“What’s he doing?” Keith asked. “It looks...poncy and kinky at the same time.”
“It’s called Yoga,” Christian said absently. “A form of physical meditation. It’s been practiced in India for thousands of years. Yoga masters are called Yogi.”
DJ and Tobias watched with solemn eyes as Angel tied himself into knots on a blue workout mat.
“Like Yogi Bear?” Gabriel asked, after a long moment.
Christian set down the tray of tea and distributed the mugs with easy hands. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. It’s very relaxing.”
“I don’t think I’m that flexible,” Keith said, expression dubious.
“You’d be surprised,” Christian said. “You’re immortal now. Your body’s better than it’s ever been or ever would have been, had you remained Dormant.”
“I still don’t think you should try that,” Tobias said. “You might hurt yourself.”
Gabriel closed his eyes, considered. “I suppose it is relaxing. His mind is...humming. Blank. Pleasant, actually, compared to the rabble that’s the rest of you combined.”
“As long as he’s all right with it, I guess,” Keith said. He sipped his tea and continued to watch his commander worship the sun or whatever.
“Whatever,” DJ agreed.
(195 words)
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Problem of Kyle
“Do you ever relax?” Gabriel asked.
Kyle sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, weaving rings with determined hands. “This is relaxing.”
“No, that’s working.” Gabriel settled beside him, folded Kyle in the warmth of one of his massive wings.
“It’s mindless repetitive hand motions, which I find relaxing.”
“You never find anything relaxing.” Gabriel nudged Kyle with his shoulder. “You never even really sleep. You just...doze in this terrible state of half-drowsy half-wakefulness. One would think you were a great war soldier in a fox hole expecting the call to go over the top at any moment.”
“Should you be talking so much?” Kyle asked. “There could be Listeners outside.”
“Listeners are human and can’t hear through walls.” Gabriel sighed. “Look - just get some sleep. It’ll do both of us good if you don’t pass out on me in the middle of our next battle, whenever that may be.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Sleep is not an option?”
“No. The Fallen could come at any time.”
Gabriel rose to his feet, gestured at the crumbling walls glittering with the Alphabet. “No they can’t - nothing can get past your wards and you know it.”
“I’m not taking that risk.”
Gabriel knelt down in front of Kyle and shook him once, forcefully. “Look at me!”
Kyle lifted his head, startled, blue eyes wide. Gabriel shoved him toward one of the pews. “Sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
“I can’t --”
“Relax enough to fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” Kyle tugged his knees up to his chest.
“How did you fall asleep when you were a child?” Gabriel asked.
“My mother read me stories.”
“Oh. Well.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “I know a few stories.”
Kyle stared at him. Gabriel gestured for Kyle to lay down, so he did, curled up on one of the hard, uncomfortable pews.
“Once, in the Silver City,” Gabriel began.
Kyle closed his eyes and let Gabriel’s voice wash over him. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself begin to relax, lost in the cadence of words and syllables.
Kyle sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, weaving rings with determined hands. “This is relaxing.”
“No, that’s working.” Gabriel settled beside him, folded Kyle in the warmth of one of his massive wings.
“It’s mindless repetitive hand motions, which I find relaxing.”
“You never find anything relaxing.” Gabriel nudged Kyle with his shoulder. “You never even really sleep. You just...doze in this terrible state of half-drowsy half-wakefulness. One would think you were a great war soldier in a fox hole expecting the call to go over the top at any moment.”
“Should you be talking so much?” Kyle asked. “There could be Listeners outside.”
“Listeners are human and can’t hear through walls.” Gabriel sighed. “Look - just get some sleep. It’ll do both of us good if you don’t pass out on me in the middle of our next battle, whenever that may be.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Sleep is not an option?”
“No. The Fallen could come at any time.”
Gabriel rose to his feet, gestured at the crumbling walls glittering with the Alphabet. “No they can’t - nothing can get past your wards and you know it.”
“I’m not taking that risk.”
Gabriel knelt down in front of Kyle and shook him once, forcefully. “Look at me!”
Kyle lifted his head, startled, blue eyes wide. Gabriel shoved him toward one of the pews. “Sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
“I can’t --”
“Relax enough to fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” Kyle tugged his knees up to his chest.
“How did you fall asleep when you were a child?” Gabriel asked.
“My mother read me stories.”
“Oh. Well.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “I know a few stories.”
Kyle stared at him. Gabriel gestured for Kyle to lay down, so he did, curled up on one of the hard, uncomfortable pews.
“Once, in the Silver City,” Gabriel began.
Kyle closed his eyes and let Gabriel’s voice wash over him. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself begin to relax, lost in the cadence of words and syllables.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Practical Relaxation
David stretched to limber up his slightly stiff muscles; pulling one arm and then the other, rotating, bending and shaking out his ling arms and legs.
David centered within himself. He drew a deep breath and flashed into motion; spinning, kicking and punching in ancient forms, flowing from one to the next with perfect precision. Dragon Claw to Eagle, Cobra Strike to Scorpion. Sweat began to trickle down his brow and soak the collar of his shirt. He let his eyes fall closed; concealing the dark blue irises and the lurking memories.
David increased the pace, darting from one form to the next with almost reckless abandon, pushing himself to the limit. With a final sweep of his leg and a yell David dew himself up to his full height. He inhaled slowly and released the breath just as slowly.
David lay down on the mats and let all the tension flow out of his body. After ten minutes he stood up; centered and focused again, the perfect soldier.
David centered within himself. He drew a deep breath and flashed into motion; spinning, kicking and punching in ancient forms, flowing from one to the next with perfect precision. Dragon Claw to Eagle, Cobra Strike to Scorpion. Sweat began to trickle down his brow and soak the collar of his shirt. He let his eyes fall closed; concealing the dark blue irises and the lurking memories.
David increased the pace, darting from one form to the next with almost reckless abandon, pushing himself to the limit. With a final sweep of his leg and a yell David dew himself up to his full height. He inhaled slowly and released the breath just as slowly.
David lay down on the mats and let all the tension flow out of his body. After ten minutes he stood up; centered and focused again, the perfect soldier.
