Hurtling Through Space on the Millenium Falcon

Daniel was sure he’d been in the ambulance for an eternity. He couldn’t even hear the sirens anymore, his ears had been registering them for so long. The cot wasn’t lumpy beneath his back anymore, and the EMTs no longer looked so red-faced and frantic. That was probably the drugs talking.

Daniel wondered how epic this journey would be, from the street corner to the hospital, to face his colleagues and see the sympathy on their faces when they learned that a surgeon had lost a hand.

The ride was smooth and unhurried, and he thought he could hear the driver laughing, but that might have been a radio DJ or someone he was talking to on the CB. There were too many turns to count, though Daniel suspected that the ambulance was really driving in a maze and in the center they would find a minotaur but he wouldn’t be able to slay it because his sword hand was gone.

Daniel tried to watch the world flash by through the windows, but all he saw were shining lights, rushing cars of indeterminate colors, and the night sky above. It was like hurtling through space on the Millenium Falcon.

And then the ambulance had stopped and the EMTs were red-faced and frantic again, and Daniel thought maybe the medicine was wearing off, because he could feel the burning agony at his wrist where his hand used to be, and then someone said,

“It’s Dr. Thomas.”

Marching to the House

“March,” Angel said.

DJ closed his eyes and bit back a retort. He was on edge enough as it was already, but if that man prodded him in the back with that monk staff one more time, he was going to lose it. Tobias, Keith, and Gabriel had already used up their quota of snappy comments and were sullenly silent.

DJ opened his eyes and cast his gaze across the landscape once more, hoping the internal serenity of his artist’s eye would stop him from picking a fight with a general who was millenia old and knew all the killing techniques in the world.

Not that DJ could be killed.

The path along the mountain was steep and winding, switchbacks to keep walking steady - and possibly torture students who had to walk down to the village for supplies. The valley was verdant and lush, with a silver river snaking its way through the green trees. A few bamboo huts dotted the mountainside, but they were lower down in the shelter of the trees. The further the path went, the more sparse the flora became. At the very top of the mountain loomed the House of Shang. DJ and the others would spend the next five years there becoming proficient in the art of assassination and murder with their bare hands and every weapon imaginable.

DJ had trained in kung fu for almost all his life, but this would be beyond anything the Shao Lin monks had taught him.

The House of Shang was jagged and grey, as if it had grown out of the rock of the mountain itself, and it cast most of the peak and plateau in dark grey shadow. Every step further made DJ feel as though someone had added a pound of lead to his legs. Dirt and gravel had wormed their way into his sandals, and it turned out that immortals could still get blisters. The scent of ginger was overwhelming.

“Can we rest?” Keith asked.

“Do you need to rest?” Angel asked.

“Need? No. Want? Yes.”

“Then keep walking.”

DJ gazed at the graveled path and wondered if it would ever stop, or if they would reach the top.

(365 words)

Project Assignment # 22 - Travels

This week you should take a character on a journey. Either to a place you have been or to a place you want to go or to a place that doesn't even exist. Detail their travels. It can be any character. Describe this place in detail. Let's limit words to 500

Overview # 21 Epistolary

I know that I have been slackerish this week but I hope to do better this next week. The letter writing was interesting. I found that if I don't think about it to hard then dialogue comes more naturally, but if I tired to think about it, everything seemed to stop up in my mind.

Overview #21 - Epistolary

So I think I did all right. Sometimes there was some non-epistolary narration thrown in, but for the most part I did all right. I don't know that I captured the different writers' voices as fully as I'd've liked, but then there was a word restriction, and if I want to improve I should be able to make writing vivid even in a short space. I tried to use different methods of epistolary communication - the dorm-style exchange on the communal whiteboard, text messages, actual letters, notes, and other random things. There are so many reasons why people write to each other, and I tried to think of them all. I was especially proud of the exchange of letters over the kidnapping and possible killing - that was good times. Writing a novel purely in letter form would be wicked hard, though.

From the Trenches

Dear Ralph,

Shelling like mad today. Thompson succumbed to trench-foot today and medics took him. No advances for a week now. More bodies in no-man’s land. Coffee tastes like mud. Suspect Ensign Haversham making coffee from actual mud. Rations running low. Mustard gas down the line five miles took out 5th Regmt. Still here.

