Easier to Lie

“Hey kid, why aren’t you in school?”

Spencer lifted his head and blinked, confused. He’d been so engrossed in his abnormal psychology textbook that he hadn’t even noticed he’d wandered a little too far from campus.

The truant officer who loomed over him looked like every other jerkface cop who’d given him trouble since he’d started, but Spencer didn’t recognize his face. He must have been new, then, and the others probably hadn’t thought to warn him about the little fifteen-year-old kid who had a free pass from the dean of psychology over at UNLV.

“I’m on my way to class, actually.” Spencer pushed his glasses up his nose, clutched his textbook to his chest.

“Then I’ll walk you,” the cop said. He grabbed Spencer by the collar and started to haul him toward the high school.

“Sir, really, I’m not a high school student,” Spencer said. “I mean, I am high school age, but --”

The cop shook him once, roughly, and Spencer felt, rather sourly, like a mistreated puppy.

“Shut up, kid. Who’s your homeroom teacher?”

“Sir --”

“Who?”

Spencer sighed. “Mrs. Putnam.” It was no use telling the truth when they got like this. The cop didn’t let up on his grip on Spencer’s collar, so he had to tacitly consent to being dragged along like a sack of potatoes. He’d been into the high school before on excursions just like this, and he didn’t miss the garish lockers, the crookedly-drawn posters announcing football games and prom.

He didn’t miss any of it.

The cop dragged him down the hall to Mrs. Putnam’s room. He flung open the door, chest puffed out like a grand-standing terrier, and hauled Spencer in front of her desk.

“You missing a student, ma’am?” He kept his voice gruff. Did he think he was Clint Eastwood?

Mrs. Putnam peered at Spencer over the top of her glasses and smiled sympathetically. “You must be new, Officer Jenkins. Mr. Reid is not a student here, or at any high school in this district. Perhaps your fellow officers neglected to mention it to you. Spencer, aren’t you late for class?”

“My Jung seminar was cancelled for the day, actually.” Spencer felt the cop’s grip on him relax, and he squirmed free. “Have a good day, Mrs. Putnam. Sorry to interrupt.” And he left the humiliated cop behind. Some days, it was just easier to lie.

(402)

Hurt

Elizabeth swallowed all the words she wanted to say to Damien, all the avowals of love and unending passion. She knew she had to say the words that would drive him away, that would keep him safe.

Damien looked at her with his emotions evident in his face.

And even though she knew it would make them both miserable, she said the words.

"I don't love you Damien, I never did."

Elizabeth watched as something died in his eyes. Damien nodded and turned away from Elizabeth.

Elizabeth watched him go, knowing that it was best for the both of them. She watched him until he turned the corner and walked out of her life forever.

She allowed only a single tear to run down her face. Elizabeth wiped away the tear and turned to her equipment.

Small White Lie

"So what do you think?" Sara turned in a circle next to her friend, showing off the dress she was wearing.

Heather stifled a small smile, "do you like it?"

Sara smiled, "yes I do." The dress was a frilly, frothy type of concoction. Pink and white. It was almost as if she had stepped out of Victorian England. Heather was surprised that the design had lasted so long.

"Then I think it looks great."

Speaking in Tongues

Michael stared helplessly at the newspaper. Behind him, a pair of women conversed in low, hushed tones. They were speaking Russian.

“Tonight, then,” the first said. “It will be simple - just infiltrate the party. I will take down the guards. The vault is in his office on the third floor.”

“Third floor - facing the garden or the street?”

“The street - it will make for an easy escape. Here, take this make-up compact. Beneath the powder compartments are some electronic skeleton keys, one for his office door, one for the safe.”

There was a rustling of fabric as the women exchanged items.

“Thank you. And the dead drop?”

“At the Champs Elysées fifteen minutes after infiltration.”

“I’ll be there.”

Greg trotted back from the ice cream stand, studying his newly-acquired treat. “Can you even read French?” he asked, gesturing to Michael’s newspaper.

“Not at all,” Michael said. He’d told Greg, once, long ago, that his mother had been French, but if Greg couldn’t remember, it was his own downfall.

Greg leaned in and lowered his voice. “Those chicks behind you are hot. Gonna try to talk to one of them?”

“They’re tourists like we are, man,” Michael said.

“How do you know?”

“They’re speaking in Russian.”

“Oh. Do you understand Russian?” Greg licked at his ice cream.

Michael shot him a look.

Greg raised one hand in a defensive gesture. “Hey, we’re on vacation. I thought it’d be safe to ask.”

“Whatever. I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Why?”

“I have some stuff I want to do,” Michael said. “Touristy stuff. Meet you at Notre Dame tonight for the evening mass?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m gonna go on that Hemingway tour, if you’re in,” Greg said. His expression said he didn’t care whether or not Michael came.

Good.

Michael slid the newspaper into a nearby recycling bin. “All right. Catch you later.” He turned and headed for the hotel. He had a date tonight - at the Champs Elysées.

(329 words)

Bento

“Do you like it?” Hitomi asked anxiously. She hovered beside him on the bench, watching as he picked at the onigiri with his chopsticks. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was probably one of the only Japanese boys in the world who hated onigiri, even ones made to look like cute usagi and koinu and koneko. He wondered if he could peel away some of the nori and just pick at the rice; he hated red beans, too.

“It’s good,” he said finally, and took a tiny stab of the rice. He didn’t know how to tell her that it was his mother’s fault for marrying a gaijin, for turning him into a mixed-breed who wasn’t Japanese enough to like onigiri and not German enough to like sausage. He speared up a piece of tempura and chewed it thoughtfully. It was delicious. “Saaa...Hitomi-chan, oishii!”

She beamed and clapped her hands. “I’m glad you like it, Richie-san. I’ll see you in class, ne?” And she bounded over to her waiting friends, whereupon they burst into mad giggles.

As soon as she was out of sight, Richie finished the tempura and dumped the onigiri. Then he dug into his backpack for the lunch his mother had packed and ate all but the sausage. He even ate the saurkraut.

(224 words)

K-rock

“I really, really like this band,” Tommy said. He nodded his head to the beat, watching his iPod screen.

Jeff craned his neck to peer over Tommy’s shoulder at the music video. They boys in the video - four - wore outrageously gothic outfits and headbanged wildly. They were all Asian of one sort or another - Japanese or Chinese or Korean; Jeff had never been able to tell which.

“Can you even understand what they’re saying?” he asked.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “It’s not about the lyrics, man. Jingles have proven that a song is good even with different lyrics. It’s about the music.”

Again with the high-browed aesthetic philosophy. Tommy’s older brother really had to put his philosophy books on a shelf Tommy couldn’t reach.

“Do you have any of their other stuff?” Jeff asked.

“Only what I could find on YouTube. They’re Korean, but they can sing in English and Japanese too,” Tommy said. He pointed. “Look at that! He can totally shred. When was the last time you saw an American act that good?”

“Whatever,” Jeff said, but he was secretly impressed.

“According to some of the fan forums I checked out, this song is a couple of years old, but I don’t read Korean, so I haven’t gotten a line on anything more recent,” Tommy said. “I’d really, really like one of their CDs. Maybe my mom’ll get me one for Christmas.”

Across the hallway at the other bank of lockers, Hyun Lee was rearranging the contents of his backpack. Jeff spotted him immediately.

“Hey, the exchange student - he’s Korean, right? I’ll bet he’d know.” Jeff beckoned. “Hey, Hyun Lee, come over here!”

Hyun Lee turned and raised his eyebrows. Jeff nodded. He didn’t really like talking to Hyun Lee, because all the girls flirted with him and thought he was pretty, but he barely spoke English, and the sudden rush of popularity was enough to annoy pretty much every other guy in the junior class.

Hyun Lee crossed the hall, dodging some of the older students, and came to stand beside them.

“Yes?”

Jeff pointed to Tommy’s iPod screen. “You know this band? They’re Korean.”

Hyun Lee studied the screen thoughtfully, and an unreadable expression crossed his face. But then he shrugged. “Sorry. Never heard of them.”

“Thanks anyway, man,” Jeff said.

Hyun Lee nodded and went back to his locker. Tommy and Jeff began arguing about whether or not Asian kids could even do real rock’n’roll, and neither of them noticed Hyun Lee, smirking, pick up a guitar case and head for the door.

(429 words)

Bright Lights

Bright lights burst overhead. Red, white, and every other color you could imagine. The heat is fading with the setting sun. Rock music blares in the background, and families and friends mill about the large grassy fields. There is an abundance of food and laughter flows as freely as soda and beer. Snap lights glow in the gathering darkness, children running wild in the night. A yearly celebration of freedom.

Where have you been?

"Where have you been?!"

"I was out with a friend."

"A friend?"

"Yes."

"So what did you do?"

"We went to a movie."

"Which one?"

"Australia. What is going on? Why are you so worried about where I have been."

"Haven't you heard the news?"

"Apparently not. What happened?"

"The Rebel leader in Kazakhstan has been assassinated."

"Really? When did that happen?"

"Just now. They said that the assassin might have been injured."

"Well that would make them easier to find I suppose."

The woman walked into her room wincing just slightly. She shrugged out of her long coat and looked at the white bandage on her arm. Oh, she knew alright. And the world was better off without him.

Project Assignment # 14 - The Lie

This week is to write a piece in which a lie is used. It can be a big lie, it can be a small lie, an innocuous lie or one that is life changing. You can use characters you have established, create new characters or write a random scene between two people. It can be dialoug or otherwise. It can be a lie of convenience or of malice. The sky is the limit.

Lets sent the word count to 500

Overview #13- Places

I thoroughly enjoyed this project. It was fun to describe both real and imagined places. Places I have been and places I have not. I did fudge at one point and described a person, but I thought it was not so bad.

The first place I described, the kitchen, is a most familiar place. I did struggle to come up with the sounds that make up the kitchen. The various tones. I found myself the next day listening and trying to define those sounds. Most were accurate, some were not.

I found that I alternated between real places and imaginary places.

This was a really fun week.