Better than the Old Days
Elise was a proud iconoclast. Cody called her a “Courtney Love” stereotype, and they squabbled half-heartedly, but she knew he was wrong. In the years since the Government had unleashed The Fallen, seeing other choirboys was few and far between and a dangerous risk at that. Elise knew that if the other boys could see her now, their eyes would fall out of their heads.
It was fairly common knowledge that repetitive hand-wrist movements could be...relaxing. Or straining. Elise was a guitarist, and she’d had to actively work to avoid coming down with carpal tunnel syndrome. The best thing about tatting and crocheting was that, even though she did both right-handed, the primary hands switched off, so if she did one for a spell, and then another, both of her hands got equal work.
Tatting looked about ten times as ornate as crocheting, and Elise loved the little dainty gothic accessories she could create with her skill, but the fact was, tatting was the same two knots over and over and over again. A bit of math, a bit of planning, but all one knot. Almost mindless in its repetition. Once she fell into a rhythm, she could muse over the banality of her day, be grateful for another day she’d lived on. The rhythm was almost like playing music again, but too many people remembered the punk guitarist who could level cities with a single note.
At the end of a long day, she could curl up on her sofa with her laptop streaming some inane movie in the background and just...create.
It was better than the old days, when she’d just destroy.
(279 words)
It was fairly common knowledge that repetitive hand-wrist movements could be...relaxing. Or straining. Elise was a guitarist, and she’d had to actively work to avoid coming down with carpal tunnel syndrome. The best thing about tatting and crocheting was that, even though she did both right-handed, the primary hands switched off, so if she did one for a spell, and then another, both of her hands got equal work.
Tatting looked about ten times as ornate as crocheting, and Elise loved the little dainty gothic accessories she could create with her skill, but the fact was, tatting was the same two knots over and over and over again. A bit of math, a bit of planning, but all one knot. Almost mindless in its repetition. Once she fell into a rhythm, she could muse over the banality of her day, be grateful for another day she’d lived on. The rhythm was almost like playing music again, but too many people remembered the punk guitarist who could level cities with a single note.
At the end of a long day, she could curl up on her sofa with her laptop streaming some inane movie in the background and just...create.
It was better than the old days, when she’d just destroy.
(279 words)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Auto-Pilot
The air was still ringing from the door being slammed open as Ariana left her work in a rage. Nothing had seemed to go right that day. Paperwork missing, accounts misfiled, and a continuous stream of people pestering her.
Ariana glanced back at the building with wrathful eyes and felt her hands curl involuntarily into fists. She muttered darkly to herself as she got into her car and gunned the engine. Peeling out of the parking lot, she almost dared anyone to get in her way.
Ariana flipped rapidly through the radio stations but snapped it off in irritation after a moment. She rolled down the window, hoping that a cool breeze would calm her down, but only found her thought returning to work. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as she ground her teeth in frustration; she drove on auto-pilot, not really caring where she was going.
Her car made it eventually to a small wooded area that she knew well. Dense packed trees hid a small clearing a few hundred yards from the road. Ariana jumped out of her car and practically ran to the clearing, dodging in and out of trees and around shrubs. As she entered the clearing she could hear the trickling of a small stream that ran through the trees nearby.
The grass was knee high and bright green from the spring rains. It had not yet had time to whither in the summer heat, though the sun was beating down; obscured now and then by a passing cloud.
Ariana took off her shoes and stood for a moment in the cold water of the stream, but that didn't seem to be helping. She shook the water off her feet and walked back to the center of the clearing.
Ariana sat down the the grass and it came up to her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled as she consciously unclenched her hands. She let her eyes fall shut and listened to the sounds of the stream, the whisper of the wind. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the top of her head.
Ariana reclined in the grass, letting the heat of the sun burn away the unpleasant memories of the day. She knew that she couldn't be seen anymore; she felt safe and protected as she drifted off to sleep.
Ariana glanced back at the building with wrathful eyes and felt her hands curl involuntarily into fists. She muttered darkly to herself as she got into her car and gunned the engine. Peeling out of the parking lot, she almost dared anyone to get in her way.
Ariana flipped rapidly through the radio stations but snapped it off in irritation after a moment. She rolled down the window, hoping that a cool breeze would calm her down, but only found her thought returning to work. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as she ground her teeth in frustration; she drove on auto-pilot, not really caring where she was going.
Her car made it eventually to a small wooded area that she knew well. Dense packed trees hid a small clearing a few hundred yards from the road. Ariana jumped out of her car and practically ran to the clearing, dodging in and out of trees and around shrubs. As she entered the clearing she could hear the trickling of a small stream that ran through the trees nearby.
The grass was knee high and bright green from the spring rains. It had not yet had time to whither in the summer heat, though the sun was beating down; obscured now and then by a passing cloud.
Ariana took off her shoes and stood for a moment in the cold water of the stream, but that didn't seem to be helping. She shook the water off her feet and walked back to the center of the clearing.
Ariana sat down the the grass and it came up to her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled as she consciously unclenched her hands. She let her eyes fall shut and listened to the sounds of the stream, the whisper of the wind. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the top of her head.
Ariana reclined in the grass, letting the heat of the sun burn away the unpleasant memories of the day. She knew that she couldn't be seen anymore; she felt safe and protected as she drifted off to sleep.
In the Meantime
The quickness of human hands was a marvel of a thing. After the initial blast, when Kyle had let Gabriel loose in a crowded church, Marsh had survived the best way he knew how - hustling. Three card monty, shell games, poker tables, pool - he’d done it all. Almost got his hands broken for his trouble, and then Tabris came up with a solution.
Go straight.
Odds were, Tabris said, no one would think to look for Marsh in a real job.
Tabris always knew the best odds, and it had always been in Marsh’s favor to go with them. At first the notion of physical labor repulsed him, but eventually Marsh realized that there was something...soothing. In painting. The repetitive motion - long, smooth strokes of the brush - gave him time to think.
Plot. Hate.