-- Simon

Dear Ralph,

Planes overhead. Shelling. Guns. Rumours of the Red Baron himself. Snowy shot one Jerry plane down. Explosion and flames and cheering. The cold is depressing. Say hello to Mum and Jane for me. Hope all is going well at school. Don’t forget to recite your Latin before bed.

-- Simon

Dear Ralph,

Christmas coming soon. Can imagine the goose getting fat and Mum making Plum pudding. Check bottom left corner from sprig of holly - tuppence always there. More gas this morning. Lost Ensign Haversham. Thompson back in the trenches with us. Can barely walk, but still a damned good shot. Might go over the top soon.

-- Simon

Dear Ralph,

Happy Christmas. Silent today - no shells, no gas, no planes. Just Christmas carols. Learned O Tannenbaum and Still Nacht. Played football in no-man’s land. Drank ale and good German beer. Felt human for the first time in nine months. Pull a Christmas cracker for me.

-- Simon

Dear Ralph,

Coming home tomorrow. Lost a leg and an eye in mortar blast. Will be stationed at St. Augustine’s in Kent. Don’t tell Mum or Jane. Come see me?

-- Simon

Dear Ralph,

Been in Kent for two weeks. No word. Is everything all right?

-- Simon


Dear Ralph,

Three months and still no word. Has something happened to Mum and Jane?

-- Simon


Dear Ralph,

I understand. I won’t be coming home.

-- Simon


Dear Mum,

I love you.

-- Simon


Dear Jane,

Good-bye.

-- Simon

(297 words)

Pre-Mission Text Rush

Text log 5.22.00
1-639-555-2212 registered to Chase Joshua Scottsdale
1-254-555-7718 registered to Kash & Manjekstev Web Design Inc.

1-639-555-2212: What does Com. K think?

1-254-555-7718: That UR full of crazy.

1-639-555-2212: Crazy? Why???

1-254-555-7718: b/c U left her a rose.

1-639-555-2212: I was trying to be romantic.

1-254-555-7718: It came off as sappy, IMHO.

1-639-555-2212: Wasn’t sure I’d come back

1-254-555-7718: She wasn’t either.

1-639-555-2212: U pass on my message?

1-254-555-7718: She knows.

1-639-555-2212: And the others?

1-254-555-7718: Will step aside like honorable men.

1-639-555-2212: How will this end?

1-254-555-7718: In death.

1-254-555-7719 registered to Kash & Manjekstev Web Design Inc.

1-254-555-7719: Synch watches. Rendezvous 15. ETA 7.

1-254-555-7718: Casualties?

1-254-555-7719: Suicide. News crews. Be ready to cry.

(177 words)

D&D Humor

I am looking for you. I don't know where I should start looking. I don't know who you are or what you look like. I don't know what you believe in or your station in life. I just know that I am looking for you. If you find my note leave a response in the hollow of the oak.
-K

I suppose looking anywhere would be a good start. After all, you will never find anything if you don't look for it. I am me. The quintessential self that represents who I am. They say that beauty, such as it is, is in the eye of the Beholder, where as the rest of the party is in the stomach of the Beholder.
-P

I am being serious.
-K

Then you shouldn't ask such ambiguous questions or rather fish for information in that manner. Who knows what you will get as a response.
-p

(Just a silly little thing. It started out serious, but my sarcastic side took over in the response.)

Keeping Hope

I wish that I could hold you near. I wish that I could see your smiling eyes. I've been wandering blind; hoping to find you, someday. Hearing your voice on the wind, and seeing your kind and gentle smile keeps me moving forward though I am weary and the load is great.

-Jason


Keeping hope, though hope is dim, and wishing to return again is all that I ask for this night. I want to be by your side, and hope that my prayer is heard. I wish I could come home to you again. Keep a candle burning for me to guide me back to you.

-Susan


Love me still though I am gone, and keep my memory clear and strong. Help me to believe I can return, someday to be with you again. Give me strength to carry on even though the road is long. I will find my way back to you.

