Maybe Cody had been listening to Elise’s music too much, because as he stood facing down Agent Samuels and a dozen other armed agents, all he could think of were song lyrics.
Six feet under by age twenty-five.
It was a sad, sad day when his life could be summed up by the lyrics to song by a band called Venus in Furs. Somewhere, while she plucked playfully at Israfel’s wings, Elise was laughing.
“Stand down, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. Her voice shook, but her hands on the gun were firm.
Cody knew why her voice was shaking. Even though she couldn’t see them, she could feel them, the Fallen who’d accompanied the choirboys the government had rounded up, had foolishly thought were prizes. Samael, Abbadon, Malpas and Zagan. They hovered on the edges of the crowd, black eyes glittering with malicious glee, and their choirboys stared past Cody, eyes devoid of human soul.
“I have nowhere to go but down,” Cody said. “Six feet under, from the looks of it.”
“You don’t have to die today, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. “What do you say? Will you come with me?”
Samael was the first to move, had always been the first to move, from the war in heaven to the war on earth, and he was grinning.
Cody felt afraid and tired, but mostly tired, because he’d spent the last ten years being afraid, and he was tired of it.
“Can you hear me? Cohen? Don’t listen to your angel. Listen to me. Cohen!” Agent Samuels said.
She didn’t know Asrael was gone and, for the first time in a long time, Cody was alone.
Agent Samuels shouted again, “Cohen!”
And Cody remembered lyrics to a song half-forgotten.
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but...
“Hallelujah,” Cody whispered, and stepped back over the edge of the cliff.
(322 words)
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Welcome to Growing Up
“Well this is an unfortunate turn of events,” Cody said, staring at himself in the mirror.
Behind him, Asrael spread his wings, and for a moment it looked like Cody had two heads and a pair of massive feathered wings. “How so?”
Cody poked at his jaw. “I have a zit.”
“Aren’t blemishes a common occurrence for all adolescents?” Asrael said. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.
“I’ve never had one before, and school pictures are today,” Cody said. He sighed. It didn’t really matter what he looked like for school pictures since people only really saw Jonathan’s pictures anyway, but he shuddered to think about what Sterling Shepard’s friends would do if they saw.
“As you always say, there’s a first time for everything.” That Asrael could smile and make a joke like that was disturbing, seeing how he was the angel of death. Or maybe he’d just been around Cody for too long.
Cody sighed and reached for his toothbrush. He’d heard his mother nag Jonathan plenty of times – if he didn’t pick at it, it wouldn’t scar.
Asrael studied Cody’s reflection some more. “After school, if you like, I can help you practice your piece for your bar mitzvah.”
Cody blinked, surprised. “Really?”
Asrael nodded. “I’m nowhere near as talented as Israfel, but –”
“Thank you,” Cody said. “I’d really like that.”
Jonathan banged on the door. “Cody, stop talking to yourself in there. It’s creepy.”
“I have a zit,” Cody called back.
Jonathan laughed. “Welcome to growing up, little brother. Now hurry up and get out of there – my study group will be here any moment now.”
Cody rolled his eyes. Jonathan just wanted to impress the pretty girls in his college classes.
Asrael started to fade from visibility. “You don’t want to be late for school,” he said.
Cody rolled his eyes again. The angel of death was starting to sound like his most annoying nanny.
(322 words)
Behind him, Asrael spread his wings, and for a moment it looked like Cody had two heads and a pair of massive feathered wings. “How so?”
Cody poked at his jaw. “I have a zit.”
“Aren’t blemishes a common occurrence for all adolescents?” Asrael said. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.
“I’ve never had one before, and school pictures are today,” Cody said. He sighed. It didn’t really matter what he looked like for school pictures since people only really saw Jonathan’s pictures anyway, but he shuddered to think about what Sterling Shepard’s friends would do if they saw.
“As you always say, there’s a first time for everything.” That Asrael could smile and make a joke like that was disturbing, seeing how he was the angel of death. Or maybe he’d just been around Cody for too long.
Cody sighed and reached for his toothbrush. He’d heard his mother nag Jonathan plenty of times – if he didn’t pick at it, it wouldn’t scar.
