“Your name?” Samuel asked.
The boy wore black skinny jeans that were somehow too big on him and a faded black t-shirt featuring some obscure 80’s band. Beneath his shaggy black hair (he was obviously due for a haircut) he had thick-rimmed glasses, and Samuel was quite sure the boy had not made proper eye-contact the entire ten seconds he’d been onstage. Wasn’t there some sort of pre-screening process by underlings? The mite looked terrified beneath the bright lights, standing before a crowd of thousands.
“Jeffrey,” the boy said. His voice was soft, almost inaudible even with a microphone.
Samuel twirled his pen, the gesture impatient. “All right, Jeffrey, and what are you going to do for us today?”
His response was a mumble.
“Pardon?” Samuel asked.
Jeffrey cleared his throat. “I’m going to sing,” he said.
The Celandine and Ben cast Samuel dubious looks, but he nodded. “All right. Take it away.”
Jeffrey lifted a hand in an awkward gesture, likely to signal someone to start his chosen music, and then something happened. He uncurled his shoulders and stood up straighter, lifted his head, and for the first time the judges could see that he had a pleasant face, a wide-lipped mouth curved in the faintest smile, a strong, solid jaw-line. When the music poured over the speakers, Samuel raised his eyebrows. He’d been expecting melancholy electric guitars, not orchestral strains.
And then Jeffrey began to sing. Samuel dropped his pen. He hadn’t expected a voice that deep and powerful to come out of such a skinny boy, but he had perfect pitch and enunciated as if he’d been born speaking Italian. He scaled the notes with breathtaking ease as if he were simply speaking, and he sailed through the tricky syllables without tripping once. Impossible. It took years of training to be able to sing like this, didn’t it?
Whenever Jeffrey hit a particularly impossible note, the audience roared, and Samuel felt something spark in his blood. Whoever had decided to let this skinny moppet onstage had discovered something special; Samuel suspected the lads in the wings were smirking then and there.
Samuel held his breath, nervous, waiting, because that last note was the hardest to hit, the easiest to ruin, and then behind him, the audience was on its feet as Jeffrey hit that final, magical note and took it to the rafters. Beside Samuel, Celandine was crying.
Then the music faded, and the audience kept roaring, and Jeffrey seemed to shrink back in on himself, hunching his shoulders, jamming his hands into his pockets. He stepped back from the mic, and Samuel realized he was getting ready to bolt offstage, so he spoke.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
Jeffrey shrugged, clearly uneasy. “My grandmother always listens to opera music. I like to sing along sometimes.”
Samuel suspected there were two sides to this boy, and he’d just seen the best and the worst in turn.
(498 words)
Showing posts with label original. Show all posts
Showing posts with label original. Show all posts
Monday, June 21, 2010
Monday, May 18, 2009
Steve Deals With It.
The pain of losing a friend, commander and a brother in arms was almost to much for Steve. It had been a rough few weeks; first David's death in the bunkers. Brian was still in the hospital, though he was able to attend the funeral. Joe had run off somewhere for a week and now would hardly talk to anyone; and Mark was as bad off as the rest of them.
Steve tried everything that he could think of to block out the pain of reality; exercising to the point of exhaustion, meditation, even hitting the bottle pretty hard. All he wound up with was a hangover, frustration, and sore muscles.
The psychologist had wanted to talk to all of them, but Steve was not really in a cathartic mood.
Coming back to his quarters one evening, Steve found an official set of orders.
ATTN: First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood
SUB: Disband
You are hereby notified that the team lead by the late Major David Cole is to be disbanded and reassigned to different teams.
Office of General Command.
Steve could hardly believe what he was seeing. Jumping up from his bunk, Steve ran down the hall to Commander Hayes office and knocked on the door, not waiting for permission to enter.
"Commander."
Hayes turned in his chair to face Steve.
"Lieutenant," Hayes said, looking at the agitated man in front of him.
"What is this? Are you really splitting up the team?" Steve demanded, his voice bordering on belligerent.
When Hayes raised an eyebrow at his tone, Steve amended with a moderated, "Sir."
"Yes, lieutenant, I am splitting up the team. The cohesion of the group has fallen apart since the death of Major Cole."
"But sir, will all due respect, we are almost a family. Please, give me the chance to keep us together." Steve felt like he was pleading. Not that he minded, he would do anything to keep the group together.
Hayes considered the man in front of him. He knew all about Steve, and what he had been doing the last few weeks. He also had the Psychologists report on the mental state of the team. She had recommended the disbandment of the team; stating that they would do better if they were separated. But Hayes was a shrewd man; he could see what this would mean for the group.
"Alright Lieutenant," Hayes said nodding, "I'll give you one month to pull your team back together. If in that time, you are not all functioning as a unit again, then I will disband the team."
"Thank you Sir," Steve said, saluting his commander. He walked out of the room. He knew that he could never be to the team what David was, but he would give it his best to keep them together.