-Jason

(sorry if the cadence is a bit off, these were originally lyrics that I wrote for an instrumental piece of music, but I thought that they worked well as a conversation.)

Letting Go

I would have given anything for you to see me, to see how much I wanted to be with you. I would have done anything to make you stay. I would have made every day full of wonder I would have held you closely each night. I have had to learn the hard way that you can't make someone love you. All the love in the world is useless if it is not returned. I know it doesn't make a difference now, but I love you.
-Sam

I'm sorry I had to hurt you Sam. I hope in time you will understand. It's not that I didn't or don't love you, we just can't be together. I know it is difficult to see, but in my own way I did love you. Please don't try to find me. I have to learn to let go. I hope that you don't hurt for to long.

-Kelly

Crossed Lines

Annelise,

It’s better for everyone if I’m gone. There’s been enough trouble, and my staying here will only cause more. I don’t care what anyone says - I love you, and I’ll never stop loving you. What we have together is right, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Your daddy says I’m just a layabout, but I have money saved up to go to school, and in a few years I’ll own my own garage and make real money. We can have a home and a family and everything you ever dreamed. If you still want to be with me, take the ticket and I’ll meet you at the airport in Atlanta.

Love you always,

Kevin


Dear Kevin,

I don’t know what I did to make you hate me. Why didn’t you tell me you left? I don’t know where you are, or if this letter will even find you. It’s been six months and I haven’t heard a word. I’m sorry if I did anything wrong. Your son will be along any day now. I’m gonna name him Kevin James, after you.

I love you.

Annelise


Annelise,

I just got your letter today. It’s six years too late. When I called your mama’s house she told me you got married last week. I hope you’re happy. I waited at the airport for two days - I thought maybe your plane had been delayed, but you never came. I have my own shop now, and business is doing pretty good, and there’s no one in my heart but you.

Love you always,

Kevin.


Mr. Shaw,

Cease your communication with my daughter immediately. She’s moved on since you left her like you did, and you have no right to turn her life upside down now.

Mrs. Hamilton

Dear Mama,

I found the letter you hid from me the day Kevin left. I love Carl and I won’t leave him, but what you did was wrong. Kevin will know his son. I hope you enjoyed what time you had with your grandson.

Annelise

(340 words)

Bill, Amy and Steve

The police found two notes in the house, the first behind a desk where it had fallen, the second pinned to the kitchen door by a bloody knife.

Amy,

I’m going out tonight to take care of this once and for all. I’ll call when it’s done and I’m on my way back. No matter what happens, don’t answer the door. There’s a loaded shotgun in the pantry and a case of shells. I love you.

Bill


Bill --

I have Amy. She looks so pretty in red.

-- Steve


A third note was pasted to Steve’s door with dried blood.

(120 words)

Steve,

Amy knows shoshu kung fu, but you’ve probably figured that out by now. I know where your mother lives.

Bill

The Last Word

Dear Shelley,

Thank you for
You’ve been great about
I wish I could tell you

It’ll be all right. You did everything you could for me, you made my last months wonderful, and I know you loved me. Tell my brothers not to cry, that I’ll be with them in spirit and in music, and that everything will be all right. Don’t let Dad blame himself. Everything I’ve done has been my own choice, from the first time I opened my mouth to sing to the first time I picked up drumsticks to the last time I took my bows hand-in-hand with the others.


Take care.

Love,

Bob



Bob --

Don’t forget to take your meds today. Oncologist appt. tomorrow.

-- Shelley

(122 words)

Told you I Could

What happened? Didn't I tell you not to do it? So what did she say?
-Matt

Wouldn't you like to know. :) I told you that I would do it. You never believe that I will. Someday I'm going to really shock you.
-Ben

It would be a shock to me if you got her to agree to it.
-Matt

Oh ye of little faith.
-Ben

Well, I'll believe it when I see it.
-Matt

Seeing isn't believing.
-Ben

What is with the quotes? What did she say? Did she agree to it?
-Matt

If you don't want to believe me then fine, but you might want to open your front door.
-Ben

Yeah right. All right. But I still don't believe you.
-Matt

...
-Ben

Holy Shit...
-Matt

I told you I could get her to dress up as a bunny for Easter.
-Ben

Refrigerator Chatter

Someone had scrawled notes on the whiteboard tacked to the fridge, the one on which to list requests for the next trip to the grocery store.