It was a sheer stroke of luck - and Marsh didn’t use the word lightly - that Marsh had stumbled across the art section of a paint shop one day. He’d been hoarding his money for important things like weapons and food, most of it carried in covert wads of cash, but - but there hadn’t been word from any of the other choirboys in a while, and maybe - maybe it was safe to settle down.
So on his day off, Marsh purchased a supply of watercolors, brushes, and set up at a local park to learn to paint trees. The first few came out looking more like green lollipops, but between some self-help books at the library, Tabris’s blunt, honest critiques, and time, Marsh became a fairly competent artist.
Sitting in the sun, paying attention to nothing but color and shape and line - it was almost heaven.
Marsh had glimpsed heaven, and he wasn’t ready for it yet.
In the meantime, he had a landscape to paint.
(301 words)
Go straight.
Odds were, Tabris said, no one would think to look for Marsh in a real job.
Tabris always knew the best odds, and it had always been in Marsh’s favor to go with them. At first the notion of physical labor repulsed him, but eventually Marsh realized that there was something...soothing. In painting. The repetitive motion - long, smooth strokes of the brush - gave him time to think.
Plot. Hate.
It was a sheer stroke of luck - and Marsh didn’t use the word lightly - that Marsh had stumbled across the art section of a paint shop one day. He’d been hoarding his money for important things like weapons and food, most of it carried in covert wads of cash, but - but there hadn’t been word from any of the other choirboys in a while, and maybe - maybe it was safe to settle down.
So on his day off, Marsh purchased a supply of watercolors, brushes, and set up at a local park to learn to paint trees. The first few came out looking more like green lollipops, but between some self-help books at the library, Tabris’s blunt, honest critiques, and time, Marsh became a fairly competent artist.
Sitting in the sun, paying attention to nothing but color and shape and line - it was almost heaven.
Marsh had glimpsed heaven, and he wasn’t ready for it yet.
In the meantime, he had a landscape to paint.
(301 words)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Flames and Adventures
Harsh driving winds slung the snow into the windows creating a hiss as a counterpoint to the pop and crackle of the fire. Bare, snow laden tree branches scraped across the window pane; creaking and tapping out and odd rhythm.
Mark released the curtains, letting them fall back into place to cover the dark and chill night. He could feel the cold from the storm seeping through the glass of the window if he held his hand close enough. He heard the clock strike eleven and turned from the darkness.
Mark stepped back whisper quiet on stockinged feet and moved closer to the fire. There was a nest of blankets and pillows set up a few feet back from the dancing flames. Mark settled his long and agile frame into the swirling mass of fabric and pulled a blanket around his shoulders just before reaching for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He inhaled the rich aroma of the carefully concocted brew and took a careful sip; allowing the warmth to creep across his tongue and trickle down his throat, warming him all the way down.
He sighed in contentment and reclined into the thick pile of pillows, his mug in one hand and a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in the other.
Mark released the curtains, letting them fall back into place to cover the dark and chill night. He could feel the cold from the storm seeping through the glass of the window if he held his hand close enough. He heard the clock strike eleven and turned from the darkness.
Mark stepped back whisper quiet on stockinged feet and moved closer to the fire. There was a nest of blankets and pillows set up a few feet back from the dancing flames. Mark settled his long and agile frame into the swirling mass of fabric and pulled a blanket around his shoulders just before reaching for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He inhaled the rich aroma of the carefully concocted brew and took a careful sip; allowing the warmth to creep across his tongue and trickle down his throat, warming him all the way down.
He sighed in contentment and reclined into the thick pile of pillows, his mug in one hand and a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in the other.
Puppy Therapy
The problem with being one of the Seraph-voiced was that people knew who they were. The infamy, after what had happened in Omaha in the middle of the instatement of the new archbishop, was impossible to escape. People expected Cody the Singer of the Angel of Death to wander morgues or church yards discussing tombstones and recently dead with his companion. Someone had jumped a poor ME a few weeks back because the fellow worked the graveyard shift and had a tendency to talk to himself, and his coworkers had suspected him of being Asrael’s singer.
Cody was a big fan of killing two birds with one stone - though less literally than Asrael - and so he solved the problem of staying incognito and finding something to do between facility raids with something Elise had once referenced: puppy therapy.
He volunteered four days a week at the animal shelter under cover of being a vet tech student - and he was certainly well-read enough to play the part - and had started the shelter’s outreach program. Two days a week he traveled the city to various retirement homes with a collection of stray puppies for the express purposes of cheering up the residents. It was perfect - he got to spend all day being nice to old people and cuddling puppies, and Asrael got to wander the halls and speak to the dying and the dead.
One day, Cody spotted a Listener - one who’d chased him from his school back he was still a teenager - in a nursing home. She wasn’t there on business, though - she was visiting her grandmother. She actually smiled at him when he walked by with a puppy in his arms and told him he was a nice young man and a dutiful citizen, tending to the elderly in his free time. Cody smiled back and ignored the way Asrael loomed over her, ready to strike her down with a flaming sword. Under cover of hoisting the puppy up higher, he gestured for Asrael to cut it out, and they headed out to the van the shelter lent to him on visit days.
“Humans are unnaturally fond of baby animals,” Asrael commented while Cody put the fussy puppy into a crate on the floor of the van.
“It’s the only way other species would survive - otherwise we’d kill them all.” Cody closed the van door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Asrael slid into the passenger seat. Cody sighed. “Don’t you have a war to go hover over or something?”
“No,” Asrael said. “Drive.”
Cody did.
(428 words)
Cody was a big fan of killing two birds with one stone - though less literally than Asrael - and so he solved the problem of staying incognito and finding something to do between facility raids with something Elise had once referenced: puppy therapy.
He volunteered four days a week at the animal shelter under cover of being a vet tech student - and he was certainly well-read enough to play the part - and had started the shelter’s outreach program. Two days a week he traveled the city to various retirement homes with a collection of stray puppies for the express purposes of cheering up the residents. It was perfect - he got to spend all day being nice to old people and cuddling puppies, and Asrael got to wander the halls and speak to the dying and the dead.