Steve tried everything that he could think of to block out the pain of reality; exercising to the point of exhaustion, meditation, even hitting the bottle pretty hard. All he wound up with was a hangover, frustration, and sore muscles.
The psychologist had wanted to talk to all of them, but Steve was not really in a cathartic mood.
Coming back to his quarters one evening, Steve found an official set of orders.
ATTN: First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood
SUB: Disband
You are hereby notified that the team lead by the late Major David Cole is to be disbanded and reassigned to different teams.
Office of General Command.
Steve could hardly believe what he was seeing. Jumping up from his bunk, Steve ran down the hall to Commander Hayes office and knocked on the door, not waiting for permission to enter.
"Commander."
Hayes turned in his chair to face Steve.
"Lieutenant," Hayes said, looking at the agitated man in front of him.
"What is this? Are you really splitting up the team?" Steve demanded, his voice bordering on belligerent.
When Hayes raised an eyebrow at his tone, Steve amended with a moderated, "Sir."
"Yes, lieutenant, I am splitting up the team. The cohesion of the group has fallen apart since the death of Major Cole."
"But sir, will all due respect, we are almost a family. Please, give me the chance to keep us together." Steve felt like he was pleading. Not that he minded, he would do anything to keep the group together.
Hayes considered the man in front of him. He knew all about Steve, and what he had been doing the last few weeks. He also had the Psychologists report on the mental state of the team. She had recommended the disbandment of the team; stating that they would do better if they were separated. But Hayes was a shrewd man; he could see what this would mean for the group.
"Alright Lieutenant," Hayes said nodding, "I'll give you one month to pull your team back together. If in that time, you are not all functioning as a unit again, then I will disband the team."
"Thank you Sir," Steve said, saluting his commander. He walked out of the room. He knew that he could never be to the team what David was, but he would give it his best to keep them together.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Nut
“If The Wordsmith ever finds out about this, he’ll do a nut,” Kory said.
Austin shooed him away with a gesture of her hand. “Smith won’t ever find out that I did this then, will he, Virtue boy?”
“Just because I’m in the Virtue Choir doesn’t mean you can call me -”
Austin leveled a glare at him. “I’m one of the Gregori for a reason, Kory, and it’s not because I care to argue with a misplaced Virtue.”
“Misplaced? You question The Authority?”
“Begone, Kory, before I have to file a collateral damage report,” Austin said.
Kory shook his head. “I’m just saying. The Wordsmith’s pretty fragile, and this could really be trouble. Not to mention if Garrow finds out what you did.”
“You underestimate Smith.” Austin tacked the poster to the cork board in the Virtue lounge and shuffled the stack in her folder. She had posters for every bunker in the Quire but the Gregori bunker, and she planned to use them well. “He’s not the sort to go running to Garrow.”
“Garrow, on the other hand, is just the sort to figure out what you did without The Wordsmith saying a thing.” Kory studied the poster. It was well-made. However Austin had found such a pleasant picture of The Wordsmith - dressed in a fluffy blue hoodie and smiling - Kory couldn’t begin to imagine, but the kid looked mildly attractive. That the poster was advertising The Wordsmith as a potential date and there were phone number tabs along the bottom was less impressive and more frightening.
Austin yanked off a couple of the tabs and shoved them into her pocket, then stood back to admire her handiwork.
“Do you know what’ll happen if you put that up in the Houri bunker?” Kory asked.
Austin’s smile said it all.
(301 words)
Austin shooed him away with a gesture of her hand. “Smith won’t ever find out that I did this then, will he, Virtue boy?”
“Just because I’m in the Virtue Choir doesn’t mean you can call me -”
Austin leveled a glare at him. “I’m one of the Gregori for a reason, Kory, and it’s not because I care to argue with a misplaced Virtue.”
“Misplaced? You question The Authority?”
“Begone, Kory, before I have to file a collateral damage report,” Austin said.
Kory shook his head. “I’m just saying. The Wordsmith’s pretty fragile, and this could really be trouble. Not to mention if Garrow finds out what you did.”
“You underestimate Smith.” Austin tacked the poster to the cork board in the Virtue lounge and shuffled the stack in her folder. She had posters for every bunker in the Quire but the Gregori bunker, and she planned to use them well. “He’s not the sort to go running to Garrow.”
“Garrow, on the other hand, is just the sort to figure out what you did without The Wordsmith saying a thing.” Kory studied the poster. It was well-made. However Austin had found such a pleasant picture of The Wordsmith - dressed in a fluffy blue hoodie and smiling - Kory couldn’t begin to imagine, but the kid looked mildly attractive. That the poster was advertising The Wordsmith as a potential date and there were phone number tabs along the bottom was less impressive and more frightening.
Austin yanked off a couple of the tabs and shoved them into her pocket, then stood back to admire her handiwork.
“Do you know what’ll happen if you put that up in the Houri bunker?” Kory asked.
Austin’s smile said it all.