I cannot kill the zombie in the castle on lvl. 13. Help?

You need the sword of Astaroth from the weapons dealer in the dungeons.

Beneath that note, someone had drawn an overly large sword.

I cannot buy the sword - missing component parts.

Forget the sword and use the Spear of Longinus. More XP that way.

If you equip the manticore soul and stab it with the tail you won’t even have to get near it.

And beneath this note, a series of squiggles that may or may not have resembled a manticore tail.

The answer is simple - use a jump-x attack and keep hacking with whatever you’ve got. Equip the ghoul soul so you can eat rotten mean to recover HP. Don’t forget the L2 back-slide dodge.

The author of this note had signed with a smiley face - a smiley face with fangs.

The very last note was the best.

We’re out of TP.

(183 words - I seriously saw an exchange just like this on a fridge whiteboard. Admittedly, the apartment belonged to boys.)

Race to the Ground

Gone for a run
-Carly

Had to go to class, there is food in the fridge.
-Beth

Sorry to miss you again. The food was delicious, thank you.
-C

You know, it's strange we are room mates and never see each other.
-B

I know, we don't even have the same sleeping schedule. Do you need me to pick up anything at the store while I am there?
-C

Nope, I'm good. But if any chocolate jumps in your cart don't fight it off, I'll pay you back.
-B

Want to hang out on Saturday? I know you don't have anything going on.
-C

Sure, what do you have in mind?
-B

How about skydiving?
-C

Perfect! I'll race you to the ground!
-B

(124)

Fidelity

What’s his name?
- Lyle

Scott. The house is mine.
- Jen

My name is on the deed, not yours. Does he kiss better than me?
- Lyle

He does many things better than you. Both our names were on the deed.
- Jen

You were busy that day so I closed on my own and used my own money, so the only name on the thing is mine. So the house is mine. You have somewhere to move into, anyway. I don’t. Leave your key.
- Lyle

Here’s your damned key. You have no right to be bitter.
- Jen

I had every right to want your fidelity.

(103 words)

Project #21: Epistolary

This week give yourself no more than 500 words, no less than 100, of people sending each other letters, leaving each other notes, sending each other emails, or sending text messages. It'll be all right to use some limited online abbreviations (LOL, BTW, IMO) but no kewl-speak or heavy text-speak. Do your best to offer distinct voices.

Overview #18, 19, 20 - All Apologies

Wow, I totally fail at my own rules! Good thing there are no punishments.

The expansion was fun, but I sorta got nailed with writers' block and school midway through. I have no guilt about starting something I don't intend to finish and playing with the characters randomly along the way. The practice in expanding plot was helpful, though.

The object lesson was something I've been meaning to do for a while. I need to learn to observe things from life and get detailed. Getting that detailed in an actual novel is tedious and obnoxious, but learning to spot the fun details and hold onto them, sort out what works and what doesn't, is a good skill for prose or poetry.

A free-write was actually a good way for me to get some creative juices going, mostly in the Dagaz-verse. I need to get to know my boys all over again.

Neither Have You

"Does your bodyguard know where you are?" Asia asked.

Chase played a jazz riff absently, long fingers dancing on the keys. "I don't need a bodyguard. JC does, but right now I'm not him."

"Tell that to the hundreds of girls outside who want to fling themselves at our feet and worship at your altar." Asia perched on the piano bench beside him and watched him play.

"Not one noticed me as I headed down here. I didn't make it to commander because I'm oblivious." He hummed a gently counter-melody; his talent really was wasted on this bubblegum pop.

Asia smiled faintly. "Congratulations."

Chase's smile was equally faint. "Thanks. I noticed you, by the way."

"Coming to the restaurant? I wasn't trying to hide it."

"At the orphanage. En Paris. Vous avez été une fille pour ma classe, oui? Quand j'ai eu huit ans. I don't forge faces easily, but at first it was easy to pretend coincidence."