Asrael studied Cody’s reflection some more. “After school, if you like, I can help you practice your piece for your bar mitzvah.”
Cody blinked, surprised. “Really?”
Asrael nodded. “I’m nowhere near as talented as Israfel, but –”
“Thank you,” Cody said. “I’d really like that.”
Jonathan banged on the door. “Cody, stop talking to yourself in there. It’s creepy.”
“I have a zit,” Cody called back.
Jonathan laughed. “Welcome to growing up, little brother. Now hurry up and get out of there – my study group will be here any moment now.”
Cody rolled his eyes. Jonathan just wanted to impress the pretty girls in his college classes.
Asrael started to fade from visibility. “You don’t want to be late for school,” he said.
Cody rolled his eyes again. The angel of death was starting to sound like his most annoying nanny.
(322 words)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Voice
It was the night after Grandma Bernstein’s funeral that Cody first heard the voice. He was almost seven and Jonathan was supposed to be preparing for his bar mitzvah, so Cody thought Jonathan was practicing what the cantor had given him to sing, but after he opened his eyes and listened, he realized it was neither Hebrew nor Jonathan’s voice.
Except Jonathan was the only one in the house who called him Cody.
Can you hear me, Cody? Will you listen?
Cody said, “I’m listening.”
Will you follow my voice?
Cody kicked the covers aside. It sounded like the voice was whispering over near the door, so he followed it.
Come along, the voice whispered, so softly Cody couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The door creaked open. Cody tip-toed down the hall, tracking the soft whispers. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows moving? He thought he felt something slither against his ankle as he turned into the drawing room.
As he moved across the carpet, he realized the voice was leading him toward Grandma Bernstein’s favorite chair.
Well done, sweet singer, the voice said.
Cody blinked at the empty chair, confused. “I’m not a sweet singer,” he said. “That’s Jonathan. I can’t sing at all.”
The susurration that followed could only have been called laughter. But you will speak for a member of a choir, and through you my sword will sing.
Cody had read about swords in books. They sounded fun, but people usually ended up getting hurt. “I don’t want a sword.”
Worry not, the voice said, for this sword is not of steel and shine but of silence and chaos, and it will show you the edge of the world.
“What’s at the edge of the world?” Cody asked.
Death, the voice said.
“Like where Grandma Bernstein went?”
There was no answer.
Cody peered at the chair. “Hello? Is that where she went?”
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he yelped.
“Nicodemus,” Mr. Cohen said. He looked annoyed and half-awake. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Cody immediately ducked his head. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Go back to bed.”
Cody obeyed. As he tugged the covers up to his chin, the voice whispered, right next to his ear, Good night.
(389 words)
Except Jonathan was the only one in the house who called him Cody.
Can you hear me, Cody? Will you listen?
Cody said, “I’m listening.”
Will you follow my voice?
Cody kicked the covers aside. It sounded like the voice was whispering over near the door, so he followed it.
Come along, the voice whispered, so softly Cody couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The door creaked open. Cody tip-toed down the hall, tracking the soft whispers. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows moving? He thought he felt something slither against his ankle as he turned into the drawing room.
As he moved across the carpet, he realized the voice was leading him toward Grandma Bernstein’s favorite chair.
Well done, sweet singer, the voice said.
Cody blinked at the empty chair, confused. “I’m not a sweet singer,” he said. “That’s Jonathan. I can’t sing at all.”
The susurration that followed could only have been called laughter. But you will speak for a member of a choir, and through you my sword will sing.
Cody had read about swords in books. They sounded fun, but people usually ended up getting hurt. “I don’t want a sword.”
Worry not, the voice said, for this sword is not of steel and shine but of silence and chaos, and it will show you the edge of the world.
“What’s at the edge of the world?” Cody asked.
Death, the voice said.
“Like where Grandma Bernstein went?”
There was no answer.
Cody peered at the chair. “Hello? Is that where she went?”
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he yelped.
“Nicodemus,” Mr. Cohen said. He looked annoyed and half-awake. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Cody immediately ducked his head. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Go back to bed.”
Cody obeyed. As he tugged the covers up to his chin, the voice whispered, right next to his ear, Good night.