(301 words)
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
On the Wind
The engine of The Beast was knocking, but Clay couldn’t really complain. He’d tried to, once, when they’d stopped to get gas a few hours ago, but the wordless glare Bob had sent him was enough to fell most men. Clay had endured that glare most of his life and supposed his brotherly immunity had to be worth something.
The engine of The Beast always knocked whenever they drove it over sixty-five, and it had been knocking for - well, the past few days. Clay didn’t know Carolyn well enough to really judge her relationship with his brother. All Clay knew was that when it was Bob-and-Carolyn, Bob was over-the-moon happy. And when it suddenly ended - Bob acknowledged that it was his fault - Bob was miserable.
Clay glanced at his brother where he lay in the passenger seat. It was hard to be angry when Bob looked so frail. The shadows around his eyes were darker than ever before, and he’d lost weight - more than he could afford. Clay was sure he’d seen Bob take his meds that morning, but with so many pills it was hard to tell if he took them all, or if he was taking the right ones. Bob’s arms were marred with bruises, too, because he was tired, and being tired made him clumsy, and now he bruised so easily. His skin was pale, stretched tight over his bones, like thin paper.
Clay sighed and stared at the road ahead. Another green road sign flashed past the windshield, a morass of letters and numbers. To Clay, it was further evidence of their madness as they got further and further from home. All Bob probably saw was Carolyn’s name, etched on the sign in place of the towns and cities they weren’t heading toward.
The knocking became worse, and Clay was forced to shut off the AC, which meant cracking a window. The howling was awful, but the radio was too weak to play over it. Bob just closed his eyes and tipped his head back, uncaring of the way the wind whipped his hair into his face.
“Can you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Clay shot back. The slow death of The Beast’s engine? His own insanity draining out his ears?
“Her name,” Bob said. “On the wind.” He was smiling.
Clay wondered if his brother was already gone, and they hadn’t even gotten to where they were going.
(inspired by this video)
(409 words)
The engine of The Beast always knocked whenever they drove it over sixty-five, and it had been knocking for - well, the past few days. Clay didn’t know Carolyn well enough to really judge her relationship with his brother. All Clay knew was that when it was Bob-and-Carolyn, Bob was over-the-moon happy. And when it suddenly ended - Bob acknowledged that it was his fault - Bob was miserable.
Clay glanced at his brother where he lay in the passenger seat. It was hard to be angry when Bob looked so frail. The shadows around his eyes were darker than ever before, and he’d lost weight - more than he could afford. Clay was sure he’d seen Bob take his meds that morning, but with so many pills it was hard to tell if he took them all, or if he was taking the right ones. Bob’s arms were marred with bruises, too, because he was tired, and being tired made him clumsy, and now he bruised so easily. His skin was pale, stretched tight over his bones, like thin paper.
Clay sighed and stared at the road ahead. Another green road sign flashed past the windshield, a morass of letters and numbers. To Clay, it was further evidence of their madness as they got further and further from home. All Bob probably saw was Carolyn’s name, etched on the sign in place of the towns and cities they weren’t heading toward.
The knocking became worse, and Clay was forced to shut off the AC, which meant cracking a window. The howling was awful, but the radio was too weak to play over it. Bob just closed his eyes and tipped his head back, uncaring of the way the wind whipped his hair into his face.
“Can you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Clay shot back. The slow death of The Beast’s engine? His own insanity draining out his ears?
“Her name,” Bob said. “On the wind.” He was smiling.
Clay wondered if his brother was already gone, and they hadn’t even gotten to where they were going.
(inspired by this video)
(409 words)
Monday, March 30, 2009
Hurtling Through Space on the Millenium Falcon
Daniel was sure he’d been in the ambulance for an eternity. He couldn’t even hear the sirens anymore, his ears had been registering them for so long. The cot wasn’t lumpy beneath his back anymore, and the EMTs no longer looked so red-faced and frantic. That was probably the drugs talking.
Daniel wondered how epic this journey would be, from the street corner to the hospital, to face his colleagues and see the sympathy on their faces when they learned that a surgeon had lost a hand.
The ride was smooth and unhurried, and he thought he could hear the driver laughing, but that might have been a radio DJ or someone he was talking to on the CB. There were too many turns to count, though Daniel suspected that the ambulance was really driving in a maze and in the center they would find a minotaur but he wouldn’t be able to slay it because his sword hand was gone.
Daniel tried to watch the world flash by through the windows, but all he saw were shining lights, rushing cars of indeterminate colors, and the night sky above. It was like hurtling through space on the Millenium Falcon.
And then the ambulance had stopped and the EMTs were red-faced and frantic again, and Daniel thought maybe the medicine was wearing off, because he could feel the burning agony at his wrist where his hand used to be, and then someone said,
“It’s Dr. Thomas.”
Daniel wondered how epic this journey would be, from the street corner to the hospital, to face his colleagues and see the sympathy on their faces when they learned that a surgeon had lost a hand.
The ride was smooth and unhurried, and he thought he could hear the driver laughing, but that might have been a radio DJ or someone he was talking to on the CB. There were too many turns to count, though Daniel suspected that the ambulance was really driving in a maze and in the center they would find a minotaur but he wouldn’t be able to slay it because his sword hand was gone.