One day, Cody spotted a Listener - one who’d chased him from his school back he was still a teenager - in a nursing home. She wasn’t there on business, though - she was visiting her grandmother. She actually smiled at him when he walked by with a puppy in his arms and told him he was a nice young man and a dutiful citizen, tending to the elderly in his free time. Cody smiled back and ignored the way Asrael loomed over her, ready to strike her down with a flaming sword. Under cover of hoisting the puppy up higher, he gestured for Asrael to cut it out, and they headed out to the van the shelter lent to him on visit days.
“Humans are unnaturally fond of baby animals,” Asrael commented while Cody put the fussy puppy into a crate on the floor of the van.
“It’s the only way other species would survive - otherwise we’d kill them all.” Cody closed the van door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Asrael slid into the passenger seat. Cody sighed. “Don’t you have a war to go hover over or something?”
“No,” Asrael said. “Drive.”
Cody did.
(428 words)
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Permanence of Stories
“Whatcha doin’, kid?” Austin leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.
The Wordsmith was curled up on one of the uncomfortable office chairs, hands cupped around some small black device. He looked up and blinked at her blearily, and for one moment his eyes were ink-black, and he looked dazed, as if he’d just absorbed some long, dry tome - like the federal tax code.
Kory was a lazy prat, that he’d had The Wordsmith absorb that.
“I’m watching cartoons,” The Wordsmith said. He held up the device - an iPhone. “Old-fashioned cell animation. Do you know how they did it? They would make the drawings first, and then transfer the drawings onto cellulose, hence ‘cel’ animation --”
He sounded like he was reciting from a book. Austin could see ink swirling across his collarbones - he was shirtless, poor creature, and the heater in the bunker was broken. For one moment, Austin considered triggering him, asking for a touch of poetry - in the wake of Valentine’s Day, after all - but she didn’t want to get on Garrow’s bad side.
Austin smirked. “Did Garrow give you that toy?”
“He said it was a birthday present,” The Wordsmith said.
“Wasn’t your birthday two days ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been watching cartoons on that thing since then?”
“I’ve slept a little, ate a little. Called up some maps for Garrow. Why?”
Austin knew how little The Wordsmith ate and slept; he must have been glued to that thing for hours. “Didn’t your mother tell you that too much TV will rot your brain?”
“I don’t have a mother - and if I did, she never told me anything,” The Wordsmith said easily. Anyone else would have shown a moment of remorse, of loss at not having a mother, but The Wordsmith was weird and unemotional like that.
“Too much TV is bad for you,” Austin said.
The Wordsmith smoothed a hand over his forearm where a line from a novel flickered. “Maybe. Too many books can be bad for you too. Besides, with cartoons - I can enjoy the story and forget it when it’s done. It’s not - stuck in me. Forever.”
“I never thought of that,” Austin said, after a long moment.
The Wordsmith shrugged. “I can remember everything I’ve ever read, but not everything I’ve ever seen.”
Austin hummed thoughtfully. “What cartoons did Garrow give you?”
“Disney,” The Wordsmith said. “They’re curious permutations of traditional tales --”
Austin cut him off. “Have you ever seen anything by Hayao Miyazaki?”
(416 words)
The Wordsmith was curled up on one of the uncomfortable office chairs, hands cupped around some small black device. He looked up and blinked at her blearily, and for one moment his eyes were ink-black, and he looked dazed, as if he’d just absorbed some long, dry tome - like the federal tax code.
Kory was a lazy prat, that he’d had The Wordsmith absorb that.
“I’m watching cartoons,” The Wordsmith said. He held up the device - an iPhone. “Old-fashioned cell animation. Do you know how they did it? They would make the drawings first, and then transfer the drawings onto cellulose, hence ‘cel’ animation --”
He sounded like he was reciting from a book. Austin could see ink swirling across his collarbones - he was shirtless, poor creature, and the heater in the bunker was broken. For one moment, Austin considered triggering him, asking for a touch of poetry - in the wake of Valentine’s Day, after all - but she didn’t want to get on Garrow’s bad side.
Austin smirked. “Did Garrow give you that toy?”
“He said it was a birthday present,” The Wordsmith said.
“Wasn’t your birthday two days ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been watching cartoons on that thing since then?”
“I’ve slept a little, ate a little. Called up some maps for Garrow. Why?”
Austin knew how little The Wordsmith ate and slept; he must have been glued to that thing for hours. “Didn’t your mother tell you that too much TV will rot your brain?”
“I don’t have a mother - and if I did, she never told me anything,” The Wordsmith said easily. Anyone else would have shown a moment of remorse, of loss at not having a mother, but The Wordsmith was weird and unemotional like that.
“Too much TV is bad for you,” Austin said.
The Wordsmith smoothed a hand over his forearm where a line from a novel flickered. “Maybe. Too many books can be bad for you too. Besides, with cartoons - I can enjoy the story and forget it when it’s done. It’s not - stuck in me. Forever.”
“I never thought of that,” Austin said, after a long moment.
The Wordsmith shrugged. “I can remember everything I’ve ever read, but not everything I’ve ever seen.”
Austin hummed thoughtfully. “What cartoons did Garrow give you?”
“Disney,” The Wordsmith said. “They’re curious permutations of traditional tales --”
Austin cut him off. “Have you ever seen anything by Hayao Miyazaki?”
(416 words)
Warbreaker
"Whatcha doing Steve?" Bryan asked as he leaned over his teammates shoulder.
Steve's shoulders tensed slightly at the interruption, "I'm trying to relax," he said as he placed one finger between the pages of the rather thick book in his hands.
"Oh. What are you reading?" Bryan asked as he leaned forward to get a look at the title of the book.
"Warbreaker," Steve said in a clipped tone of voice. He flipped the book back open again to where he had left off.
"What's it about?"
Steve sighed in resignation and closed the book again. "It's about a man named Vash, a bunch of 'Gods', a sentient sword and a God king."
Bryan quirked an eyebrow. "So it's fantasy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You enjoy that type of stuff?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be reading it."
Bryan shrugged and walked away.
Steve shook his head and opened the book again; quickly loosing himself in the story.