Overview #13 - Places

I'd been wanting to do this exercise for a while, because I needed it desperately. My limited sense of spatial perception makes it almost impossible for me to properly describe scenery while writing a scene, and often it's clear where the characters are in relation to each other but the setting is blank - at least to me, or it's filled in by a scene from real life, a place I really know, which is why I started off with an actual place. I just sat there in the library and turned phrases over in my head until I thought I had an accurate verbal picture of a place I avoid rather strenuously. I tried to mix it up a bit - I think I only did one outdoor scene, but I did different places - a library, a pub/bar/thing, a habitation, a work-place. It was good fun, seeing the places through someone else's eyes, or even my own.

I take it back, I did two outdoor scenes, one of which was a confederate army camp. Even though I know such long description wouldn't really fly in my ordinary narration, I do have to learn how to weave it in, and I thought I'd take the opportunity to learn to describe physical detail as well as try to create an emotional backdrop of a location, and I think I did all right. Who knows what comes next?

Grease-monkey Central

The battered radio in the corner blared loud dance-rock, and someone somewhere hummed tunelessly to the beat. In counterpoint to the music someone was drilling, or using a high-powered screwdriver, or something, because there was a repetitive, high-pitched power-tool shriek, occasionally punctuated by curses as something went wrong. The scent of gasoline and oil was overwhelming, and both substances were smeared across the floor in casual splashes, as if Jackson Pollock had come through drunk. Cold air blew in a steady draft beneath the bottom of the garage door, which needed new weather-stripping. Someone hit his head on something he shouldn’t have, which set off a round of cursing and a series of metallic thuds as car parts landed on the ground. Three tall red tool-boxes stood free and proud in the middle of the cement floor like misplaced modern art sculptures and were scrupulously organized, if grease-stained. Someone - perhaps the chief mechanic’s wife - had nailed a coat rack to the back wall, and from it hung several grey, oil-stained overalls, each paired with a different-colored bandanna; there was one for each mechanic. The microwave in the opposite corner from the radio let out a ping and emitted smoke and the scent of too-cooked instant burrito, and the punch-clock on top of it rattled dangerously. In ten minutes, the corpse-like cars up on blocks would be swarmed with boys in overalls, and lunch break would begin.

(248 words)

What better place to die than Death Valley

Heat and sunlight beat down mercilessly out of the cloudless sky. It can be felt as a throbbing against dry, ashy, feverish skin. No trace of moisture is held in the air as hot as an oven. It is a wonder anything survives here at all. A few scraggly brown bushes, and the ever present cactus. How could anything get that big out here, here in the middle of nothing, nothing. Breathing is a torment, the dry air parching the throat. If you could, you would stop breathing to find a bit of relief. Feet have become long numb to the searing heat of the sand, callouses forming, it is hard to walk in a straight line in the best of circumstances in this desert, but being dehydrated makes it almost impossible. The shade of a large cactus is a welcome reprieve from the tortuous sun and heat. It doesn't even matter that the spikes are a good inch and a half long. Doesn't matter. Mirages promise water and deliver hell in return, shimmering oh so invitingly just out of reach.

Book of Dead Names

The Book of Dead Names was a shambles from the outside. It was a in a seedy neighborhood that butted up against the ritzy neighborhood where the stars, tycoons, and politicos let down their hair for the weekend. They rolled up in their limos and strolled down red carpets and didn’t see, halfway down the nearest alley, a simple wooden door.

The wood was old and dark with age, an anachronism against the city concrete, and the brick walls were riddled with old bullet holes. Just inside the door was a cramped hallway lined with hooks from which hung a dazzling array of coats, jackets, cloaks, cardigans, and more. Beyond the maze of coats, too reminiscent of a wardrobe leading to another world, was the Book of Dead Names itself.

It looked like an ancient library in a manor house, only there was a bar along the back wall, long and straight and staffed by a trio of forgettable but strangely identical young men in suits. The walls were lined with books and paneled with velvet. The carpet was deep red, plush, and thick velvet drapes separated a single room into intimate nooks and crannies where tables for two and three nestled. Each table was antique and different, as if the proprietors of the place had hit up a multitude of estate sales from the seventeenth century onward. Some tables had games on them - chess, checkers, go - and others had tall, thin glass vases overflowing with artfully arranged corpses of flowers. The light - from overhead, in a creaking chandelier; from the walls in sconces; from the tables, in lamps - was all candles, all soft and warm and golden.

It was the perfect place to escape every day world, and a perfect excuse to never go back.

(296 words)

Safe Harbor?

Wind, cold and biting, howls across the open expanse of the beach. Sand turned into a stinging wall. Wave upon wave march into the shallows, crashing and sending up a drenching spray. Gulls cry cheerlessly overhead and the sun plays hide and don't seek in the gray clouds. Lighting strikes the waves.
Light flashes and disappears, repeating again and again, as old as time. It flows from the rocky, barren jut of land that dares to protrude into the icy dark waters. Fog mists across the land, obscuring everything, save for the light. A low bellow, more of a moan really comes from the mists, warning of dangers; of the rocks and the shallows. It warns and guides ships, if any there are that are foolish enough to try to make port on a day like this, safely into the harbor.

My Own Prison

The sound of the water dripping from the crack in the mortar at the top corner might have been enough to drive a man mad, if he had not been already mad enough to lie in the middle of the flagstones and count the other flagstones on the remaining five surfaces and assign them names. The one with the pebbles shoved into the corner to make its edges line up ought to have some sort of masculine name, for its surface was rough. Some of the other flagstones were made of a darker rock, curiously smooth, either by age or by nature. The mortar between each rectangular piece of hell was surprisingly white up in the ceiling, but darkened as it approached the floor, approached the misery huddled in the middle of it all. The door was made of iron, rusted dark with time and water, and creaked when opened, clanked like a cannon when slammed. The flab in the bottom of the door was just large enough to fit a soup ladle through, though the flat tin dish of tepid soup was long untouched. A window - high, slanting, barely enough to let in sunlight - broke the uniform precision of the flagstones and bricks, and the air that seeped down was salty, from the sea. The constant drip of water was enough to drive a man mad, but after dark, the pattering of tiny feet and the swish of worm-like tails was enough to drive a man to terror.

Summer Fun

Voices echo off of the damp red sandstone. Some in German, some in Italian, and others that are unidentifiable. The almost inaudible click of cameras are a steady background hum. The scrape of sneakers on the rough stone is a counterpoint. Fingers seek holds in the rock, muscles working in unison to pull yourself up the precarious cliff-face. Hands scrabble for purchase as climbers scuttle up the rock face and underneath the ridge that is Double Arch. Rain sheets out of the sky, mottling and then staining the exposed rock. The rough shelves remain dry, water cascading past. You could reach out and touch it. Peering over the edge, it is a wonder that you were able to get up here in the first place. From the bottom it seems impossibly high, and from the top, even more so. The rock is scarred from nature and people. Danny loves jenny, or so it says. And now to get down again. Sliding down, you swear you are going to wear a hole in the butt of your pants. It was worth it for the perfect shot, the shot that you only could have gotten from inside Double Arch.
******

The narrow canyon holds an even narrower path, twisting and turning. Revealing and then hiding breathtaking vista's. Our goal is Pine Tree Arch. Should have brought a walking stick.

********

Getting to Delicate Arch is no picnic. Slick rock itself seems a daunting task. It is three quarters of a mile to get to slick rock, up and down paths, that teem with hikers, both coming and going. and then you are faced with slick rock. A vast expanse of exposed red rock, steep and treacherous when wet. Carin lead the way. After slick rock you are faced with another though part of the trail, over and around you follow only the Carin. At last you come around a turn, and there it is, Delicate Arch, standing as a lone sentinel for the valley below.

(We hiked many arches, but I thought I would limit myself to three. Pictures can be found on Facebook, under the Arches Trip.)

Hideaway

The sound of the water from behind the waterfall was an almost deafening roar, multiplied and refracted by the rocky surface. On the other side of the watery curtain, sunlight filtered through the trees, green and gold, and set the dust-motes in the pool alight like the flecks of gold in a piece of tiger's eye. But behind the waterfall was the best place. The roof was low, but not so low as to force a stoop, and the walls were rough, rounded, with the occasional surprise stalactites and stalagmites, and the ground was equally rough, but a steady nest of blankets and scraps had rendered a space at the back fit for human living. Just beyond the grasp of the light, where the bright brown succumbed to black shadow, someone had hewn a shelf into the wall and littered it with treasures - a piece of colored glass worn smooth by water and time, a piece of rock with the fossil of a leaf imprinted, a whistle made of bone, and an old leather-bound Bible lined with a spider-web of names printed in Cyrillic. It was a safe place to hide, and peaceful. When the roar of the waterfall faded into the background, the rest was silence.

(210 words)

Change

"Everything changes," Joe said.

"And everything stays the same," Kevin shot back. "Enough with the sentiments. You boys read or what?"

"Ready!" they chorused.

Kevin checked his rifle one last time, then peered over the ridge of their trench. A row of tan hats across no man's land peeked over the ridge of the opposite trench.

And then there was the barbed wire too.

"Something's changing, I can feel it," Joe said, and the green gas hit.

Making Camp

Canvas tents, colorless from exposure to the weather, form a neat grid in parallel rows marked out by stakes and ropes by the pickets who ran on ahead. A campfire ringed with muddy stones marks the center of the camp. The fire that crackles in the middle is smoky from the damp wood, and grey-uniformed boys build a pile of boughs and twigs off to one side of it. A large black pot, dangling from a make-shift tripod, hangs over the slow flames, and the scent of fern stew washes over the crowd of young men gathered at the fire. Some rest, stretched along the carpet of dead leaves and pine needles, knapsacks as pillows, hats tilted over their faces to block out the white-blinding sun and the haze of black motion that is a swarm of gnats that never seems to leave. Rifles are scattered here and there like fallen matchsticks, though they are laid with a certain deliberately insouciant air, and each is within hand’s reach of at least one man. The largest tent, closest to the fire, has its front flaps open, and inside is a morass of boxes, papers, and glass lanterns so the commanders can study the night away. The clerk’s desk - wooden, rickety, a relic from a big-time law-firm in a small town - is tucked into the corner, stained with ink and covered with quills, a pen knife incongruously tucked into the midst of the feathers. At the edge of the camp, also in a scrupulously neat row, is a series of wooden crosses, cobbled together by twine and someone’s bowie knife, hammered into place my a rifle butt, and twined with garlands of dead flowers.