(389 words)
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Reading and Writing
“What was that?” Mr. Cohen glanced up briefly from his newspaper.
“Nicodemus,” he said.
“Yes, that’s your name.” Mr. Cohen returned to his perusal of the Wall Street Journal.
“That paper over the fireplace,” Nicodemus said. “It says Nicodemus.”
“Yes it does,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan blinked and paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You can read?”
Nicodemus nodded. “Yes. That paper – it says Nicodemus Matthias Cohen. Nicodemus is a very long word. I don’t like it.”
“It’s your name,” Mr. Cohen said. “Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”
Jonathan goggled at his father, then at his little brother. “Nicodemus, how old are you?”
Nicodemus blinked and looked down at his hand, then held up four fingers.
“Say it,” Jonathan said, because for the first three years of his life, Nicodemus had been reluctant to say anything at all.
“Four,” Nicodemus said.
“How do you spell it?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nicodemus said. “It could be f-o-r, f-o-r-e, or f-o-u-r.”
“Dad,” Jonathan said. “Nicodemus can read.”
“As can you and I and the maid and the miscreant who washes our windows,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan reached into his pocket for a pen and notebook, and he scribbled out four letters. “Can you read this?”
Nicodemus leaned forward in his high chair and peered, nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...does it say yahweh?”
“Where did you learn to read Hebrew?” Jonathan’s eyes were wide with excitement and awe.
“You have a book,” Nicodemus said. “Beginner’s Guide to Hebrew. You left it in the toy room.”
Jonathan twisted around in his chair. “Mama, Nicodemus knows how to read!”
Mrs. Cohen glanced up from her folder full of complicated papers about a party she was planning for some of the other wives in the neighborhood. “Really, Nicodemus?”
Nicodemus said, “I don’t like my name. Too long. I want to be...Cody. It’s short.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Absolutely not. It’s a terribly plebeian name after a charlatan who made a living off of racism and genocide.”
Mrs. Cohen raised and eyebrow at Jonathan and said, “What have I told you about telling tales? Now eat your breakfast. The driver’s already got the car warming. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Jonathan tried to protest, tried to explain that Nicodemus could read, but then Nicodemus got his pen, and his pen met the fine white tablecloth.
(400 words)
“Nicodemus,” he said.
“Yes, that’s your name.” Mr. Cohen returned to his perusal of the Wall Street Journal.
“That paper over the fireplace,” Nicodemus said. “It says Nicodemus.”
“Yes it does,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan blinked and paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You can read?”
Nicodemus nodded. “Yes. That paper – it says Nicodemus Matthias Cohen. Nicodemus is a very long word. I don’t like it.”
“It’s your name,” Mr. Cohen said. “Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”
Jonathan goggled at his father, then at his little brother. “Nicodemus, how old are you?”
Nicodemus blinked and looked down at his hand, then held up four fingers.
“Say it,” Jonathan said, because for the first three years of his life, Nicodemus had been reluctant to say anything at all.
“Four,” Nicodemus said.
“How do you spell it?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nicodemus said. “It could be f-o-r, f-o-r-e, or f-o-u-r.”
“Dad,” Jonathan said. “Nicodemus can read.”
“As can you and I and the maid and the miscreant who washes our windows,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan reached into his pocket for a pen and notebook, and he scribbled out four letters. “Can you read this?”
Nicodemus leaned forward in his high chair and peered, nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...does it say yahweh?”
“Where did you learn to read Hebrew?” Jonathan’s eyes were wide with excitement and awe.
“You have a book,” Nicodemus said. “Beginner’s Guide to Hebrew. You left it in the toy room.”
Jonathan twisted around in his chair. “Mama, Nicodemus knows how to read!”
Mrs. Cohen glanced up from her folder full of complicated papers about a party she was planning for some of the other wives in the neighborhood. “Really, Nicodemus?”
Nicodemus said, “I don’t like my name. Too long. I want to be...Cody. It’s short.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Absolutely not. It’s a terribly plebeian name after a charlatan who made a living off of racism and genocide.”
Mrs. Cohen raised and eyebrow at Jonathan and said, “What have I told you about telling tales? Now eat your breakfast. The driver’s already got the car warming. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Jonathan tried to protest, tried to explain that Nicodemus could read, but then Nicodemus got his pen, and his pen met the fine white tablecloth.