Steve's shoulders tensed slightly at the interruption, "I'm trying to relax," he said as he placed one finger between the pages of the rather thick book in his hands.
"Oh. What are you reading?" Bryan asked as he leaned forward to get a look at the title of the book.
"Warbreaker," Steve said in a clipped tone of voice. He flipped the book back open again to where he had left off.
"What's it about?"
Steve sighed in resignation and closed the book again. "It's about a man named Vash, a bunch of 'Gods', a sentient sword and a God king."
Bryan quirked an eyebrow. "So it's fantasy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You enjoy that type of stuff?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be reading it."
Bryan shrugged and walked away.
Steve shook his head and opened the book again; quickly loosing himself in the story.
Project Assignment # 60 - Relaxation
I just realized that it was my turn to issue challenge!
Okay. This week we are going to explore how our characters relax. Do they read a book, soak in a hot tub, or lay out in the sun? Do they go swimming, or do they sleep?
Max word is 500
Okay. This week we are going to explore how our characters relax. Do they read a book, soak in a hot tub, or lay out in the sun? Do they go swimming, or do they sleep?
Max word is 500
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Overview #59: In Sickness and in Health
So this week was another chance for character studies. At first I got too caught up in the sickness portion, and I realized that wouldn't be nearly as fun, as most of the boys in the Dagaz are just that - boys. And they tend to have variations on a theme when it comes to illness, so I tried some different angles - health, recovery, and also lives that don't get explored nearly enough. (Dael, Gabriel, and Keith's first life that I cannot remember don't get nearly as much attention as they should, which is my own fault.) Still, character development and experimentation progresses, and that's what counts.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Onset
Sam tossed and turned. It hurt so, so badly. His head was on fire - he could feel it, burning behind his forehead, his eyelids and eyesockets, even above his teeth, his entire skull and under his hair.
He moaned and tried to claw the heat away, but someone smoothed his hands down, hushed him gently.
Mother.
“It’s all right, dear,” she whispered. “We’ll get you some medicine soon, okay?”
The pain abated a little when she placed a damp cloth on his forehead, but he hated the way it dripped, the wan the droplets ran down his overheated skin, heating as they went, making the itching worse.
“What the hell are you doing, wench?” his father demanded from the other room. “You’re supposed to be out hear fixin’ my supper --”
“Sammy’s sick,” his mother said.
“Let the brat die. I’ve been workin’ all day so you can eat bon-bons and sit around in his fine house. Man needs sustenance. Get that stove on!”
“He has a bad fever. I just need to run to the corner store to get some aspirin --”
“I said get into the kitchen.”
The thundering footsteps made Sam’s head hurt worse, and he whimpered.
He could hear his father’s anger, the rage and the jealousy and exhaustion. He could hear his mother’s terror, her love for her son and her desperation to just run away. He could hear the neighbors next door, their tiredness and frustration at another job loss.
He could hear them all, and they made his head hurt.
He rolled onto his side and threw up.
Through the haze of his burning throat and his burning head, he could hear his mother scream.
(281 words)
He moaned and tried to claw the heat away, but someone smoothed his hands down, hushed him gently.
Mother.
“It’s all right, dear,” she whispered. “We’ll get you some medicine soon, okay?”
The pain abated a little when she placed a damp cloth on his forehead, but he hated the way it dripped, the wan the droplets ran down his overheated skin, heating as they went, making the itching worse.
“What the hell are you doing, wench?” his father demanded from the other room. “You’re supposed to be out hear fixin’ my supper --”
“Sammy’s sick,” his mother said.
“Let the brat die. I’ve been workin’ all day so you can eat bon-bons and sit around in his fine house. Man needs sustenance. Get that stove on!”
“He has a bad fever. I just need to run to the corner store to get some aspirin --”
“I said get into the kitchen.”
The thundering footsteps made Sam’s head hurt worse, and he whimpered.
He could hear his father’s anger, the rage and the jealousy and exhaustion. He could hear his mother’s terror, her love for her son and her desperation to just run away. He could hear the neighbors next door, their tiredness and frustration at another job loss.
He could hear them all, and they made his head hurt.
He rolled onto his side and threw up.
Through the haze of his burning throat and his burning head, he could hear his mother scream.
(281 words)
Friday, February 12, 2010
Well
“Well?” the physician asked.
Christian tested his wrist gingerly. There was no pain when he rotated it. His face lit up. Then he remembered his father was in the room and he schooled his expression into one of noble longsuffering. “Thank you for your services, good doctor.”
“Of course, Sir Christian.” The physician bowed and then backed out of the room.
“Do you feel well enough to fight?” Sir Geoffrey asked.
Christian reached for his sword, but the weight made his wrist twinge. He reached for one of his wooden practice swords instead. He glanced up, but he knew he’d see the disappointment in his father’s face before he really looked. “Not in this tournament, My Lord.”
Sir Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” Then he spun on his heel and swept out of the room, his cape swirling dramatically.
Christian sighed and sank against his bed post. He would never match up to his brother’s memory. For one moment he wanted to hate Ranolfe for being so difficult, for being so perfect all his life, but then he remembered that it was rude to speak - or think - ill of the dead. Besides, he’d more or less healed from the injury. He was supposed to be grateful.
After contemplating the flagstones some more, Christian picked up the wooden sword, his old practice shield, and headed for the tilting yard. He had to be ready for the next tournament, then.
(241 words)
Christian tested his wrist gingerly. There was no pain when he rotated it. His face lit up. Then he remembered his father was in the room and he schooled his expression into one of noble longsuffering. “Thank you for your services, good doctor.”
“Of course, Sir Christian.” The physician bowed and then backed out of the room.
“Do you feel well enough to fight?” Sir Geoffrey asked.
Christian reached for his sword, but the weight made his wrist twinge. He reached for one of his wooden practice swords instead. He glanced up, but he knew he’d see the disappointment in his father’s face before he really looked. “Not in this tournament, My Lord.”
Sir Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” Then he spun on his heel and swept out of the room, his cape swirling dramatically.