(287 Words)

Possible Adventure Awaits

Quartz columns rose tall, topped by a dome that glowed in the early morning sunlight. A granite bench sat in the precise center of the dome, looking up one could see a circle that one could imagine watching the stars through. Ancient trees bordered the clearing that is filled with lush grass and spring wild flowers. The sky is an impossible blue, mirrored by a small pond next to the stately structure. A path flows from the small sanctuary along the curve of the pond and into the woods. Roses grow in profusion along the pond, butterflies playing tag in the bushes. Wind whispers through the trees, promises of adventure carried on the breeze, beckoning you to follow to what ever end it held.
A soft tread is heard and a lithe figure moves into sight. Tall and beautiful, he is fluid even in in stillness. Bright green eyes watch out of an intelligent looking face. Black hair hangs long, tied back. His clothing would allow him to fade back into the trees. Is this the promised adventure?

Sector Quarters

Sector quarters in central looked like jumped-up dormitories. There was little privacy to be had for the six agents, but the commander had a bunk of her own separated by a flimsy curtain. The beds, at least, were large and comfortable, because wet-work agents had to be well-rested and at their physical peak to perform their job duties properly. The plainest of the sector quarters had seven beds, seven desks, seven drawer bureaus, and two bathrooms to keep everyone clean. Each desk - cheap faux-wood topped, wobbly legs - was equipped with a computer and a telephone. The mini-kitchen would have barely fed three college boys, and the den was cramped, but the space was habitable. Some sectors who managed to agree on something had a television or a sound-system installed as well, but it came at their own expense and they took it with them.

Sector five’s quarters were spartan spare and neat. All the beds were made to military inspection, firm enough to bounce a quarter off of. Uniforms and towels were folded at the foot of each bed, and seven pairs of shoes lined the wall just inside the door. The desks were organized with everything at right angles. The carpet - plain grey flecked with blue - was scrupulously vacuumed, and it looked as though no one lived there at all.

Except for the morass of electronics that took up the den in one corner. The latest in all gaming technology was to be had in a complicated web of wires artfully spliced and plugged and twined together. The sound system - connected to the sleek, thin, flat-screen television - was wired up all along the walls for surround sound.

And stacked against the walls was the greatest collection of fantasy RPGs ever owned.

My Sometimes Personal Hell.

Steam billows out of pots. Something that looks like a cauldron sits in a corner, squat and fat; issuing forth thin streams of steam, only this one is gleaming silver instead of crusted black with age. Peering inside one can see bones of some as yet unidentified amount of chicken, along with bits of vegetables. The air itself shimmers as heat rolls off of the long flat-top. Almost every burner is occupied with pots or pans. Some reducing sauces, some holding mixtures of fluid and solid, waiting to be turned into soup. The floor is mottled concrete, white and yellow embedded in it's surface; which is all littered with a few peels here and there, a stray mushroom or a puddle of water. People walk back and forth, not exactly hurrying, but not slacking either. Calls echo through the room, warning of hot pots or the passage of a person. Delicious scents poor out of the various pots and out of the ovens. The hum of the coolers, the din of the hoods, and the swish, slam and rumble, slosh of the dishwasher are the accompaniment to this cacophony of sounds. Not to mention the splash of a person trying to prevent another flood, much like a sailor bails a leaky boat, it is a constant chore to keep the kitchen afloat, and water free. Hot fat sizzles in a pan, and hisses, flames leaping as food is added. The oven door opens and closes in an irregular pattern, usually with another bang. The clack of a wooden spoon as it hits the floor is followed by a low curse of frustration. Greetings are called out as residents pass by, gossip and news being exchanged. The swinging door bangs against the frame it sits in. A quiet hiss and click is heard as vegetables are cut, followed by the slightly sinister sound of metal on metal as a knife is sharpened. There is a sharp clatter as an empty pan is dropped. The food piles up in the back room as it is delivered throughout the day. Music plays in the background. And at the end of the night all is silence and darkness.


(354 words. Yes the kitchen really is this noisy.)

The Law Library

The library at the law school is a vast contradiction of Victorian grandeur and modern technological convenience. The walls and dividers, bookcases and desks, are made of a suspiciously red shade of deep, dark wood that is too red to be real rosewood or cherry wood, and the walls, desks, bookcases are just a shade different - orange, really, like orange sauce on orange chicken, and it all smacks of woodstain instead of wholesale slaughter of trees of a particular breed. The soothing tones of the wood, coupled with the warm, golden light from overhead is enough to make one pretend that one is in the vast library of a victorian manor, searching through books full of information otherwise lost to the ages. The bookshelves - affectionately called the stacks by the students - are lined up in perfect military precision, like soldiers awaiting deployment - or giant dominos just waiting to be knocked over, to cause a miniature earthquake and an explosion of dusty pages and creaking leather bindings. The desk tops, the carpets, they’re all a mottled shade of greys, blues, and whites, the desks like faux granite, the carpets as if someone had drawn a rhomboid labyrinth in white chalk on blue-grey granite and then smudged it all, leaving the lines fuzzy and indistinct. The windows overlook the parking lot, a sky that is grey with winter and city life and a a smattering of students, dashing to and fro, all bundled up to ward off the cold. Libraries are too quiet and best viewed with music playing in one’s ears for none of the world to hear, and then it’s easy to imagine the opening panning shots of a film across the grandeur of a stately library in a mansion.

And then comes the scent of studious desperation.

(299 words - and yes, I was totally in the library when I wrote this)

Project #13: Places

That's right. Places! This week's assignment is to describe places, either places you've been, you are, or you've thought up as backdrops for stories you've written, are writing, or imagine one day you might write. No dialogue, maybe a character for point-of-view or something, but go ahead, pull a Charles Dickens or an Anne Rice and wax as poetical as you like (just kidding, keep it to prose) about a place. Any place. 100-300 words. Apologies for this being a day late.

Overview #12 Random phrase.

My only excuse for lack of posting is that sickness, life, and writers block all hit at once.

It was a good challenge, but I was terrible at posting. End of discussion. This next week should be better.

Overview #12 - Random Phrase

I'm not sure that this week's challenge ended up being what we wanted it to be, but it was good times nonetheless. I'd been meaning to do a dialogue-only challenge, and I suppose this sort of took its place. It was fun, remembering how much implication can be had in dialogue alone, which is, to me at least, what makes reading plays so much fun. Life hit us both at the same time, so any other readers - I suspect there are none - may have been shortchanged, but c'est la vie.

Tell Me What You Know

"Tell me what you know!"

"Captain, he can't tell you anything if you keep hitting him."

"Talk, ya lily-livered beast!"

"Maybe you should take the gag off of him first."

"Oh. Right. There - now tell me the truth, you commie pinko spy!"

"Captain, the kid's Greek. The Greeks invented democracy."

"It's just an expression, sailor. Aren't you supposed to be swabbing the decks?"

"Well, one of the lasses heard a bit of muffled screaming and thought I should come check on the, er, progress of the interrogation."

"I'm only hitting him. He can talk if he has a black eye."

"About that."

"What is it now, sailor?"

"Well, Bosun Benny - he told me to tell you he's seen this kid before, and, well, last he checked, the kid'd had his tongue cut out. Hence the muffled screaming. Or that might've been the gag. Or maybe it's not the same kid Benny saw at all. You know Benny - he was drunk the entire time we were going through the Aegean --"

"Sailor, open his mouth."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"Oh. He is missing a tongue."

"Well-spotted, sir. Shall I fetch a quill and parchment?"

"I can't read, sailor."

"Of course. Swabbing the decks it is for me, then. Cheerio!"

Tell Me What You Know

"So, tell me what you know."

"The suspect in question did in fact have the gun. The GSR came back positive."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I also know that on the night in question the victim met with the suspect. They met at the local bar. The Mas-Spec confirmed that there was a cocktail of burbon and vodka in his system."

"And?"

"And I also know that he didn't do it."

"You know this for certain."

"Yes."



(Curse this blasted writers block... everything sounds lame to me.)

Where Angels Fear to Tread

Pass from life into beyond
out into the brightest dawn

Hear to walk amongst the dead
it is not where the angels fear to tread







(a little pathetic I know, but I am drawing a blank, dratted writers block.)

Where Angels Fear to Tread

"I don't think we should go over there, Raphael."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's a bit...muddy."

"Abbadon, it's a swamp. Of course it's muddy. Now come on - I want to see what all the cheering is about."

"Now look here, Raphael, Michael told us to go straight to Bethlehem, no detours."

"It's not a detour per se, it's just - a pause. To take in the sights. Come on, Abbadon, don't be such a girl - when was the last time you were on earth?"

"When I landed on my head in the middle Persia because someone was not paying attention to his shield hand and bashed me in the face while he was dueling Olivier during the War in Heaven."

"Persia was muddy then, you know."

"Only because I landed in the cradle of Civilization. In the river. And don't call me a girl - just because I happen to have more effeminate features to my androgyny doesn't mean you need to be insulting --"

"Oooh, look, there's cake!"

"Raphael - wait, no, no - don't --!"

"Hey Abbadon, was that Raphael just now?"

"Oh, hello Israfel. Yes, that was Raphael."

"Huhn. And that's Mardi Gras in the distance? In the French Quarter?"

"Yes."

"I thought you two were on your way to Bethlehem."

"We were. Someone got sidetracked by Lucifer's annual side-show."

"I thought that was the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition."

"Same difference. When - if - Raphael comes back, tell him I'll meet him at the Inn. In Bethlehem. Oh, you're not going too are you, Israfel?"

"Wise men do say, only fools rush in --"

"Shut it, Israfel. To Bethlehem I go."