Daniel tried to watch the world flash by through the windows, but all he saw were shining lights, rushing cars of indeterminate colors, and the night sky above. It was like hurtling through space on the Millenium Falcon.
And then the ambulance had stopped and the EMTs were red-faced and frantic again, and Daniel thought maybe the medicine was wearing off, because he could feel the burning agony at his wrist where his hand used to be, and then someone said,
“It’s Dr. Thomas.”
Saturday, March 28, 2009
From the Trenches
Dear Ralph,
Shelling like mad today. Thompson succumbed to trench-foot today and medics took him. No advances for a week now. More bodies in no-man’s land. Coffee tastes like mud. Suspect Ensign Haversham making coffee from actual mud. Rations running low. Mustard gas down the line five miles took out 5th Regmt. Still here.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Planes overhead. Shelling. Guns. Rumours of the Red Baron himself. Snowy shot one Jerry plane down. Explosion and flames and cheering. The cold is depressing. Say hello to Mum and Jane for me. Hope all is going well at school. Don’t forget to recite your Latin before bed.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Christmas coming soon. Can imagine the goose getting fat and Mum making Plum pudding. Check bottom left corner from sprig of holly - tuppence always there. More gas this morning. Lost Ensign Haversham. Thompson back in the trenches with us. Can barely walk, but still a damned good shot. Might go over the top soon.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Happy Christmas. Silent today - no shells, no gas, no planes. Just Christmas carols. Learned O Tannenbaum and Still Nacht. Played football in no-man’s land. Drank ale and good German beer. Felt human for the first time in nine months. Pull a Christmas cracker for me.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Coming home tomorrow. Lost a leg and an eye in mortar blast. Will be stationed at St. Augustine’s in Kent. Don’t tell Mum or Jane. Come see me?
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Been in Kent for two weeks. No word. Is everything all right?
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Three months and still no word. Has something happened to Mum and Jane?
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
I understand. I won’t be coming home.
-- Simon
Dear Mum,
I love you.
-- Simon
Dear Jane,
Good-bye.
-- Simon
(297 words)
Shelling like mad today. Thompson succumbed to trench-foot today and medics took him. No advances for a week now. More bodies in no-man’s land. Coffee tastes like mud. Suspect Ensign Haversham making coffee from actual mud. Rations running low. Mustard gas down the line five miles took out 5th Regmt. Still here.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Planes overhead. Shelling. Guns. Rumours of the Red Baron himself. Snowy shot one Jerry plane down. Explosion and flames and cheering. The cold is depressing. Say hello to Mum and Jane for me. Hope all is going well at school. Don’t forget to recite your Latin before bed.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Christmas coming soon. Can imagine the goose getting fat and Mum making Plum pudding. Check bottom left corner from sprig of holly - tuppence always there. More gas this morning. Lost Ensign Haversham. Thompson back in the trenches with us. Can barely walk, but still a damned good shot. Might go over the top soon.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Happy Christmas. Silent today - no shells, no gas, no planes. Just Christmas carols. Learned O Tannenbaum and Still Nacht. Played football in no-man’s land. Drank ale and good German beer. Felt human for the first time in nine months. Pull a Christmas cracker for me.
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Coming home tomorrow. Lost a leg and an eye in mortar blast. Will be stationed at St. Augustine’s in Kent. Don’t tell Mum or Jane. Come see me?
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Been in Kent for two weeks. No word. Is everything all right?
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
Three months and still no word. Has something happened to Mum and Jane?
-- Simon
Dear Ralph,
I understand. I won’t be coming home.
-- Simon
Dear Mum,
I love you.
-- Simon
Dear Jane,
Good-bye.
-- Simon
(297 words)
Monday, February 23, 2009
T-shirt or Something
Garrow’s eyes went wide. “The Necronomicon? Are you insane?” He reached out and batted Austin’s hand away from the bookshelf. “No. I’m not going to let you do that to him.”
Austin glanced over her shoulder at The Wordsmith, who was obediently holding the book on the flat of his palms, ready for her to pile more on top of it if she so chose.
“Hey, The Authorities’ orders are pretty straightforward, and that’s to get prepped for this next mission. It’s gonna be a long haul, and we need all the background info we can get. It’ll be handy to have the kid absorb everything we need to know.” She tugged her wrist out of Garrow’s grip and continued to peruse the spines of books.
Garrow suppressed a growl of irritation. “He’s a person, Austin, not a damned pocket computer. And we’re supposed to know the background for this mission, not tug it out of him when we get stumped. If you want to get informed, do it the old-fashioned way and read for yourself.”
Austin’s eyes narrowed. “What’s up with you all of a sudden, Mr. Defensive?” She glanced over her shoulder again; The Wordsmith was shivering and doing his best to pretend he couldn’t hear their argument.
“I’m sick of the way everyone around here treats him,” Garrow said.