Christian sighed and sank against his bed post. He would never match up to his brother’s memory. For one moment he wanted to hate Ranolfe for being so difficult, for being so perfect all his life, but then he remembered that it was rude to speak - or think - ill of the dead. Besides, he’d more or less healed from the injury. He was supposed to be grateful.
After contemplating the flagstones some more, Christian picked up the wooden sword, his old practice shield, and headed for the tilting yard. He had to be ready for the next tournament, then.
(241 words)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Deception
“Do you even eat enough?” Joe asked.
Chase paused mid-pump and considered his coworker. “What makes you say that?” He continued for five more reps, then set the weight back on the stand. He rolled off the bench and let Jade take his place, acting as spotter.
Joe looked Chase up and down. “Just - you’re so skinny.”
“It’s all muscle,” Jade said, jumping to his friend’s defense. “Jace’s really strong. Right?”
“Right,” Chase said. He rolled his eyes patiently at Joe. “I eat more than enough. I just have a very fast metabolism is all.”
“I’m pretty sure that if you turned sideways you’d vanish,” Joe said.
Chase shrugged. “Yes, well, it means I can get out of tight spots, doesn’t it?”
Joe snorted. “We sing and dance every night. What kind of tight spots do you get into?”
Chase didn’t tell Joe that every night after the singing and dancing was done, he had to keep up with a parkour runner of a thief to make sure he made his mark, and that escaping snarling doberman was a tight spot indeed.
Joe was probably right, though. Considering how much Chase burned every day, he probably didn’t eat enough.
The illusion of weakness in his slender form just added to the deception.
(213 words)
Chase paused mid-pump and considered his coworker. “What makes you say that?” He continued for five more reps, then set the weight back on the stand. He rolled off the bench and let Jade take his place, acting as spotter.
Joe looked Chase up and down. “Just - you’re so skinny.”
“It’s all muscle,” Jade said, jumping to his friend’s defense. “Jace’s really strong. Right?”
“Right,” Chase said. He rolled his eyes patiently at Joe. “I eat more than enough. I just have a very fast metabolism is all.”
“I’m pretty sure that if you turned sideways you’d vanish,” Joe said.
Chase shrugged. “Yes, well, it means I can get out of tight spots, doesn’t it?”
Joe snorted. “We sing and dance every night. What kind of tight spots do you get into?”
Chase didn’t tell Joe that every night after the singing and dancing was done, he had to keep up with a parkour runner of a thief to make sure he made his mark, and that escaping snarling doberman was a tight spot indeed.
Joe was probably right, though. Considering how much Chase burned every day, he probably didn’t eat enough.
The illusion of weakness in his slender form just added to the deception.
(213 words)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sick Day
“Would you stop rattlin’ the table, kid?” Uncle Zach growled.
Tobias cursed under his breath and hunkered down under the mass of threadbare blankets he’d gathered. “’M cold,” he said.
“Well we don’t got no money for heat, so hold still already. ‘M tryin’ t’sleep.” Uncle Zach was still slurring, still drunk.
Tobias resisted the urge to tell the man that his alcoholism was the reason they had no money for heat. He closed his eyes, but the throbbing behind his eyes wasn’t going away. Based on what little knowledge he’d picked up from biology class, headache plus fever plus runny nose meant he had a cold. Thanks to Uncle Zach’s dipsomaniac tendencies, they had no money for medicine, not that Tobias thought he needed a prescription. Just some cough medicine would help.
Sometime around three a.m., Uncle Zach yelled at him for coughing so loudly. Tobias coughed into his pillow for the rest of the night.
His head was swimming and when he woke up the next morning, his world was filled with a heavy fog and his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of his body combined. He managed to dress and fix some sort of breakfast and then his legs carried him to school. During first period he could feel the other students glaring at him as he sniffled, so he just ducked his head down and tried to take notes.
The last thing he remembered was puzzling over a quadratic equation.
Then he woke up in the nurse’s office. Veronica was sitting next to his cot reading a history book. She looked up and smiled at him.
He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore, even though his throat ached, and something about her smile made him feel even better.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. “I think the nurse is trying to call your parents.”
“Don’t have parents,” Tobias croaked.
Veronica frowned. “Oh. Well.” She closed her book and leaned in, pressed her hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sleep more okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and slid into dreams again.
When he woke a second time, he felt much better, but Veronica was gone.
(366 words)
Tobias cursed under his breath and hunkered down under the mass of threadbare blankets he’d gathered. “’M cold,” he said.
“Well we don’t got no money for heat, so hold still already. ‘M tryin’ t’sleep.” Uncle Zach was still slurring, still drunk.
Tobias resisted the urge to tell the man that his alcoholism was the reason they had no money for heat. He closed his eyes, but the throbbing behind his eyes wasn’t going away. Based on what little knowledge he’d picked up from biology class, headache plus fever plus runny nose meant he had a cold. Thanks to Uncle Zach’s dipsomaniac tendencies, they had no money for medicine, not that Tobias thought he needed a prescription. Just some cough medicine would help.
Sometime around three a.m., Uncle Zach yelled at him for coughing so loudly. Tobias coughed into his pillow for the rest of the night.
His head was swimming and when he woke up the next morning, his world was filled with a heavy fog and his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of his body combined. He managed to dress and fix some sort of breakfast and then his legs carried him to school. During first period he could feel the other students glaring at him as he sniffled, so he just ducked his head down and tried to take notes.
The last thing he remembered was puzzling over a quadratic equation.
Then he woke up in the nurse’s office. Veronica was sitting next to his cot reading a history book. She looked up and smiled at him.
He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore, even though his throat ached, and something about her smile made him feel even better.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. “I think the nurse is trying to call your parents.”
“Don’t have parents,” Tobias croaked.
Veronica frowned. “Oh. Well.” She closed her book and leaned in, pressed her hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sleep more okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and slid into dreams again.
When he woke a second time, he felt much better, but Veronica was gone.
(366 words)
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Stubborn Pride
“I wouldn’t--!” Angel began, but it was too late.