(285 words)

Don't Antagonize the Dragons

"Don't antagonize the dragons. You told him this, Helena?"

"Word for word, sir."

"I see. Then why is Sir Cyrano's leg lying at the entrance of that cave over there?"

"Probably because Sir Cyrano skipped the Dragon's Horde 101 lecture in his second year of Squire School and thought the treasure lying in the back of the cave was just waiting for a new owner, sir."

"Helena, aren't you supposed to be locked up in a tower, in distress?"

"I was, sir, but Sir Cyrano did make it all the way through the Rescue a Fair Maiden course in his final year of Squire School."

"Of course he did. Well, why don't you have the Wicked Witch escort you back to the top of the tower, and you just wait until the next knight-in-training comes along, and I'll tell Sir Cyrano's parents that they've lost their sixth son."

"Sixth?"

"I have hopes for their seventh. Seventh son of a seventh son and all."

For Sunday post - Don't Antagonize the Dragons

Don't antagonize the Dragons

"I told you not to do that."

"Yeah but you didn't tell me what would happen." The voice was whining

"Well what did you expect? That nothing would happen?" Sarcasm layered thickly in this voice. "Use your head. Fire burns, yes? And you are mostly made of stuff that will burn, yes? So it stands to reason that your hair would burn right?"

"I suppose so."

"I can't believe you went and poked the dragon. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'don't antagonize the dragons?' Though I must say, you certainly look ridiculous."

"Oh shut up."

Project Assignment #12 - Random Phrase

Okay, this week instead of a random word it will be a random phrase. It can be anything, and like last time we will switch off choosing the phrase. Lets set the word limit at 400. It can be fandom or original, poetry or prose. The sky is the limit.


Sorry for not having the challenge up yesterday, but I am still sick and a little slow.

Overview #11 - Sense Sketch

So this was an exercise in self-defeat. My original intention was that this be an exercise in description, i.e. practicing describing the world with the absence of a single sense, to practice describing other sensory imagery, but I ended up going for characterization instead. I wondered how people missing certain senses conducted themselves, and mostly it was deception, pretending to have a sense one did not have as the absence of certain senses can often go unnoticed. I attempted to pull a Madness and ran a connecting scene with two different missing senses. In retrospect, I wanted to try someone who was missing a sense of smell, but my math was flawed. Still, it was interesting to write, and a little characterization exercise never hurt anyone.

Wouldn't If She Could

She doesn’t really like hip-hop music, but she concedes that it has a steady beat and is probably simple enough to dance to. She hates that her parents still treat her like a child even though she already has her driver’s license and can see herself around town. She supposes that it makes her elder brother feel better, that he can be her big, strong, brave chaperone to fend off all those boys who won’t talk to her because they can’t talk to her.

She knows why her parents are so afraid to let her go out alone, but she isn’t afraid like they are. So what if she can’t scream for help? She wouldn’t scream if she could - she’d fight.

So she steals a cup of punch and slips away from her brother’s side while he’s distracted by one of the cheerleaders he likes so much, and she heads for the other side of the dance floor. She spots a boy, a quiet boy who sits behind her in math, and she opens her mouth to shape her lips around a soundless greeting. How anyone can talk to each other over this cacophony is a mystery anyway.

But he cups a hand over his ear like he can’t hear her, and she knows. He’s deaf. It means he speaks the same way she does, with flicks of the wrist and graceful hands. So she sets down her cup of punch and says hello the proper way. He’s funny and charming - he likes poetry and math and wants to be a writer when he grows up. She wonders if he’d like to dance with her, because the music is certainly loud enough for him to feel the backbeat, but then her brother calls her name, and she turns.

He scolds her for running off, and her reply is a series of quick, cutting gestures. She was fine on her own. Plus, he was scoring with the cheerleader. That makes him blush, and when he finally backs off, she discovers that the handsome boy she was talking too has vanished.

(350 words)

Feel the Beat

He can feel the beat, the way it throbs through his limbs and hints that maybe he’d like to move, to sway in time with the others, because even though he has no clue what sort of music is playing, he has a genuine sense of time and can count.

Just because he cannot hear the electric guitars or piano or rappers’ voices doesn’t mean he can’t dance. He simply chooses not to.

So it’s a pleasant surprise when a girl slides up to him, holding a cup of punch and smiles at him.

He smiles back. She opens her mouth to speak, and maybe he ought to be able to hear her voice, or maybe no one else would hear her either. He cups a hand around one ear in a universal gesture and shrugs apologetically.

She takes it in totally the wrong way, but it lights up his night. He can only watch, confused, as she sets down her cup of punch. And then she raises her hands and begins to draw words in the air, and he cannot stop his smile.

Her name is Sylvia, and she’s a history major. She lives nearby, and she came to the dance with from friends. She’s been signing all her life, and she loves old noir films.

He’s almost worked up the nerve to ask her to dance when she suddenly turns her head. He’s confused, because he doesn’t know what she saw - and then he realizes she can hear. She turns and continues to sign, but the person who approaches - a boy, taller, more handsome than he could ever hope to be - isn’t signing.

She can hear.

He wonders why he feels suddenly and painfully betrayed, and while she’s distracted he ducks into the crowd.

(296 words)

He Can

There are sounds in the world that some people never hear, and textures that they never feel because their minds are overridden by one overwhelming sense. Some people say he’s lacking that sense, but he likes to think he’s overcome it, because no one can tell he operates without it. They just talk about slick Shane, with his ever-present shades, his charming fedora, and his dapper cane, and never think twice about the fact that he always hears things they can’t hear and never really faces anyone he talks to.

After classes get out - Shane records lectures and transcribes them on his braille typewriter when he gets home as one form of studying - he heads to the office to get some work done. He can hear the lilt in voices as the secretaries turn to him and tell him hello. He can tell when their cheer is genuine or forced by the grit of teeth behind their words, and he always tips his fedora politely.

Once in the elevator, he listens to the gears whirr and waits for the giant metal death-trap to take him where The Powers That Be choose for the day. Sometimes it’s upstairs for briefings and strategy discussions. Today it’s downstairs for training, training, and more training.

He can tell whether or not a gun is empty by the weight of it in his hand, and he can tell the caliber of the bullets by the way they roll in his palm, but the curve of the barrel between his fingers. He can tell where a man is standing by the sound of his breathing and he imagines, in the aftermath of rapid gunfire, that he can hear a man’s heart before it stops.

(290 words)

Shades of Music

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Hannah asked.

Luke shook his head and kept his eyes closed. “No.”

“Then open your eyes.”

“I don’t like this song,” Luke said. “It’s ugly.”

“I agreed to come along to the bar tonight because one of your favorite bands is playing.” Hannah’s voice took on a distinct pout.

“Right - this is one of my favorite bands, and the song sounds absolutely lovely, but it looks ugly,” Luke said. He dared to open one eye and peek at Hannah, but his vision was swamped by a rush of dull, rusty oranges and dry-blood browns.

“What do you mean it looks ugly?” Hannah asked.

Luke sighed. “Didn’t Evan and the others tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Luke ran a hand through his hair. “Evan usually tells anyone who’ll listen - ever since we were kids, he acts like it’s a party trick.”

Frustration crept into the edges of Hannah’s voice. “What is it?”

“Synesthesia,” Luke said. “When music plays, I hear it - and I also see colors that go with it. Every sound has a different color, every song has a color scheme - and the scheme for this song is really, really ugly. So it’s better for everyone if I close my eyes and listen.”

“Oh,” Hannah said in a small voice. “I - do human voices give off color?”

“Some of them more than others,” Luke said. He heard the chair beside his squeak, felt a crescendo of warmth as Hannah slid closer. When she spoke next, her voice was right next to his ear.

“What color is my voice?”

“Turquoise blue, mostly,” he said. “Shades of green when you’re angry. It goes straight to purple when you’re sad. Why?”

“Just wondered.” Hannah pressed a kiss to his temple. “When the next song comes on, open your eyes, and we’ll go dance.”

“The next song in the set is Learn to Fly,” Luke said. “It’s lots of yellows. I think you’ll like it.”

(328 words)

Acquired Taste

Tony cast wary glances at the other boys and girls at the table. So far none of them were making faces, so at best guess the food tasted good. When Mrs. Hankel put a plate full of food down in front of him, he scooped up a fork-ful of the mashed potatoes. He brought it close to his face to test its temperature. Safe enough. He took a bite. No tongue-burns, then. The stuff was weird and mushy, but then he reckoned that was the difference between instant mashed potatoes and the real ones his mother mashed by hands. The vegetables - carrots, overcooked and also a little mushy - didn’t burn him either. Tony watched the other children eat and saw a few of them make faces and poke hesitantly at the meat on the table. He could smell it, and was leery of it, but it didn’t smell as bad as, say, his uncle’s gassy dog.

So he took a bite. It was a little chewy, but he swallowed the first bite and cut another piece.

Mrs. Hankel hovered over the children once all the food was served. Tony smiled at her around a mouthful of meat and continued eating. She came to stand by him.

“Doing okay there, kiddo?” she asked.

He nodded. Once he’d cleaned his plate, he laid his knife and fork across it to show he’d finished and he drained his glass of water.

“Huh,” Mrs. Hankel said, staring at his empty plate. “Most kids can’t stomach the taste of liver.”

Liver. That’s what he’d eaten. Tony shrugged. “I’m not most kids, I guess.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Mrs. Hankel said.

Tony nodded dutifully, but he knew the truth. It was no taste at all.

(291 words)

Overview # 10 Pictures

I enjoyed this project! It helps to have a picture sometimes to work from. Though I have to admit that when I had an idea, I would find a picture to match, even thought that was not the process it should have been.

I had fun using different pictures, of people, of places, of items. Pictures for me can be very inspiring.

Sorry for posting the challenge late last week.

A Fighters Hands

Dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a black beanie crammed down to her eyebrows. Black eyes were obscure under the camouflage paint, they saw everything and analyzed it in a second. There was no insignia on her uniform, this was not sanctioned, it never happened. Her gestures were sharp and pointed, conveying a direct meaning. Cover flank, flow around to the rendezvous, I'll take point. Move out! They moved silently through the compound, each knowing their jobs and accomplishing objectives with deadly skill. Such was the life of the special forces.