It was bad when he reverted to French.

She said, "You have an excellent memory."

"Your name was Amélie, then."

"I've used many names."

"You haven't aged a day."

She reached up and brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. "In some ways, neither have you."

(203 words)

A Quiet Moment to Self

David lay underneath his car, a classic black Camero. It was a bright spring morning, the sun was high and the breeze was fresh off of the river that ran nearby, it was the perfect day to be puttering with his car. David thought fondly back on his father, the car had belonged to him. A radio lay near the car playing a classic rock station.

David scooted out from under the car after having finished his work, his shirt was greasy and stained black in places. He leaned over and picked up a red cloth and wiped his hands on it. Dropping the hood into place, he reached in the window and turned the ignition, the car roared to life and settled into a seductive rumble. A smile spread across David's handsome features and he slid into the drivers seat.

Shifting the car into gear, David followed the old dirt road along the river.

David squeezed the trigger, the gun spitting silently in the night, smoke rising almost lazily from the barrel. The figure at the far end of the block jerked and crumpled to the ground.

David lowered his gun slowly to his side; he did not hurry away from the scene, he did not skulk or even walk fast. David approached the cooling body on the pavement and looked down at the once vibrant face of the woman. He told himself that it didn't matter, that she was a traitor, that he was just doing his job. He wondered however, why the gun felt so heavy at his side.

Jump In, Let's Go

"This is starting to turn into a routine," Asia said.

Bob started violently and almost dropped the cymbal stand he was carrying. "How the hell did you get past security?"

Asia laughed and steadied the cymbal stand in his hands. "I've been inside security all night."

Bob shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. "That's pretty ninja of you."

"Hardly, seeing how my brothers and I opened for the Acid Crashers in the smaller show room." Her smile was amused. "Not used to seeing the same girl two nights in a row, I see."

Bob ran a hand through his hair. "I don't mean to be --"

"What, a musician?" Asia stepped closer. "I'm a musician too, remember. At least I know that you have good hands."

Bob eyed her, considering. "All right. You're on."

Asia's grin was fierce. "Baby, I'm always on." She tugged open the luggage compartment door so Bob could stow the cymbal stand.

He darted a glance over his shoulder, checking for his brothers. Then he stowed the last of his drum set and shut the luggage hatch. "C'mon - the others are out drinking with the roadies. We have a couple of hours before they get back." He pulled open the door and climbed onto the bus.

Asia stood at the bottom of the steps, bemused. "What, no 'jump in, let's go, sit back, enjoy the show'?"

Bob blushed. "Are you trying to make the roadies think I'm wenching every night?"

"Would you rather they think you're a civilian informant for an international underground paramilitary organization?"

Bob sighed. "All right." He gestured for her to enter. "Jump in, let's go..."

Helping Hand

It had to have been near 12 hundred when David paused on his way to his quarters. He was near the large multi-purpose room that served all functions when he heard sounds coming from the dim room. Poking his head in he saw Joe. David leaned against the door frame for a few minutes watching the young man. It looked like he was practicing on the fighting moves that they had worked on this afternoon.

"Joe, what are you doing?" David asked, shouldering his way away from the door.

Joe spun around and snapped off a sharp salute. "Practicing sir."

"At ease Joe," David said, entering the room fully. Joe relaxed a little, wiping sweat from his brow.

"It usually helps if you have another person to practice with."

"Everyone else is busy sir."

"Your form could use some work Joe."

"Yes sir." Joe looked down a little.

"I am not busy, so let's see what we can do about your form."

"Yes Sir!" Joe said enthusiastically.

David guided Joe through the motions of the attacks, gentle in his corrections and advice.

Fifteen Minutes

"You look - panicked." Asia looked up from her laptop.

The young man who stood over her was panicked indeed, hair and clothes disheveled as if he'd run through a human gauntlet.

"Please," he gasped, breathless, "you have to hide me!"

Asia raised her eyebrows. "Are you a criminal?"

"No!"

Asia was on her feet. She tossed Keith's old army coat across his shoulders, tugged Gabriel's baseball cap over his hair, and then dragged him down to sit beside her on the couch. She dropped an open VisualBasic textbook on his lap. She said, "Look studious."