DJ heaved himself off the cot, bit back a curse when pain lanced through his shoulder. “You set it?”
“You dislocated it,” Angel said. “You also have three cracked ribs, a black eye, and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. Why the hell are you moving?”
DJ growled, scooted toward the edge of the cot so he could toe on his shoes. “I’m not staying here.” He had to wriggle and squirm several times, trying to bend at the waist so he could reach his shirt to pull it on.
“You’re not going home in the condition either,” Angel said. “If you have a concussion, someone has to watch over you--”
DJ glared with his one good eye. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
“That’s what they all say,” someone else said, and DJ lifted his head.
Celia swept into the room. She had a tray of hot tea and a dish of something pungent-smelling. “Get back on that bed,” she said firmly.
DJ stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Did Angel not tell you?”
DJ slewed a glance at Angel, then turned back to her. “Tell me what?”
“We’re cousins,” Celia said easily. “Now get back on that bed and take your shirt off.”
“What for?” DJ made no move to obey.
“So I can rub some of this ointment on your shoulder - it’ll help with the pain.” Celia set down the tray and poured some tea in a mug. She handed one to Angel, then one to DJ. “It’s medicinal. It’ll help, too.”
It tasted foul.
Celia dipped two fingers into the dish of ointment and gestured. “Take off your shirt already.”
DJ tugged on the hem of his shirt in what he new was a maidenly gesture. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
Celia sighed. “Fine. Do it yourself.” She held out the dish.
“You’ll regret it,” Angel said.
DJ did, but he refused to admit it.
(335 words)
DJ heaved himself off the cot, bit back a curse when pain lanced through his shoulder. “You set it?”
“You dislocated it,” Angel said. “You also have three cracked ribs, a black eye, and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. Why the hell are you moving?”
DJ growled, scooted toward the edge of the cot so he could toe on his shoes. “I’m not staying here.” He had to wriggle and squirm several times, trying to bend at the waist so he could reach his shirt to pull it on.
“You’re not going home in the condition either,” Angel said. “If you have a concussion, someone has to watch over you--”
DJ glared with his one good eye. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
“That’s what they all say,” someone else said, and DJ lifted his head.
Celia swept into the room. She had a tray of hot tea and a dish of something pungent-smelling. “Get back on that bed,” she said firmly.
DJ stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Did Angel not tell you?”
DJ slewed a glance at Angel, then turned back to her. “Tell me what?”
“We’re cousins,” Celia said easily. “Now get back on that bed and take your shirt off.”
“What for?” DJ made no move to obey.
“So I can rub some of this ointment on your shoulder - it’ll help with the pain.” Celia set down the tray and poured some tea in a mug. She handed one to Angel, then one to DJ. “It’s medicinal. It’ll help, too.”
It tasted foul.
Celia dipped two fingers into the dish of ointment and gestured. “Take off your shirt already.”
DJ tugged on the hem of his shirt in what he new was a maidenly gesture. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
Celia sighed. “Fine. Do it yourself.” She held out the dish.
“You’ll regret it,” Angel said.
DJ did, but he refused to admit it.
(335 words)
Glassy Eyes
Steve stumbled as he took the last turn in the obstacle course and fell to the ground in a heap. Seconds later he was on his feet again racing towards the finish; breathing labored and ragged.
"Time. Two minutes forty-three seconds," David's voice called out.
Steve bent over his knees, huffing and struggling not to throw up. David approached from where he had been observing the course.
"You feel alright Blackwood?" he asked a trifle gruffly; there were other teams around.
Steve looked up at his commander from glassy feverish eyes and forced himself to stand up straight; his vision blurring and threatening to go black.
"Fine sir."
David took a step closer so that none could overhear them. "How long have you been sick Steve?"
Steve glanced around quickly, "a few days sir. This is the worst that its been."
David brought his hand up with a towel in it. To anyone looking on it would look like he was wiping some sweat from his soldiers brow, but David ran his wrist over his friends forehead.
"You're burning up Steve," David said quietly, and with a little disapproval.
"It's not that bad Boss," Steve said.
David leveled a look at his subordinate officer.
"Steve, I want you to go back to base and wait for me to get there. I will write you a week pass so that you can get well," David said as he pushed Steve's shoulder, steering him back toward the bunker.
It was a testament to how poor he felt that Steve didn't even argue; just turned and walked wearily back to base.
"Time. Two minutes forty-three seconds," David's voice called out.
Steve bent over his knees, huffing and struggling not to throw up. David approached from where he had been observing the course.
"You feel alright Blackwood?" he asked a trifle gruffly; there were other teams around.
Steve looked up at his commander from glassy feverish eyes and forced himself to stand up straight; his vision blurring and threatening to go black.
"Fine sir."
David took a step closer so that none could overhear them. "How long have you been sick Steve?"
Steve glanced around quickly, "a few days sir. This is the worst that its been."
David brought his hand up with a towel in it. To anyone looking on it would look like he was wiping some sweat from his soldiers brow, but David ran his wrist over his friends forehead.
"You're burning up Steve," David said quietly, and with a little disapproval.
"It's not that bad Boss," Steve said.
David leveled a look at his subordinate officer.
"Steve, I want you to go back to base and wait for me to get there. I will write you a week pass so that you can get well," David said as he pushed Steve's shoulder, steering him back toward the bunker.
It was a testament to how poor he felt that Steve didn't even argue; just turned and walked wearily back to base.
Monday, February 8, 2010
What It Felt Like
“Quit moving,” Holly said.
Keith hissed, impatient, and resisted the urge to bat her hand aside when she mopped his brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m not a bloody child.”
Holly cast a pointed glance over his stuffed tiger hot water bottle, his nest of fuzzy blankets, and the mountain of pillows making him comfortable. He’d pleaded for them bit by bit over the past few hours, blue eyes big and guileless, voice small and suspiciously child-like. Now he was decked out like an Arabic Sheikh and had Holly waiting on him hand and foot.
Duffy, Shannon, and Ste were out at the newsagents securing an army’s worth of tinned chicken noodle soup.
“You could’ve fooled me,” Holly said.