(400 words)
Monday, March 14, 2011
And a Spare
Mr. and Mrs. Cohen stood over the bassinet and gazed down at their son.
“Nicodemus is a noble name,” Mr. Cohen said.
“Compared to Jonathan, you don’t think it’s a bit...austere?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
“He’s a Cohen,” Mr. Cohen said. The baby boy in the bassinet blinked big, dark eyes up at his father and pressed his tiny chubby fist to his mouth. “He will adjust as is necessary. Children are more resilient than we give them credit for.”
Mrs. Cohen eyed the blue romper suit the nanny had chosen; she didn’t like the color, but the baby seemed comfortable. “I really liked David, though. It would be poetic, don’t you think? Jonathan and David.”
Mr. Cohen shot her a withering look. “You know what people today say about Jonathan and David. Besides, Jonathan was prince, but it was David who became king. That’s not how things will be in this house.”
Mrs. Cohen nodded and stepped back from the bassinet. “I know. Heir and a spare. Jonathan already takes after his father.”
Mr. Cohen cast the baby one last look before turning and heading for the door. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t need a spare, but life never gives us the guarantees we want. Now come along – I want to hear from the tutors how Jonathan is doing.”
The door swung shut, and the baby was left staring up at the ceiling and wondering when a pleasant face would come back.
(244 words)
“Nicodemus is a noble name,” Mr. Cohen said.
“Compared to Jonathan, you don’t think it’s a bit...austere?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
“He’s a Cohen,” Mr. Cohen said. The baby boy in the bassinet blinked big, dark eyes up at his father and pressed his tiny chubby fist to his mouth. “He will adjust as is necessary. Children are more resilient than we give them credit for.”
Mrs. Cohen eyed the blue romper suit the nanny had chosen; she didn’t like the color, but the baby seemed comfortable. “I really liked David, though. It would be poetic, don’t you think? Jonathan and David.”
Mr. Cohen shot her a withering look. “You know what people today say about Jonathan and David. Besides, Jonathan was prince, but it was David who became king. That’s not how things will be in this house.”
Mrs. Cohen nodded and stepped back from the bassinet. “I know. Heir and a spare. Jonathan already takes after his father.”
Mr. Cohen cast the baby one last look before turning and heading for the door. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t need a spare, but life never gives us the guarantees we want. Now come along – I want to hear from the tutors how Jonathan is doing.”
The door swung shut, and the baby was left staring up at the ceiling and wondering when a pleasant face would come back.
(244 words)
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Project #83: Raise a character
We've done this before, and we're going it again, but this time with a longer word count and one day less. You have 100-400 words to raise a character, from birth to death (because everyone is born/created, and everyone ends, even vampires and gods). You can choose your moments from societally acknowledged rites of passage, like learning to walk, learning to ride a bike, learning to read, learning to drive, going on a first date, getting married, becoming a parent – whatever you choose. You can choose a character you've been working on or try a brand new one. It's up to you!
Happy writing.
Happy writing.
Overview #82: Books
I started out this week all right, except I totally bailed on feedback, for which I apologize. I was excited about this challenge, because I hadn't really thought about the literariness of my characters. It would be stereotypical to have Cody be really well-read, and obviously Angel and Asia would be incredibly well-read. As DJ is an artist, surely he would read graphic novels. I tried to shake it up a bit, pick books that made sense but were also a twist, and I think I did the best with Angel, but everyone else...yeah. I was pretty proud of what I did with Marsh, because he's the seraph-verse character I know the least, and I liked what happened with him.
In the end, I've been watching too much MI-5 and I picked too many books that I like (although it would be difficult for me to pick books I don't like, as I don't remember them and can't give them to characters as a result), and I welched on feedback, so this week was a posting success but otherwise kind of a bust.
Also, it feels like I still have writer's block.
In the end, I've been watching too much MI-5 and I picked too many books that I like (although it would be difficult for me to pick books I don't like, as I don't remember them and can't give them to characters as a result), and I welched on feedback, so this week was a posting success but otherwise kind of a bust.
Also, it feels like I still have writer's block.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)