, and do your best to pick interesting points in life, or maybe put a new spin on the generic landmarks in life. Either way, bring a character to life!

Overview #16 - Proverbs

This was an interesting exercise. At first I just typed in a random word that I thought would set the theme and went with the first proverb that popped up, but once I got into it I had a scheme in mind and went hunting for proverbs that sounded like good lines of dialogue because, let's face it, proverbs often sound like fortune cookies. It was a fun way to find inspiration and proves that, even though the great writers had muses, a dedicated writer can learn to find inspiration anywhere.

At Risk

She leaned in and purred, “If you have nothing else to offer me, offer me your smile.”

The Wordsmith was pressed flat up against a bookcase, arms up to fend her off.

Garrow grabbed her by the collar and hauled her backwards. “Away from the boy, little lady. No touching The Wordsmith.”

“I don’t want to smile for you,” the kid added, which caused the woman to leer.

The woman squirmed in Garrow’s grip like an angry kitten. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him!”

Garrow reached into his pack and fished around for one of the grandpa shirts the Thrones had given him. He tossed it at the kid, who caught it with shaking hands and buttoned it up wrong. His coordination always went out the window when he was scared.

“You would’ve hurt him without knowing it,” Garrow said. “What are you doing in the Gregori bunker anyway, Messenger? Get lost.” He shoved her away. She sniffed at him, turned her nose up, and sashayed out of the bunker.

As soon as she was gone, Garrow turned back to The Wordsmith, who was focused on fixing his shirt. “You all right, kid?”

He nodded. “Yeah, she - she didn’t know how to trigger me.”

“She might’ve by accident. Look, when Austin’s not in the bunker, wear more clothes, all right? I know she’s got seniority on me, but we can’t afford to --” Garrow broke off, rephrased -- “you shouldn’t have to be at risk like that all the time. Now come on - it’s time for your chopstick lessons.”

“Why? Just because a billion people in one isolated nation can feed themselves that way --”

“Because I want some real orange chicken and sushi and we won’t get it in a bunker, and hell if I’m gonna let you embarrass me at my favorite restaurant. Move, kid!”

The Wordsmith ducked his head and nodded, but Garrow could see he was smiling.

Does Not Heal

Ken opened his eyes and went to roll out of bed, but stopped when pain lanced through his side. He froze, muscles tense, fire burning up along his side and back, and scanned his memory. He was in the flower shop, and he was alive.

Aya had stabbed him through the kidney.

Ken rolled gingerly onto his back and then did his best to scootch toward the edge of the bed. It took some creative maneuvering and using muscles he hadn’t used in a long time to make it to a sitting position. He made it to his feet with relative ease, then realized he couldn’t bend down, so he used his toes Omi-style (did Mamoru even do that sort of thing these days?) to scoop up his towel, and he shuffled for the bathroom. As he turned on the hot water and let the steam fill his lungs, he was glad Yohji had insisted on a western shower.

Then he felt another pang - deeper, more than physical - and remembered that Yohji was not his friend anymore, that he was an amnesiac stranger who would never smile at him again.

Ken managed to shower without re-opening the wound (he’d scratched off the bandages as soon as he was out of the doctor’s sight) and then dressed in a comfortable yukata. Western clothes weren’t always great when he was wounded, and Momoe-san had given him the next week off.

Ken wasn’t sure he’d be able to sit still for that long, but that he knew it was in his best interest to try.

“How are you feeling?”

Aya’s voice from the doorway nearly gave him a heart attack. Ken spun around, and the motion pulled at his wound. He winced and clutched at the sink for balance.

Aya shook his head. “Baka. It’ll never heal if you don’t hold still.”

“You startled me,” Ken protested. “You sneaked up on me like --”

“Like an assassin?” Aya arched one eyebrow.

Ken nodded, cracking a smile at Aya’s solemn-faced joke, and then he noticed the suitcase in Aya’s hand. Even this early, Aya was fully dressed. Ken’s smile faded.

“Ano...what’s with the luggage?”

“I’ve resigned from Kritiker and found employment in America,” Aya said.

That hurt more than Ken expected. “Aa. You want me to drive you to the airport?”

Confused furrowed Aya’s brow, and he would always be a little socially dense, wouldn’t he? “I just came by to ensure you were healing well.”

He couldn’t even say goodbye.

Ken shook his head and smiled. “Let me drive you. It’s no bother.”

Aya nodded. “Thank you.”


Momoe-san was waiting for him when he returned.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Ken shrugged. “It still hurts.”

“Give it time - and remember to rest!” Momoe-san said, and shuffled to help a customer.

Ken closed his eyes and pictured Aya’s departing figure. “A wound inflicted by a friend does not heal.”

(492 words)