She had very graceful hands, they moved like pale silk ribbons in a gentle breeze, forming her thoughts and emotions.

Silent as the Grave

Nobody really noticed that David was different. He seemed just like everyone else, quieter certainly, but normal.

Jessica had never heard David's voice. Though from his facial expressions and the intensity in his gaze, she knew his voice would be perfect when he finally got around to speaking to her. Everyone knew what he meant and what he wanted, just by his focus.

"Hi David." Jessica had finally screwed up the courage to talk to him. She did in fact have a legitimate reason for being at his desk, she needed to give him the plans for the new building that was going up down town.

David looked up from his work, his steady hand pausing in the middle of a schematic. He offered a smile to the pretty girl next to his desk. His dark blue eyes looked her up and down, and he raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"How have you been?" she was hoping to keep the conversation going for a bit.

David shrugged, his expression clearly meant to convey that it was okay, but nothing special. He raised an eyebrow in question at her.

"I've been okay." Jessica, already nervous, decided to make a retreat. "Well, I'll talk to you later."

David smiled and nodded, his focus returning to his work. A smile now hovering around his silent mouth.

Numb

The sharp, salty scent of blood in the air told him he was wounded. He glanced down and checked himself and found that he had a piece of shrapnel lodged in his thigh. An experimental brush of his fingertips against the wound, a peer at the redness, the thickness of the blood against his skin, and he decided that he wasn’t bleeding that much. He tried to stand and nearly fell over for his leg’s disobeying him. So he wouldn’t be able to get away on his own.


There was only one choice, now - pretend he was one of the civilians and let the paramedics take care of him. He knew that as soon as one of the hackers realized he hadn’t made it into the transport with the rest of the demolitions team a false identity would be in the government databases to cover his treatment. He could say he was a musician - there had been plenty of them at the fundraiser that night. He had the calluses on his fingers to prove it - and the scars. He’d fumbled one of the charges, hadn’t made it out of the blast radius in time, and now he was wounded.

A paramedic entered his field of vision.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“I’m wounded,” he said. “Can’t walk. Leg.” He pointed at the wound, and turned his calm, unfeeling gaze on the paramedic.

“Sir, you’re in shock and losing blood - I need you to stay right here.” He nodded and did his best to prop himself up against the remains of the low cement wall and watched the paramedic dash toward the nearest ambulance and scramble for a med kit.

He’d have to remember to flinch away from her ministrations this time.

Project #11: Sense Sketch

Write a vignette, 100-400 words, about a character - preferably original - who is missing a sense or has synesthesia (since there are generally only five senses to work with). Perhaps try someone who is missing more than one sense. Think of this as an opportunity to practice description and imagery.

Overview #10 - Picture

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and, well, maybe it is. I had a lot of fun with this project and did my best to use as many different pictures as possible - some of people, some of places, and to use the pictures in different ways. Most of the times the pictures were of characters. One picture, though it had people, was to me of a moment rather than just visual reference for the characters. It was relieving, to know that I wouldn't have to do the work a picture could do. In Last of Asgaroth I used the picture to do the work for me, so I wouldn't have to use inadequate adverbs and adjectives to try to recreate the emotion between the man and the woman in that scene. I thought that was useful.

In the first story I wanted the picture to be not just of his face but of who he was at the time the picture was taken, like in crime procedural shows, where the suspect's mother hands the police officer a picture of her boy, sweet-faced and smiling, and the entire audience knows he's a killer. I wanted to write about Iori because I played him for so long, and when one role-plays one accrues characters whose stories are never written on paper or screen, whose stories are incomplete, so I figured I'd give my sweet Iori a chance. I liked to use the picture as Irony in White City; those who recognize the fandom there would likely recognize the irony of so beautiful a place being home to so horrible an institution.

The pictures came to me either way - sometimes I was inspired by a picture and wrote from it. Other times I already had an idea and had to hunt for a picture that suited it; playing in the Middle of Nowhere with my friend BenTen helped me learn how to find a picture to suit my idea rather than using a picture the other way around. Overall, this was an excellent exercise.

Stars within my Hands

Always out of reach they seem,
I reached and reached again.
Insubstantial, and naught but dreams,
they wax and then they wain.

Soul, free to fly,
at last I understand.
And then I found
I held stars within my hand.


(I know it is short, but again, writers block is vexing me.)

Wild Hunt

The time was now. Bryn lifted the horn to his lips and sounded its call across the glen. The mist was thick, but he could hear the sounds of battle begin to rise as his brothers armed up and climbed astride their mounts.

This was the chance they’d all been waiting for, and the mortals wouldn’t know what was coming for them. The Veil had been rent one last time, and finally the barrier was broken. Bryn tossed his head, antlers gleaming in the early morning sun. When the light struck his skin, green glimmered beneath the nut-brown of his tan. All who saw him would know that he was no human.

The time for the wild hunt had come.

King Cerne was majestic astride his stag, spear in hand. The other hunters - Cernunnos, Orion, Weiryn, Pan, Pashupati, the Green Man - drew their steeds up alongside him and waited for the second clarion call, the signal that the Rainbow Bridge had reached the other side.

Bryn leapt astride his steed and pulled up beside the others. The stag stamped, jittery with the excitement of war in the air. Bryn took the chance to string his bow, spell his arrows to come back to him after kills, and then a ripple of whispers broke through the mist.

There, atop a nightmare black steed, was the Red Queen, painted with woad, armed with sword and shield.

Cerne bowed his head to his Queen, and Morrigan smiled at him. Her lips were already stained with blood.

(254 words)

Sailing away

"Hoist all sails!" The bosun called as the ship crept out of the safety of the harbor. The men on board were quick to obey the orders. They chanted in unison as they worked the sails, the call and the rhythm setting the pace. There was a chant for leaving the harbor and for coming in. There were many for short hauls, for halyarding , and for the capstan.

Men scuttled up the netting and out onto the yardarms, loosing the sails that would catch the wind. The men below hauled on the lines to put them in place.

The breeze was freshening and the day promising. The perfect day to be off on the sea; to wherever the wind and currents took them. The old men and the young men alike raised their voices in the chant to raise the sails. The broad squares of white cloth boomed as the wind caught them, filling and rapidly baring the ship away into the horizon.

Ryan pulled with the others, raising his clear tenor voice with the others. They were leaving and their song echoed over the sea.


In the Black Ball line I served my time
To me way-aye-aye, hurray-ah
And that's the line where you can shine
Hurrah for the Black Ball Line

White City

“It’s a lovely city,” Jennifer said.

The young man who stood at her side kept his hands in the pockets of his long green coat and gazed out over the cityscape, which was a calming blend of architecture and flora gone multi-coloured for autumn.

“It looks nice,” the man agreed.

“It isn’t actually nice?” Jennifer cast him a sidelong glance and saw something like cruel amusement twist his mouth into a painful facsimile of a smile.

“It can be nice.” He tugged one hand out of a pocket and pointed across the city to a tall white building. “See that place right there?”

Jennifer followed the line of his arm. “Yes?”

“It’s a school. I spent twelve years of my life there. They found me when I was four, and I graduated when I was sixteen - two years ahead of all the other students in my class,” the man said. He reached up and ran a hand over his short red hair, and something about the longing in that gesture made Jennifer wonder how long his hair had been before.

“So you were a genius?”

“Perhaps prodigy is a better term, although I had a prodigy of my own on my team once I escaped the hallowed walls of the White City,” he said.

“What kind of school was it?”

“One you’ve never heard of, but one that runs the world,” he said.

“Oh? What did they teach you there?”

“Everything - music, art, dancing, poetry, history, geography.” His expression turned distant again. “Firearms and bladed weapons, hand-to-hand combat, computer hacking, basic confidence scams and advanced disguises and sleight-of-hand. Everything a school could want for its agents.”

“Agents? Not students?”

“Not at Rosenkreuz. But if you have the money, and the will, you can hire yourself a team from the White City, and they will lay the world at your feet.”

“At what price?”

“More than anyone ever really wants to pay.”

(326 words)

Overview #9 Multi-Fandom No Dialogue

Wow, this week was tough. Even though sometimes I can write just fine without dialogue, I found myself really wanting to use it. I found that without dialogue I loose a certain depth of the characters. And maybe that is a stylistic problem or a lack of skill still. I think I am still having a bit of a problem with telling rather than showing, but I am trying to be aware of it. Choosing fandoms was at time hard. Even though I like a lot of things, and I can usually come up with interesting side stories for whatever I am fanning over, when put on the spot, I found it hard to think of ideas. Not to mention that writers block has hit me hard. No matter what I write, to me it sounds rather lame of late. *Shrug*

Beautiful Soul

He had a beautiful soul. She could tell that by his eyes. A gentle youth.

She had watched him for a while, the way he interacted with others. His consideration for others, his intelligence and the small acts of kindness.

And the way that he ran, just for the pleasure of the physical exertion; she could watch him for hours.

He was young, but she was patient.


(I know most of these are short, but I'm not at the top of the game at the moment... major writers block....)

She would Remember

Shane ducked behind the black curtains on the stage. His heart pounding. She had been sitting closer to the stage tonight. He did not know if she had seen him; he was hoping to spark her memories before he revealed himself. The best way he could think of was to sing. His green eyes reflected what little light was backstage. Gathering his things he walked out the back stage door.

Yes, Alastrina would remember. He would make sure of that. He had seen her perk up when she heard him sing. She would remember in time. And they would be happy again as they once were.

Sketching

Kim studied the contours before her. She had never tried her hand at sketching, but David was a willing model. His bare back was towards her, his muscled rippling down the length of his body. He stood in a doorway, his arms raised and resting against the frame. His hair was tousled and his jeans hung just perfectly on his slender hips.

"Are you finished?" David was not impatient, but he wanted to see how it had turned out. His skin itched just slightly as she could feel her eyes on his bare back.

"Nope."