After a moment, Austin snickered. “Oh, hell no, you’ve got to be joking. You’re sweet on our boy, aren’t you?”
Garrow’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Austin in the shoulder too hard for it just to be play. “You’re being a brat and you know it. Unless it’s something absolutely vital or The Authorities hand down the title of a book specifically, he’s not absorbing a thing.”
Austin tugged a volume - bound in black leather, spine blank of a title but slowly cracking - and spun away. “You’re such a sissy underneath it all, aren’t you?” She thrust the book at The Wordsmith. “Here, absorb this.”
The Wordsmith set the first book aside and accepted the black volume, hands hesitant. He flipped it open - it was the Necronomicon. “Right now?” He bit his lip.
Austin nodded. “Yeah. Right here, right now.”
“Are you sure?”
Austin’s brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just...” The Wordsmith shrugged, the motion a little defensive. “The Elders never liked to watch is all.”
Garrow felt his blood run cold. If the Elders of Rosenkreuz couldn’t stand the sight of an inkbearer absorbing a book, it had to be fairly horrific.
Austin gestured carelessly. “Seriously, do it. So Garrow will stop being a sissy.”
The Wordsmith took a deep breath and reached out, placing his palm on the first page.
Garrow caught his wrist, tugged his hand away from the book. He leveled a look at Austin. “No. Come on, kid, let’s get you a t-shirt or something.”
Maybe it was just Garrow’s imagination, but the kid looked relieved as Garrow led him away.
(492 words)
Austin glanced over her shoulder at The Wordsmith, who was obediently holding the book on the flat of his palms, ready for her to pile more on top of it if she so chose.
“Hey, The Authorities’ orders are pretty straightforward, and that’s to get prepped for this next mission. It’s gonna be a long haul, and we need all the background info we can get. It’ll be handy to have the kid absorb everything we need to know.” She tugged her wrist out of Garrow’s grip and continued to peruse the spines of books.
Garrow suppressed a growl of irritation. “He’s a person, Austin, not a damned pocket computer. And we’re supposed to know the background for this mission, not tug it out of him when we get stumped. If you want to get informed, do it the old-fashioned way and read for yourself.”
Austin’s eyes narrowed. “What’s up with you all of a sudden, Mr. Defensive?” She glanced over her shoulder again; The Wordsmith was shivering and doing his best to pretend he couldn’t hear their argument.
“I’m sick of the way everyone around here treats him,” Garrow said.
After a moment, Austin snickered. “Oh, hell no, you’ve got to be joking. You’re sweet on our boy, aren’t you?”
Garrow’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Austin in the shoulder too hard for it just to be play. “You’re being a brat and you know it. Unless it’s something absolutely vital or The Authorities hand down the title of a book specifically, he’s not absorbing a thing.”
Austin tugged a volume - bound in black leather, spine blank of a title but slowly cracking - and spun away. “You’re such a sissy underneath it all, aren’t you?” She thrust the book at The Wordsmith. “Here, absorb this.”
The Wordsmith set the first book aside and accepted the black volume, hands hesitant. He flipped it open - it was the Necronomicon. “Right now?” He bit his lip.
Austin nodded. “Yeah. Right here, right now.”
“Are you sure?”
Austin’s brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just...” The Wordsmith shrugged, the motion a little defensive. “The Elders never liked to watch is all.”
Garrow felt his blood run cold. If the Elders of Rosenkreuz couldn’t stand the sight of an inkbearer absorbing a book, it had to be fairly horrific.
Austin gestured carelessly. “Seriously, do it. So Garrow will stop being a sissy.”
The Wordsmith took a deep breath and reached out, placing his palm on the first page.
Garrow caught his wrist, tugged his hand away from the book. He leveled a look at Austin. “No. Come on, kid, let’s get you a t-shirt or something.”
Maybe it was just Garrow’s imagination, but the kid looked relieved as Garrow led him away.
(492 words)
Saturday, February 21, 2009
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)
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)
Friday, February 20, 2009
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)
“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)
Thursday, February 19, 2009
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 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)
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
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)
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)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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)
“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)
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)
“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)
Monday, February 16, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Revenge, Anger, Cruelty
Garrow knelt over The Wordsmith. He reached out, hands shaking, and checked for a pulse. The kid was alive, only barely. His lip was split and one eye was swollen shut, and ink was bleeding out from under his fingernails. He must have absorbed over a hundred books in the last day.
“Kid, talk to me,” Garrow said.
The Wordsmith moaned softly.
“Damn them.” Garrow gathered the kid into his arms, wrapped the kid in his coat, and scooped up his body.
The Wordsmith curled against Garrow’s chest and whimpered. “Hurts.”
“I know, kid,” Garrow said. “We’ll get you back to the Virtues - they’ll fix you right up.”
The Wordsmith tossed his head. “No - need to get to the vault.”
“You’re not going back there.” Garrow headed for the nearest Metro station. “Those books in the vault --”
“Are all in my blood. Destroy it.” The Wordsmith gazed at Garrow with his one good eye.