He obeyed. It worked, because half a dozen teenage girls burst into the café, alert and tense like bloodhounds on the scent, but they didn't find what they were looking for. One of them hurried over to Asia's table.

"Have you seen Jesse Carlisle?" the girl asked.

He kept his head down.

Asia arched an eyebrow. "In person?"

"He came this way."

"Then he'd still be this way."

The girl tossed her head impatiently, then sneered at the coding textbook. "You're a nerd."

"And you're blind," Asia returned sweetly.

One of the other girls beckoned. "He's not here. Let's go!"

Asia watched them scamper away. Then she turned to the young man beside her.

"Give them fifteen minutes, Jesse Carlisle, and they shall tire of searching for you."

(224 words)

Pranks

Mark and Brian were huddled in the far corner of their barrack room, just out of sight of the door.

"Shh, you'll wake up Joe." Mark said, elbowing his twin in the side.

Brian stifled his snickers as best he could. his eyes darting back to the bucket of water that was perched precariously on top of the door. Mark had thought that this prank was a little to unsophisticated for them, but Brian had insisted. "It's a classic," he said as he filled the bucket. They knew that Steve would be back soon.

"Shh," Mark said again as they heard the faint footfalls in the corridor. They heard the creak of the door being opened and the clatter and splash as the bucket hit the ground. The yell of surprise however did not sound like Steve.

Brian peeked around he bed and saw a very wet Commander Cole.

David was brushing his wet hair out of his eyes and looking around the room, his gaze finally fell on Brian and Mark.

"Uh oh," Mark said.

"Uh oh is right," David said, advancing on the two soldiers.

Reclaiming Phillia

"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought --"

"Your thoughts are hardly quiet." Gabriel tuned his guitar absently.

Keith's brow furrowed. "Why do you always hate me?"

"My Fender Strat - the first genuinely nice guitar I owned - is charred scraps and you have to ask?"

Keith was curled up on his favorite gaming chair, poking through Tobias's copy of the Riverside Shakespeare. "It was an accident."

"Don't be so petulant."

"It was an accident."

"Then I accidentally hate you." Gabriel strummed an easy jazz riff.

Keith's eyes slide closed; the music was soothing.

Gabriel said, "I don't hate you."

"You lie."

"We kill with each other, for each other. We're brothers-in-arms, comrades-in-war. I wouldn't sacrifice myself for you if I hated you." Gabriel's hands on the guitar stilled.

Keith opened his eyes. "I know." Then he closed the book and said, "You read Tobias's dissertation on reclaiming phillia, didn't you?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Maybe."

"Just checking."

(159 words)

Training

David was flat on his back again, his opponent disarming him with amazing speed. All around him were other pairs sparring in the large room that was practically the hub of his world now. It was here that he learned how to fight, how to shoot, how to disarm and build bombs. It was here that his path to revenge was taking shape.

"On your feet Dave," James said from above him.

David arched his back and flipped onto his feet, falling into a fighters stance.

"You moved to soon again," James said, demonstrating the move again. "It is all about knowing how and when to strike. Speed is not so important at this point, it will come in time with the muscle memory. Now, try it again."

James was one of David's frequent sparring partners, and the closest person he had to a friend. James had taken care to show David the ropes, helped in his training.

David flowed through the movements again, waiting until he thought the time was right to strike. David suddenly jerked his arm forward, grazing James across the jaw. David grinned, but suddenly found himself on the floor again.

"Never lose focus."

Blue Blazers on a Tuesday

“Bottoms up!” Keith cried, and tipped his tankard back. Green beer spilled down his chin and the front of his shirt; Asia was going to put him on laundry detail for a month if he didn’t get cleaned up before he went home.

“Haven’t you had enough for the night?” Tobias asked. Gabriel was sipping spiced mead that Christian had managed to sneak into the bar.