Kim was in fact finished, but she was not quite ready for him to put his shirt back on yet.

Old Man

"Go to the Old Man. Find him and you will find me." These words were whispered hurriedly, and urgently into her ear before he ran.

"Wait!" She called after him. "What old man? Who? How do I find him?"

"Find him!" The words were faint, and the figure was rapidly disappearing.

'How am I to find him when I don't know which old man to look for. There are millions of old men in the world.'

*****

Anna had been lithe and beautiful when her search had started. At times she had wanted to give up. She had looked up every old man that she could think that Thomas knew. She had not found him. Now she was pale, a shadow of her former self. Still she continued to search.
****

Anna was old, it was hard for her to continue; she hardly remembered now why she should, why it mattered. The only thing that kept her going was the fact that she had not found the old man. She didn't think the old man existed anymore, but her love's command that she find the old man still rang in her mind.

Anna lowered her aching body beside a great tree, leaning against the rough bark. It was harsh against her paper thin skin.

"Anna, you made it." The voice seemed to come from the tree itself, ancient and woody.

"Thomas." Anna sighed, closing here eyes for the last time.

Thomas stepped from within the confines of the tree, and looked at his love, Tenderly he reached out and grasped her cooling hand. Pulling gently he drew her young soul towards him.

Leaving her body behind he bore her towards a new life; with him at her side. Forever.

Glimpse of a Life

Jared gently picked up the black rose that had been left on his table, each petal absolutely perfect. He drew his finger along the silky soft contours of the flower, remembering. There was no note, none was needed. The rose said it all. She would not be coming back. He had lost her forever.

Four Seasons

He sat beneath the tree, guitar clumsily across his knees. He’d started learning to play only a few months ago, and he was proud that the first song he’d learned was one of her favorites. Even if he couldn’t play very well yet, he could still sing. It was his voice that had drawn her to him.

“Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there...”

She’d promised that to him, and now he kept the same promise in return. If the people in town didn’t understand why he stopped to play a song under the tree every day, no matter the weather, then they didn’t understand how much he’d loved her. They didn’t understand how much he’d cared for her, how much he’d done for her - and didn’t know that’s where he’d buried her.

(142 words)

Last of Asgaroth

The battle raged around them, and the sound of steel on steel was a cacophony of beautiful destruction. Dragons swarmed the air overhead; Cordelia shuddered whenever she heard one scream and plummet out of the sky. General Unnenweldt had worked his engineers overtime to plan new siege engines, and the dragonslaying crossbows were his genius at its cruelest yet.

“What now?” She turned to Damien, who stood beside her on the precipice, spear in hand.

He must not have heard her, for his eyes were distant as he gazed down on the battlefield. Cordelia felt a swell of longing rise in her chest; they’d fought so long and so hard to survive this far, and now she and Damien were the only commanders of the Asgaroth left.

Cordelia reached out to him. “Damien, what choice have you made?”

He turned to her, then, lifted a hand to her face.

“I love you, Cordelia,” he said.

She smiled.

He said, “I’m sorry,” and drove his spear through her.

(167 words)

Told You So

He sat in one corner of the bar, on the floor, watching a group of girls who sat at a table drinking tea and playing mahjongg. The girls were pretty, wearing traditional kimonos, hair tied up like geisha.

Craig said, “Dude, that guy looks like a chick. I mean - he’s got a girly face.”

“He doesn’t have a girly face to Japanese women,” Thaddeus said primly and sipped his tea. While he was distracted with his map of Kyoto, Craig dumped some more sugar into his tea cup. He really had to stop trusting Thaddeus about decent places to get a drink or pick up chicks - a ‘traditional’ bar was hardly hopping.

“He looks like a chick. Seriously. And he’s wearing a skirt,” Craig said.

“Not a skirt - a hakama. Like pants.” Thaddeus held out the map. “Here, do you want to see the temple where the Shinsengumi were stationed after Ikedaya?”

Craig shook his head. “No - I want to go ask that dude if he’s really a dude - or see if he’s actually a chick.”

“I wouldn’t,” Thaddeus said, and picked up his guide book.

“Why not?”

“Do you recognize the uniform he’s wearing?”

“No.” Craig resisted the urge to roll his eyes; he’d come along for the hot Asian chicks, not to indulge his brother’s history obsession.

Thaddeus cast the man a glance. “Well, he isn’t wearing his haori, but those colors are quite obvious. He’s one of the roshigumi, also later known as the shinsengumi.” Thaddeus looked some more, sipped his tea. “If the insignias on his kimono are any indication, he’s from the Tenninrishinryu school, and if you’re right about the ‘girly’ face, then he’s probably from the Okita line.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“That means that the sword he’s got there with him? He can kill three people in three seconds with it.”

Craig blinked and his brother’s bland, calm description of swift murder. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh.” Craig looked over and saw the man looking at him. He lifted a hand in greeting and smiled weakly. Then he went back to his over-sugared tea.

From across the bar, someone called out, “Okita Kensuke! Ohayo!”

The man lifted a hand - off the hilt of his sword - and waved.

Thaddeus said, “Told you so.”

(380 words)

Iori

He stood with his back to the camera, his posture deliberately insouciant, as if he knew exactly where the camera was. He had his hands in his pockets and was looking at something off to the side that only he could see.

Agent Lowenstein hissed in a long, deep breath. “Unsub’s pretty arrogant, isn’t he?”

“That’s not the worst of it, sir,” the little techie - Novak? - said.

“I know what happens - the entire place goes up in flames, and he did it.” Lowenstein pointed to the screen. “That crescent moon on his back is distinctive. He’s taunting us, but it’ll cost him.”

“Maybe not, sir,” Novak said. “Just watch.”

Lowenstein wished that security feed didn’t always have the background-buzzing quality of a low-budget film. If these multinational corporations could afford lear jets for their executives, surely they could afford better cameras for security. Fat cats liked to cut corners in all the wrong places.

The unsub straightened up, hands at his sides, and curled his fingers into fists slowly. The motion was filled with leased tension and anger, and Lowenstein frowned. The conflagration had been massive, and the fire crews insisted that some sort of accelerant had been used, though their lab hadn’t been able to identify it yet. A glance at the clock running in the corner of the screen said that the fire started in thirty seconds, and Lowenstein saw no accelerant at hand for the unsub, and the unsub was making no moves to escape the building.

“Here it comes,” Novak murmured.

Lowenstein could only stared as black flames ignited in the palms of the the unsub’s hands. His mouth fell open as the flames dripped from the man’s hands and spread across the floor of the warehouse in lovely geometric patterns, zig-zagging and zooming across the floor.

The unsub turned.

Lowenstein leaned in closer, desperate to see the man’s face, and abruptly the entire warehouse burst into flames, black flames that became yellow as they fanned outwards.

“What the hell? Is the unsub dead?”

Novak said, “It gets better.”

A shape lunged out of the black flames, and Lowenstein recoiled. A man’s face, dark with the shadows flung by the black flames, filled the screen. He mouthed something, a word or maybe two, and then his lips curved into a wicked, amused smile. And then he turned, slid his hands back into his pockets, and walked away.

(404 words)

Good Kid Too

Detective Polarmin stood in the doorway and stared at the crime scene. Whoever had torn this place apart had been in a hurry - and angry. He’d seen professional tosses of a room, and there all the damage was functional, no matter how messy it was. But here the damage was personal. Fragments of trinkets and statuettes scattered across the carpet, pages torn out of a diary - they all bespoke a certain deliberate fury.

“What are Mr. and Mrs. Donovan saying?”

“Apparently this was their foster-daughter’s room. Veronica, her name was,” Detective Smithers said.

“Veronica Donovan - didn’t she die in that hit-and-run with the Warren kid last week?” Polarmin asked.

Smithers nodded. “Yeah - Warren was driving drunk, ran her over while she was coming home from the library. Pretty tragic.”

“And so the person who did this is...?” Polarmin eyed his junior partner expectantly.

Smithers scooped up a photograph. “Veronica’s boyfriend. Warren’s friends swear up and down that this kid is responsible for Warren’s death.”

“The ME said it was an animal attack.”

“Those boys swear he had something to do with it.”

“So we’re assuming this boyfriend of hers skipped town, and on the way out he decided to, what, wreck her room?”

“Take something with him.” Smithers pointed to an empty corner of the room. “According to Mrs. Donovan, Veronica bought a violin for her boyfriend to play. He left it here, on account of his drunk uncle probably destroying it. Kid must have wanted to take the thing with him. Mrs. Donovan suspects the instrument was worth a lot of money.”

Polarmin was sure Mrs. Donovan was willing to suspect a lot of things if it would fatten her paycheck from the government for watching a troubled kid. By all reports, of course, Veronica had been a good girl. Polarmin studied the boy’s face in the photograph, his open expression and bright smile, and hoped that he hadn’t done what the Warren boy’s family claimed he’d done, that he was a good kid too.

(339 words)

Overview #9 - Multifandom No Dialogue

This was both fun and hard! It was fun trying out some fandoms I'm admittedly not that good at, as well as exploring others I know and love. However, writing without dialogue was bloody difficult. It can make for shorter writing and some more pithy humor, but dialogue seems to be my forte and a couple of times I sat down to write and then realized I'd included dialogue. I find that what characters say is often one of the best ways to develop a character, and so having to write without it, even for some of the more quiet characters like Squall, Farfarello, and Nagi, was harder than I'd initially thought. Still, it was a good challenge, even though the holidays ended up making me a little backlogged. Good times to be had all around! I do think fandom challenges are pretty simple when we know we might be busy.

Porject Assignment # 10 Picture

Oops oops and oops... This weeks challenge is a picture.

Chose a picture and write a short story about it. It can be just a character description or a scene, dialogue between two people.

If you can, include a picture that you have written from. It is not required though. Lets set the limit at 500 words.

Gravel

The gravel crunched quietly under his feet, this would make for an interesting time of it. After all, stealth was to be desired when you were an assassin. He shifted his weight and the pebbles ground under his foot. He was pretty sure that he had not been heard; but it was imperative to be sure.