Keith felt his nose begin to run. He sniffled. Holly cast him another pointed look. He sniffled again, mutinously, but when it did no good he used the back of his wrist. Holly sighed and handed him a box of kleenex.
“You really were raised in a barn, weren’t you?” she said.
Keith blew his nose, loudly, and glared at her. She ignored his glare and reached out, brushed his hair aside gently to feel his forehead, check his temperature.
“It’s gone down a bit,” she said. “You ought to kick this fever in the next four to six hours.”
“I want to be better.” Keith knew he sounded whiny, but he knew as soon as the others were done dropping off the soup they’d be out on the streets, planning the next big strike. He was supposed to be with them. He was a warrior for the Glorious Cause.
Who couldn’t fight off a common cold.
“I know you do.” Holly kissed him on the cheek. Then she pulled back, tilted her head to listen. “The others are back. I’ll fix up a bowl of soup.”
When she left, Keith sank back on his bed of pillows and sighed. He wondered if this was what it felt like, when a mother watched over her sick child. He was so used to his father just thrusting a box of tissues and a packet of lozenges at him and telling him to get over it.
The lads came in to tell jokes and clown about while Holly cooked. When she returned, they left, and it was just the two of them. Keith fell asleep to Holly reading him Yeats.
(399 words)
Keith hissed, impatient, and resisted the urge to bat her hand aside when she mopped his brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m not a bloody child.”
Holly cast a pointed glance over his stuffed tiger hot water bottle, his nest of fuzzy blankets, and the mountain of pillows making him comfortable. He’d pleaded for them bit by bit over the past few hours, blue eyes big and guileless, voice small and suspiciously child-like. Now he was decked out like an Arabic Sheikh and had Holly waiting on him hand and foot.
Duffy, Shannon, and Ste were out at the newsagents securing an army’s worth of tinned chicken noodle soup.
“You could’ve fooled me,” Holly said.
Keith felt his nose begin to run. He sniffled. Holly cast him another pointed look. He sniffled again, mutinously, but when it did no good he used the back of his wrist. Holly sighed and handed him a box of kleenex.
“You really were raised in a barn, weren’t you?” she said.
Keith blew his nose, loudly, and glared at her. She ignored his glare and reached out, brushed his hair aside gently to feel his forehead, check his temperature.
“It’s gone down a bit,” she said. “You ought to kick this fever in the next four to six hours.”
“I want to be better.” Keith knew he sounded whiny, but he knew as soon as the others were done dropping off the soup they’d be out on the streets, planning the next big strike. He was supposed to be with them. He was a warrior for the Glorious Cause.
Who couldn’t fight off a common cold.
“I know you do.” Holly kissed him on the cheek. Then she pulled back, tilted her head to listen. “The others are back. I’ll fix up a bowl of soup.”
When she left, Keith sank back on his bed of pillows and sighed. He wondered if this was what it felt like, when a mother watched over her sick child. He was so used to his father just thrusting a box of tissues and a packet of lozenges at him and telling him to get over it.
The lads came in to tell jokes and clown about while Holly cooked. When she returned, they left, and it was just the two of them. Keith fell asleep to Holly reading him Yeats.
(399 words)
Beast
Joe curled tighter into a ball as the nausea reached its peak; groaned at the thought of anything making an appearance, but knowing at the same time that there was nothing in his stomach to come back up. A metal bowl rested on the floor next to his bed, just in case. He had sacrificed the convenience of the bathroom floor for the comfort of his own bed. And he hadn't been able to eat for three days.
Joe poked his head out of the covers when he heard the door to his room open and felt a fresh breath of clean air stir the close stuffy confines of the room and suddenly recoiled in agony as the light snapped on, illuminating it from shadowy to stark brightness. Joe hissed in displeasure and drew the covers over his head again.
"Joe?" Jen's voice drifted to him under the layers of covers where he lay shivering, "Joe. Come out."
"You can't make me," Joe called out in a muffled voice as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.
"You can either come out or I can come in after you," Jen threatened.
Joe cracked the covers just slightly, "what do you want?" he asked petulantly. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care at the moment.
"To make you feel better," Jen said brightly. She waved a plastic sleeve full of saltine crackers in front of him. "I also have chicken noodle soup."
"I don't think I can eat anything," Joe muttered.
"Well, it's either that or I can give you a shot," Jen threatened again, this time brandishing a needle.
Joe hissed again in displeasure. "All right," he wheezed as he reached for the crackers, "but I don't think this is a good idea."
"Just do it," Jen said, "I'll go run you a warm bath while you work your way through those."
As Jen stood to leave the room Joe laid a hand on her wrist, "thank you Jen. I know I'm a beast when I'm sick."
Jen sat back down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. She cracked a smile, "I've dealt with worse," she said and winked at him, standing again to go start the water running.
Joe poked his head out of the covers when he heard the door to his room open and felt a fresh breath of clean air stir the close stuffy confines of the room and suddenly recoiled in agony as the light snapped on, illuminating it from shadowy to stark brightness. Joe hissed in displeasure and drew the covers over his head again.
"Joe?" Jen's voice drifted to him under the layers of covers where he lay shivering, "Joe. Come out."
"You can't make me," Joe called out in a muffled voice as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.
"You can either come out or I can come in after you," Jen threatened.
Joe cracked the covers just slightly, "what do you want?" he asked petulantly. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care at the moment.
"To make you feel better," Jen said brightly. She waved a plastic sleeve full of saltine crackers in front of him. "I also have chicken noodle soup."
"I don't think I can eat anything," Joe muttered.
"Well, it's either that or I can give you a shot," Jen threatened again, this time brandishing a needle.
Joe hissed again in displeasure. "All right," he wheezed as he reached for the crackers, "but I don't think this is a good idea."
"Just do it," Jen said, "I'll go run you a warm bath while you work your way through those."
As Jen stood to leave the room Joe laid a hand on her wrist, "thank you Jen. I know I'm a beast when I'm sick."
Jen sat back down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. She cracked a smile, "I've dealt with worse," she said and winked at him, standing again to go start the water running.
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