“Kid --”
“Please. So no one else has to read them.”
Garrow stopped. “Kid...”
“Garrow - please,” The Wordsmith said. His tone was pleading.
“Kid --”
“My name is Matthew.”
Garrow went still. “What?”
“Rosenkreuz. They tried to take away my name, but I remembered it. It was the first thing I absorbed, but they broke me of it - for a while. I found it in one of the books they had me absorb in the vault.” He smiled faintly.
“Matthew,” Garrow said. He reached out, brushed an unruly lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes. “Did you know that’s my name too?”
He nodded. “That made it easier to remember when the time came.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but his breath hitched, and his entire body tensed, curling in on itself.
Garrow’s eyes went wide. “Kid? Kid! Matthew? Talk to me, baby boy, let me hear your voice. Tell me one of those sonnets you always have --”
The smile slid off of Matthew’s face, and his body went limp.
Garrow went still. Then he knelt, slowly, and laid Matthew’s body on the ground. He sat beside the body for a while, stroking the boy’s hair, and then he stood up. He drew his scimitar and his shotgun, and he turned in the direction of the vault.
“Damn them,” he said again. “I’ll damn them.” He began to walk away.
On the ground, Matthew stirred, and one last time, words wrote themselves across his skin.
When Anger and Revenge marry, their daughter is called Cruelty.
“Kid, talk to me,” Garrow said.
The Wordsmith moaned softly.
“Damn them.” Garrow gathered the kid into his arms, wrapped the kid in his coat, and scooped up his body.
The Wordsmith curled against Garrow’s chest and whimpered. “Hurts.”
“I know, kid,” Garrow said. “We’ll get you back to the Virtues - they’ll fix you right up.”
The Wordsmith tossed his head. “No - need to get to the vault.”
“You’re not going back there.” Garrow headed for the nearest Metro station. “Those books in the vault --”
“Are all in my blood. Destroy it.” The Wordsmith gazed at Garrow with his one good eye.
“Kid --”
“Please. So no one else has to read them.”
Garrow stopped. “Kid...”
“Garrow - please,” The Wordsmith said. His tone was pleading.
“Kid --”
“My name is Matthew.”
Garrow went still. “What?”
“Rosenkreuz. They tried to take away my name, but I remembered it. It was the first thing I absorbed, but they broke me of it - for a while. I found it in one of the books they had me absorb in the vault.” He smiled faintly.
“Matthew,” Garrow said. He reached out, brushed an unruly lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes. “Did you know that’s my name too?”
He nodded. “That made it easier to remember when the time came.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but his breath hitched, and his entire body tensed, curling in on itself.
Garrow’s eyes went wide. “Kid? Kid! Matthew? Talk to me, baby boy, let me hear your voice. Tell me one of those sonnets you always have --”
The smile slid off of Matthew’s face, and his body went limp.
Garrow went still. Then he knelt, slowly, and laid Matthew’s body on the ground. He sat beside the body for a while, stroking the boy’s hair, and then he stood up. He drew his scimitar and his shotgun, and he turned in the direction of the vault.
“Damn them,” he said again. “I’ll damn them.” He began to walk away.
On the ground, Matthew stirred, and one last time, words wrote themselves across his skin.
When Anger and Revenge marry, their daughter is called Cruelty.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Hunt
“If you keep staring your eyes will fall out of your head,” Garrow said.
The Wordsmith blinked, as if he didn’t even realize he’d been staring. “I’m sorry,” he said.
The way the boy apologized was practically a reflex. Still, Garrow wasn’t going to complain. It had taken some serious sweet-talking to get the Authority to let the Wordsmith out of the Quire for the evening, and Garrow was going to enjoy every moment of it. He couldn’t tell if The Wordsmith was enjoying himself yet; his eyes were at least more alive, but he was as timid as ever, huddled in on himself and wary of anyone touching him, talking to him. Given what happened when people talked to him and touched him, Garrow couldn’t blame the kid.
Out in public The Wordsmith couldn’t go shirtless. Some more nagging with one of the older ladies in the Thrones had turned up some boxes of clothes that had to be a good sixty or seventy years old - button-down shirts, sweater-vests, ugly ties, baggy slacks - but anything fit The Wordsmith’s lanky frame, and so there they were, at Fahreed’s, Garrow dressed as sharp as he could be given the weapons he was required to carry at all times, The Wordsmith dressed like someone’s de-aged grandfather.
He was still staring at the bellydancers.
“Staring isn’t going to get you anywhere with one of them,” Garrow said.
“Where would I want to go with one of them?” The Wordsmith asked.
Garrow was seriously starting to believe that the kid had been left in the Rosenkreuz vault, brought out only to be used, before he was thrown back in again. Whatever he’d learned about the real world was secondhand, from all the books he’d absorbed.
“Look, if you want to make it with the ladies, you need a new mindset. It’s like a hunt - you’re the hunter, they’re the prey,” Garrow began.