Wishes in the Night

Percy looked with longing on the woman that he loved, the woman that he adored, the woman that he would die for. She sat beside him on the long drives that he liked to take at night, the darkness enfolding them. He wanted to reach out and hold her, to caress her and to whisper in her ear how much he loved her. He knew that he should not, that she could still be a traitor. After all, she had sent the Marquise family to the guillotine.

He allowed himself the slightest pleasure as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear that had escaped from her perfectly coiffed hair. He could live a while on that one touch alone.


(Based on the book The Scarlet Pimpernel.)

Death of a Foe

Edmond would not let Fernande get away from him this time. Last time he had not the skill to stop his enemy, but now he was powerful, he could not be stopped this time. He would not let him get away. Suicide would be to quick and to easy. He had expertly orchestrated his opponents downfall, it could not be stopped, not for Heaven or for Hell. And either way, Edmond would have his revenge.

****

Fernande looked up at the man standing in the doorway, heard how he had cause all his current misery, and felt it, sharply, as the bullet found his breast. Dimming eyes showed him his old rival, the one that Mercedes had chosen over him, he who had ended his life. And he could not fault him for it.

(This is based on the book The Count of Monte Cristo)

Ronon off his Game

Ronon growled in frustration as John landed several blows in rapid succession. It was just nonsense, stupid Earth nonsense about bad luck, he did not believe in such things, but the evidence seemed to contradictory. It was not possible that an innocent act could cause any of this to happen. And yet John had scored three of the last five sparring matches.

Not only that, but McKay was actually making sense to him, that in itself was a bad sign. He also had not hit a single target dead center the whole day. Ronon had even gone as far as to see Dr. Keller, to see if she could determine some sort of illness that could cause him to become suddenly uncoordinated.

Ronon found himself back in the infirmary with a broken nose. Teyla had opened the one door in Atlantis that swung rather than slid, and had nailed him in the face.

Later when Teyla came to see him she did not see him in his room until a slight sound gave him away. Bending over Teyla looked under his bed and saw him curled up in the fetal position.


He swore to himself that he would kill the next black cat that he saw.

(The characters are all from Stargate Atlantis. Ronon is a big guy, weapons expert, and also an expert in combat, not afraid of anything... that type of guy.)

Night World versus Twilight

They stared at the book, wearing expressions of horror and amusement. Well, Thierry looked amused, but Ash supposed that after two thousand years of being a vampire he’d heard all the legends and took them in stride. Quinn was disgusted and all for having Iliana set the thing on fire; even though he’d broken from Hunter Redfern and was soulmates with a vampire hunter he had fierce vampire pride. James was still horrified and kept blinking and staring at his own hand as if expecting it to burst into sparkles at any moment. Delos’ mouth was twisted into a moue of distaste, and he prodded the spine of the book with one long, aristocratic finger. His other hand was twitching, possibly for the rapier he always wore at his side, as if he were planning on running the book through. Ash was both amused and disgusted. He was a lamia and so didn’t think there was much horror in being a vampire, but then the books had it all wrong - there was no need to kill a human for feeding. As for the blood lust - well, James had turned Poppy with little to no trouble. Oddly enough, it was Timmy who was puzzled over the inconsistencies of the book, insisting that this Carlisle person, even if he’d been a doctor in his own day and age, would still have been too old to endure the change. Then again, Timmy had been enamored of Claudia from that awful book, Interview With a Vampire. Of course, his ardor for her was understandable, having been changed as a child himself, but still. Thierry was right - this book was dangerous, because it meant that mortal girls would be more susceptible to vampire machinations.

Still, the book was stupid. Ash turned and called for Iliana.

(300 on the nose, fandom notes in the comments)

Things Learned from Old Tobias

He was seventeen and barely free from school, from the stupid teachers, from Potter and his marauding friends - and yet he felt empty, incomplete. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, listened to the hum of the pub around him. It was filled with working men from the local mill where his father worked. His father was probably among them, but Tobias wasn’t one to acknowledge his freak son. After Mother died last summer, Tobias and Severus said nary a word to each other. Tobias wanted Severus to get a job in the mill, do something useful with himself, make himself a man, but Severus refused. He’d done well enough under Slughorn’s tutelage that he could sit his exams, attain his potions mastery, and be useful to the Dark Lord. Severus didn’t know why he’d bothered to come back to this place, why he hadn’t taken Lucius up on his invitation to spend the summer at the manor, but he knew he had to finish things here before he moved on.

A fist thumped down on the table in front of him, and Severus opened his eyes. The other boys he would have gone to school with, soot-stained from working in the mills all day, stood over him. Severus gazed up at them, impassive, as they spewed long-used and tired, repeated epithets, and when they were done he rose up. They wanted a fight, and they would get one. Severus had learned a thing or two from old Tobias. He shrugged off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, drew his fists up like a boxer. The boys took one look at the Mark on his arm and backed away. Severus smiled grimly and rolled his sleeves back down. He had work to do.

(Word count: 298)

Office of Unfettered Omniscience

The team had made it a general rule not to profile each other. However, there was no moratorium on betting on each other, so most of the team sat at a table together and watched Reid navigate his way across the dance floor to the bar to get them a round of beers.

Morgan had money on Reid tripping and spilling some drink on a hot girl, and his clumsy attempts to clean her dress would earn him a slap.

Hotch had money on the bartender - who was an attractive redhead - hitting on Reid and Reid totally missing it.

JJ had her money on Reid being charmed by some ruthless seductress and ending up silly-drunk because he hadn’t drunk in college and was clueless about jello shots.

Prentiss had money on Reid finding a table of clueless college boys and robbing them blind in a game of poker.

Rossi’s money was on Reid leaving in a half-hour to watch Star Wars at home.

Unsurprisingly, it was Garcia who had twenty on Reid dancing with a hot girl and taking her home.

All were possibilities. Only one happened.

Later that night, after Reid and his girlfriend left (she’d asked him to dance after the third toast), Prentiss asked Garcia how she’d known.

Garcia replied that she worked in the office of unfettered omniscience.

Birthday Conspiracies

Squall didn’t look up from where he was cleaning Lion Heart when he asked how Zell was doing, but then he was bad at eye contact.

Selphie fretted and mopped Zell’s brow; he moaned and clutched his stomach.

Irvine ducked into the tent, shotgun slung casually over one shoulder. His prediction was right, that Zell had eaten too many hotdogs trying to impress a girl and was sick.

Quistis, ever the instructor, informed Zell that he shouldn’t be lying down, that he ought to walk it off. Squall’s contribution was to order Zell to march the outer perimeter for a half-hour and watch for monsters.

Selphie insisted Zell was in no condition to fight, but Squall was Commander, so Quistis helped Zell up. Irvine shoved him out of the tent.

As soon as Zell was out of earshot, Selphie opened her mouth to scold Squall, but everyone else was moving, all military efficiency and precision. Quistis opened the med kit and pulled out of the stasis bag not transfusion blood but a birthday cake.

Irvine reached into his coat and drew out his box of ammo, inside of which were candles instead of rifle shells. He counted nineteen of them onto the cake.

Squall sheathed Lion Heart, set it aside, and brought presents out of the armor box. According to Irvine, it was Zell’s birthday. Selphie felt awful for forgetting, but Irvine reminded her that the GFs had stolen her memories and it wasn’t her fault.

Once the birthday spread was laid out, Selphie went to call Zell back, but Squall shook his head. Then he and Quistis short-sheeted Zell’s cot. Selphie said it was mean, that it was Zell’s birthday, but Squall, ever the commander, reminded her that there had to be repercussions - for all the hotdogs.

(Final Fantasy VIII post-game universe, no Rinoa because she bugs the snot out of me)

After

"After the ball was over, she took her glass eye out, kicked her false leg in the corner..."

Ron's drunken warbling was obnoxious.

Stephanie smiled indulgently and plunked another shot glass down on the bar in front of him. He'd had enough vodka that he wouldn't be able to tell that the next six shots were nothing but water. Most nights Stephanie would feel bad for stealing, but when he was drunk he tipped well, and if she saved him from alcohol poisoning, well, that was his money well spent.

First Sight

Lirael drew on the hated garment, the blue that meant that she still didn't have the sight like her sisters, and rolled her eyes at her Aunts hurrying her along to the ceremony. Yet another of the sisters had gained the sight. Every Watch saw new sisters joining their ranks. Lirael wished that she could go and hide, so she would not have to be humiliated again.

She marched with the others, bored and wishing to be anywhere else, she didn't even pay attention when the Watch started to call the names of the new visionaries, and one by one they came to the front to receive their robes and circlets. Lirael was startled out of her self misery when the entire body of women turned in her direction. Lirael felt her aunt nudge her sharply, and motioned her to walk forward.

Confused, Lirael stood and walked towards the front of the assembly. The Voice of the Watch, waited for her. Her steps faltered as she realized what this meant. The two powerful seers draped her slim form in the white robe of a seer and placed the moonstone circlet on her brow. Two tears slipped down her face as she Saw for the first time.

(Character is Lirael from the Abhorson Trilogy by Garth Nix. The spin is that she actually gets the sight, when in the books she never did.)

Dance Dance

On any other night, they would have been wearing black body armor and carrying assault rifles, knives, and grenades. Quatre’s pale hair - and Zech’s too - would have been jammed under black knit caps (knit thoughtfully by Relena, so lumpy and uneven), and Duo would have had black paint smudged all over his boyish face.

Tonight, however, was no mission night.

Still, five gundam pilots watched, as intent as on any surveillance job, while the sixth member of their ranks put some of his training to use.

It had been Trowa’s idea, oddly enough, and even more odd was that Wufei had supported him. Quatre was on the bandwagon easily enough once Wufei threw down some philosophy to back up his point. As soon as Duo learned what the endgame was, he volunteered to handle the majority of the training. Zechs, unsurprisingly, had been the hold-out.

After some strong convincing (wheedling and puppy eyes from Duo, some smooth politician maneuvering from Quatre), Zechs relented, and so there they were, standing on the edges of the dance floor, watching Heero ask a girl to dance. For the first time. For totally non-mission-related purposes. Zechs and Quatre had handled dance lessons, with Trowa putting in his two cents about fighter grace being the same as musical grace. Wufei had selected practice candidates, including Noin, Sally, Relena, and Hilde - they’d all unanimously agreed against Dorothy. Duo had handled the conversational aspect and covered all matters of charm.

Heero had thrown himself into his new civilian training with the same doggedness with which he’d pursued his Preventers training, and there he was, out on the dance floor, asking a random girl to dance.

All five men held their breath without realizing it.


And then Heero tugged the girl close for a waltz.

(300 on the nose; Gundam Wing; technically Zechs was a gundam pilot because he piloted the Tallgeese, which was the original prototype for the other five gundams)

X-Poker

It’s one of the more vicious stalemates they’ve come to. They sit in a circle, cards held close to their chests, eyeing each other warily. Scott is down his boxers, and his expression is even more unreadable. Remy wonders if Scott has peripheral vision with those ruby quartz shades of his. He darts a suspicious glance at Jean, who is down to her bra and jeans, and he wonders if what she says is true, that his kinetic potential energy prevents her from reading his mind. Across the table, Warren has his wings folded about himself to preserve his modesty, but he’s not blushing - he’s staring intently at Kurt, whose expression is also suspiciously blank. Remy thinks Hank has it made, because no matter what he takes off, no one will notice anything but that he’s completely furry and blue. Remy wonders, briefly, if that’s why dogs aren’t embarrassed that they’re naked, and then he feels ashamed for comparing one of his teammates to a dog. It is, oddly enough, Bobby, whose naked form is modestly cased in ice, who has the biggest pile of poker chips. Remy’s not sure how they ended up playing for chips as well as clothes, and he thinks that the bottle of booze Storm brought is to blame. She’s down to her underwear, but she also seems unbothered by it all. Remy is surprised to realize that, for some odd reason, he’s the only one uncomfortable with his state of deshabille.

His discomfort isn’t at issue, however. 

What matters is who’s showing their hand first.

A muscle twitches in Scott’s jaw. Warren flexes his wings ever so slightly. Kurt’s tail lashes like an angry cat’s.

Jean settles it with a flick of her telekinesis.

Remy strips off his boxers and folds out of the game.

(300 on the nose; X-Men canon characters but in no particular universe, except possibly Ultimate-verse wherein all the characters have at least made one appearance and may or may not be young and foolhardy enough to play such a game.)

Circles

"We're going in circles," Henry insisted.

Randolph snatched the map from him and flicked on his torch. "We are not - see this right here? That's the church we passed ten minutes ago."

Liam said, "We also passed that church an hour before that."

Henry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How long until the locals realize that we escaped the jail?"

"Not long enough," Liam said, and drew his pistol.

The townsmen shuffled toward them, zombie-like, bloodlust in their eyes.

Trust and Betrayal

I should have trusted him, should have known he would never betray me, and here I have betrayed him. I thought that he didn't mean what he said. I didn't trust myself. I didn't think that he could love me, I didn't know that he did. And now I have hurt him worse than he could ever have hurt me.

He looked at me with such pleading in his eyes, a desire for me to understand, but I would not. I could not, and now it is to late.

And now, I could never get back what I never had.


(Okay it seems to me a little convoluted, but inner thought often are. This is JJ's thoughts about Reid after he told her that he loved her. I know it's not exactly cannon, but...)

Circles

Follow in the circles I dance, round and round we go.
No beginning and no end, we circle for eternity.
Spin about and once again follow in my rounds.

Overview #8 Writers Tennis

This was a bit more tricky than I counted on. I agree with Master in that there should be some sort of end point in mind when writing in conjunction with another person. I did enjoy not knowing what was going to happen though. Someintes it was a bit difficult to decide where to take the story when I didn't know what my writing partner was going to do.

All in all I enjoyed the challenge.

Breaking the Rules

He watched her standing in the fury of the storm, wild and untameable. His eyes darted back and forth, making sure that there was no one else around. Walking with stealth he stole closer to his target, closer to victory.

She twitched her blond hair out of her eyes, still facing into the storm, letting the rain mingle with her tears. She jerked to full alert when she heard the sound of a footstep behind her. Quick as lightning she turned on the person behind her; years of military training coursing through her body. She shifted into a fighters crouch.

The military man backed up a step, raising his hands to show he meant no harm, a warm smile flashed across his craggy and weather worn face. He inched closer.

The woman straightened up; snapping off a sharp salute to the man in front of her, though her eyes were hard, mocking and empty. She swallowed painfully, sadness flashed in her face when she remembered all that she wanted, and all that regulations said that she could not have.

The superior officer returned the gesture and then, dropping all pretenses, he closed the gap and pulled her into his arms, whispering vows never to let her go.


(characters are Jack O'Neill and Samantha Carter from Stargate-sg1)

The Wrong Profile

The profile, according to local police, was a man in his late thirties or early forties who had been perfecting his skill for many years. The confidence, strength, and knowledge of physiology suggested a medical background, and a large man, at least 200 pounds, and probably of local stock, Chinese or Mongol.

So when the officers cornered the killer in the alley and forced him into the light, they desperately hoped they were wrong even though they knew they weren’t. They didn’t understand how they could be right, because the killer was nothing like the profile. He was young, twenty at best, and wiry, whipcord thin but slick with muscle, skin slick with blood. And he was white - startlingly so, with frost-white hair - he was too young for hair that color - and feral golden eyes.

And his mouth was wide, pretty, blood-stained. His hands were bloodstained, too. The screams the officers had heard weren’t knives in flesh from neat, efficient evisceration. The screams were as from a dying beast, and when they’d rounded the corner they’d come upon the glory of Victoria Bay, Hong Kong island - and the horrific tableau of a man tearing apart another man with his bare hands.

The officers had their guns drawn, but it didn’t matter, because the man was bleeding from a shot to the shoulder and still grinning, still laughing.

Just as the lieutenant was about to give the order to open fire, to cut the man down with every round they had, a child appeared, slight, fluffy-haired, blue-eyed, Japanese-faced. His conversation with the blood-covered man was calm, casual, in a rolling tongue the officers had never heard. And then the boy turned, scaled the alley wall with casual elegance, and helped the murderer escape with him.

(Words: 300 on the nose; fandom: Weiss Kreuz; Characters: Farfarello, Nagi, random useless OCs)

Project #9: No Dialogue

This week's assignment is to a write a scene, 100-300 words, with no dialogue. This does not mean that one can fall back on telling and not showing, because a story can be well-written without dialogue, and some moments in a story need no words from the characters. Since this is Christmas week and we all have important family time to spend and we may or may not be able to carry through our solstice inspiration from tonight, I'll offer this - seven days, seven fandoms, no dialogue. Every day a different fandom, pick your own fandom, feel free to use common fandom acronyms, pairing systems, or whatever; state full names if using obscure characters.

Joyeux Noel.

Notes: the Dagaz does not count as fandom. Keep the crossovers to a minimum.

Overview #8 - Writer's Tennis

This was an interesting exercise. Sometimes I could tell where Madness was going with what she wrote, and sometimes I had no clue where she was taking her angle. It was an interesting interplay between writers. I sensed that we had different senses of drama, romance, and even the characters we wrote (though Angela was clearly the protagonist and we came to a fairly early consensus on Kenneth). This exercise has proven to me that, for all the fun that it was batting the ball back to the other side of the net and sitting back, Schadenfreude at the ready, to see what the other person came up with, for two writers to properly collaborate there needs to be an endgame plan at the ready, some sort of agreement for events and happenings and who will handle what to have a consistent narrative. Still, it was good times, building a world together. I do confess to having serious Schadenfreude moments of thwart! in me, but all the same, writing with a friend, and actually working with each other as opposed to merely occupying the same corner of cyberspace, was a fun ride.

Writer's Tennis 14

Kenneth was pacing a circle behind the camera. His expression was tense - brows furrowed, eyes dark, and he and Eddie were deep in conversation. Angela averted her gaze politely - she had no desire to read their lips and see any more than she had to see. So she paused by the table where the blue screen crew was set up.

Oddly enough, the blue screen crew for this film was a group of nervous, young Japanese men who spoke little English but ignored their translator more often than was helpful. Angela had once done deep cover with a group of otaku who were hacking government computers and selling data to the highest bidder, so her Japanese was good. At first the techs looked nervous, but once Angela settled back into the rhythm of the foreign language, they opened up. She played ignorant about the blue-screen process, as this was technically her alias’s first big visual effects film, and the men scrambled to explain it to her.

Before things could really get interesting, however, Eddie called things to order.

“All right, let’s get this baby blocked and then shot. Angela, Kenneth, start over here!”

Angela moved to stand opposite Kenneth on one corner of the set. The lights overhead had been filtered to give a nighttime effect. Angela resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the thought of a kiss in the middle of the night and followed Eddie across the set. The blocking was simple and, Angela thought, artful. She and Kenneth were supposed to exchange blows and arc down diagonally across the open room, and once the fight came to a head - with Angela pinned up against a wall, and she could never imagine a boy like Kenneth actually being able to pin her - the kissing would begin. The closer they got to the wall, the more pale Kenneth became.

“You clear with that?” Eddie asked.

Angela nodded and headed back to her corner of the set. Kenneth settled in opposite her, and then it came, that fateful cry,

“Action!”

Angela leapt at Kenneth and started into the fight choreography, careful to pull her hits. They followed the blocking across the set, and then it came, the fateful pin. Angela saw terror flash across Kenneth’s face, but he leaned in to kiss her.

And then someone yelled, “John Henricks, get on the ground! This is the FBI!”

Broken

"It's not broken," Jennifer insisted.

Tom poked at her wrist. "Well, can you move it?"

"No, but --"

"Then it's broken."

Jennifer gazed back out at the softball field. "The championship game is this weekend."

"It's no use aggravating an injury," Tom said, but his tone was gentle. "Come on - let's get you to the ER. I'm sure the other girls on the team will sign your cast and make it all bright and pretty. Better than a yearbook, seriously."