“That metaphor was exhausted in several hundred sonnets,” The Wordsmith said.
“The hunt is what it’s all about - you’re a man,” Garrow said as blithely as possible.
The Quire Authority wasn’t even sure The Wordsmith was really a person. The Wordsmith must have caught his tone, because he cast Garrow a look. Then he turned his attention back to the dancers.
“They’ll get creeped out if you keep staring like that, and none of them will talk to you,” Garrow said. “The hunt is more subtle than that.”
“I know it is,” The Wordsmith said. “You don’t think those women aren’t hunting you right back?”
Garrow turned his attention to the stage where three women were shimmying distractingly. “Yeah right.”
The Wordsmith shrugged. “The hunt is like a dance for men; for the women the dance is the hunt.”
(461 words)
The Wordsmith blinked, as if he didn’t even realize he’d been staring. “I’m sorry,” he said.
The way the boy apologized was practically a reflex. Still, Garrow wasn’t going to complain. It had taken some serious sweet-talking to get the Authority to let the Wordsmith out of the Quire for the evening, and Garrow was going to enjoy every moment of it. He couldn’t tell if The Wordsmith was enjoying himself yet; his eyes were at least more alive, but he was as timid as ever, huddled in on himself and wary of anyone touching him, talking to him. Given what happened when people talked to him and touched him, Garrow couldn’t blame the kid.
Out in public The Wordsmith couldn’t go shirtless. Some more nagging with one of the older ladies in the Thrones had turned up some boxes of clothes that had to be a good sixty or seventy years old - button-down shirts, sweater-vests, ugly ties, baggy slacks - but anything fit The Wordsmith’s lanky frame, and so there they were, at Fahreed’s, Garrow dressed as sharp as he could be given the weapons he was required to carry at all times, The Wordsmith dressed like someone’s de-aged grandfather.
He was still staring at the bellydancers.
“Staring isn’t going to get you anywhere with one of them,” Garrow said.
“Where would I want to go with one of them?” The Wordsmith asked.
Garrow was seriously starting to believe that the kid had been left in the Rosenkreuz vault, brought out only to be used, before he was thrown back in again. Whatever he’d learned about the real world was secondhand, from all the books he’d absorbed.
“Look, if you want to make it with the ladies, you need a new mindset. It’s like a hunt - you’re the hunter, they’re the prey,” Garrow began.
“That metaphor was exhausted in several hundred sonnets,” The Wordsmith said.
“The hunt is what it’s all about - you’re a man,” Garrow said as blithely as possible.
The Quire Authority wasn’t even sure The Wordsmith was really a person. The Wordsmith must have caught his tone, because he cast Garrow a look. Then he turned his attention back to the dancers.
“They’ll get creeped out if you keep staring like that, and none of them will talk to you,” Garrow said. “The hunt is more subtle than that.”
“I know it is,” The Wordsmith said. “You don’t think those women aren’t hunting you right back?”
Garrow turned his attention to the stage where three women were shimmying distractingly. “Yeah right.”
The Wordsmith shrugged. “The hunt is like a dance for men; for the women the dance is the hunt.”
(461 words)
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sorrows from the Heart
“The sight of books removes sorrows from the heart,” Austin said wisely.
Garrow shot a glance at The Wordsmith, who lingered in the doorway, small and hesitant. For some reason the choir bunkers were always cold, and it had been someone’s bright idea - probably Austin’s - to make the poor Wordsmith go shirtless. All the time. Mite looked like he was freezing.
And terrified.
“He doesn’t look so great,” Garrow said.
Austin glanced over her shoulder at The Wordsmith, but she shrugged and continued prowling along the shelves of lovely leather-bound volumes.
“It’s an African proverb,” The Wordsmith began. He took a deep breath, then eased over the threshold of the library. “Did you know that the oldest book - in the codex form that we consider books, as opposed to scrolls - is two-thousand five-hundred years old and was written in Etruscan on twenty-four-carat gold plates?”
Austin rolled her eyes. “Not again with the trivia, Smith.” She peered closer at a title on a spine, then plucked the book off a shelf. She turned to The Wordsmith and beckoned. He approached tentatively; Garrow didn’t blame him. Austin used The Wordsmith whenever and however she pleased, and Garrow was tired of seeing the boy’s eyes go from animal-blank to dead.
Even now, though, The Wordsmith was eager to please, so he hovered at Austin’s side like a dog at heel.
Austin thrust a book at him. “Here, absorb this.”
The Wordsmith blinked. “Right now?”
“Later. There are still some other books you need to absorb, but I have to find them first.” Austin craned her neck to peer at Garrow, who had gone still.
He’d never seen The Wordsmith absorb a book, but by all accounts it was an agonizing procedure.
Austin rolled her eyes at him and said, “Help me find the Necronomicon.”
(307 words)
Garrow shot a glance at The Wordsmith, who lingered in the doorway, small and hesitant. For some reason the choir bunkers were always cold, and it had been someone’s bright idea - probably Austin’s - to make the poor Wordsmith go shirtless. All the time. Mite looked like he was freezing.
And terrified.
“He doesn’t look so great,” Garrow said.
Austin glanced over her shoulder at The Wordsmith, but she shrugged and continued prowling along the shelves of lovely leather-bound volumes.
“It’s an African proverb,” The Wordsmith began. He took a deep breath, then eased over the threshold of the library. “Did you know that the oldest book - in the codex form that we consider books, as opposed to scrolls - is two-thousand five-hundred years old and was written in Etruscan on twenty-four-carat gold plates?”
Austin rolled her eyes. “Not again with the trivia, Smith.” She peered closer at a title on a spine, then plucked the book off a shelf. She turned to The Wordsmith and beckoned. He approached tentatively; Garrow didn’t blame him. Austin used The Wordsmith whenever and however she pleased, and Garrow was tired of seeing the boy’s eyes go from animal-blank to dead.
Even now, though, The Wordsmith was eager to please, so he hovered at Austin’s side like a dog at heel.
Austin thrust a book at him. “Here, absorb this.”
The Wordsmith blinked. “Right now?”
“Later. There are still some other books you need to absorb, but I have to find them first.” Austin craned her neck to peer at Garrow, who had gone still.
He’d never seen The Wordsmith absorb a book, but by all accounts it was an agonizing procedure.
Austin rolled her eyes at him and said, “Help me find the Necronomicon.”
(307 words)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Stand my Ground
Late at night
things I thought I put behind me
haunt my mind.
Kim stood in the poring rain, she was tired of running, tired of life. David was gone, all she knew now was vengeance. All that mattered to her was bringing her own justice to the world. She could still feel his cooling body in her arms, his eyes had not yet clouded over in death. Lighting flashed in her eyes, echoing the building rage.
Stand my ground, I won't give in
No more denying, I gotta face it
Won't close my eyes and hide the truth inside
If I don't make it, someone else will
Stand My Ground.
She would punish, and punish without impunity. They had killed him because of her, and now they would suffer as she suffered. They would all die, she would make sure of that. There would be no mercy. The first would fall tonight.
Though this might just be the ending
of the life I held so dear
but I won't run, there's no turning back from here.
And when they were all dead, she would follow David into that final rest.
(okay this song is Stand my Ground by Within Temptation. Lyrics are here and video is here.)
things I thought I put behind me
haunt my mind.
Kim stood in the poring rain, she was tired of running, tired of life. David was gone, all she knew now was vengeance. All that mattered to her was bringing her own justice to the world. She could still feel his cooling body in her arms, his eyes had not yet clouded over in death. Lighting flashed in her eyes, echoing the building rage.
Stand my ground, I won't give in
No more denying, I gotta face it
Won't close my eyes and hide the truth inside
If I don't make it, someone else will
Stand My Ground.
She would punish, and punish without impunity. They had killed him because of her, and now they would suffer as she suffered. They would all die, she would make sure of that. There would be no mercy. The first would fall tonight.
Though this might just be the ending
of the life I held so dear
but I won't run, there's no turning back from here.
And when they were all dead, she would follow David into that final rest.
(okay this song is Stand my Ground by Within Temptation. Lyrics are here and video is here.)
On My Own
Marcus doesn’t ask if his mother loves his father, because he knows. He despises the man who walked out and left his mother to face the world, alone, with a new child. Marcus knows his mother loves him and doesn’t think him a mistake, but sometimes he knows he hurts her, when he says or does something that makes him look just like his father.
Marcus can sing, and he sings in a band with his best friend Jamie. He got his voice from his mother, for she loves to sing, and she’s sung him one song since his childhood. He thought it was a lullaby when he was younger, but now he knows the truth.
“I love him
But every day I'm learning
All my life I've only been pretending
Without me his world will go on turning
A world that's full of happiness
That I have never known.”
It’s a song from a musical, one Marcus has heard many times before. He realizes what it means when his mother sings it, so when a stranger knocks on the door and asks to see his mother, says it’s about his father, Marcus says the man has the wrong address.
(I know this is probably overused in songfics, but I've always wanted to write it. Lyrics are here (although you probably know them all) and the video is here (it's my favorite version, as there are many, but I know you know what it sounds like).
Marcus can sing, and he sings in a band with his best friend Jamie. He got his voice from his mother, for she loves to sing, and she’s sung him one song since his childhood. He thought it was a lullaby when he was younger, but now he knows the truth.
“I love him
But every day I'm learning
All my life I've only been pretending
Without me his world will go on turning
A world that's full of happiness
That I have never known.”
It’s a song from a musical, one Marcus has heard many times before. He realizes what it means when his mother sings it, so when a stranger knocks on the door and asks to see his mother, says it’s about his father, Marcus says the man has the wrong address.
(I know this is probably overused in songfics, but I've always wanted to write it. Lyrics are here (although you probably know them all) and the video is here (it's my favorite version, as there are many, but I know you know what it sounds like).
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