“There’s never enough alcohol in an Irishman on St. Paddy’s Day!” Keith poured himself a shot of Glenlivet and, to the onlookers’ delight, dug a lighter out of his pocket and set the drink on fire. And then drank it. The already-inebriated onlookers cheered, and someone poured Keith another shot. He’d had enough alcohol to the head in a short enough time - immortal bodies burned through the stuff impossibly fast to really get drunk - that he was high on the energy of the crowd, so this time around he waved a hand over the shot glass, and with a magician-like flourish of his hand, set the drink ablaze. With his gift. Across the bar, Angel’s eyes narrowed with fury, but Keith drank the shot and there was more cheering.

The skinny young man perched on a bar stool beside Tobias winced and ducked his head at the sound.

“The irony of all this,” he said, “is that St. Patrick himself was Scottish.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Tobias nodded toward the man’s glass of green beer. “You don’t seem too into the spirit of the holiday.”

“Not Catholic,” the man said.

“Never stopped anyone before,” Tobias said.

“True.” The man eyed his glass, shrugged, and drank. Then he shuddered.

And then Gabriel was up on the bar, mandolin in hand. “Who wants to hear some Flogging Molly?”

(296 words)

Another Beginning

David jerked awake at the klaxon call of 0500. Bleary eyed he stumbled out of bed and grabbed for his uniform pants. He growled in frustration when he realized, a few futile moments later, that he was trying to pull them on over his shoes. Hopping around he tried to get them off again when he over corrected and fell over. The cement floor of the barracks was ice cold against his bare back.

"Here," a voice said from above. David squinted, trying to make out the figure above him, the halogen lights above making it difficult. David focused and grabbed a hand that was offered to him, he was quickly hoisted to his feet.

A smiling face greeted him when he was able to pry his eyes open all the way. Bright green eyes set in a friendly face, the man's blond hair buzzed close to his head.

"The first week is the hardest." The man said laughing. "Well actually the second and third weeks are the toughest, but at that point you're either committed or you're not."

David smiled wryly, "Where else would I go?"

The man grinned broadly, "Me too. Hey I'm James," he held out his hand again, this time in greeting.

"I'm David." David said, accepting the hand again.

"Better hurry up, the commanders will be in in a few minutes to inspect us." James stood up and stepped a few feet away to his own cot and made the bed. He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and bounced it off the bed after he was done.

The inspection was mercifully brief, though David did have a strike against him for not having his cot made up proper. He vowed to have it right the next day.

"Come on," James said, throwing an arm around David's shoulder, "let's go get some food."

Nectar and Rotten Fruit

Christian scowled. “Stop laughing.”

Tobias at least had the good manners to hide his laughter behind one hand. Angel had managed to school his expression into one of faint amusement. DJ was armed with a camera and clicking away with the detached studiousness of an artiste. Keith, by sharp contrast, had his hands on his knees and was laughing uproariously. The sound didn’t disturb the butterflies one bit, for they were content to form a comical halo around Christian’s head.

Gabriel said, “So the lovely flutter-bys know a Quislai when they see one.”

Keith could barely speak for his giggling. “Look! Butterflies on the f-f-faerie!”

“Sh!” Tobias hissed, but he was giggling too.

“Stop scowling, Christian - you’re ruining a perfectly good shot,” DJ said.

A little girl jabbed a finger in Christian’s direction. “Look, mommy, the butterflies are in love!”

The entire procession of tourists in the butterfly biodome had screeched to a halt when the butterflies descended en masse to gather around Christian, perched on strawberry-blond curls and fluttering around his ears.

At ‘in love’, Keith only laughed louder.

I’m an assassin, dammit! Christian snarled. This is an indignity!

Let it go, Gabriel said, and keep walking. The zoo staff will rescue you at the door.

The butterflies followed Christian all the way along the biodome path. The zoo worker opened her mouth to start the usual spiel about ‘hitchhikers’, and then her eyes went wide.

Keith said, blithe as can be, “I guess he smells like flower nectar.”

Tobias added, “Or rotten fruit.”

(259 words)

Project #20: Open Challenge

Sorry I disappeared for a few days. This week is open writing. let's keep it to 300 words.

Writing Jar

It was clear with an appliquéd pattern, yellow daisies and bright flowers and an assortment of Easter cheer. Someone had stuffed it full of writing tools - sparkly pens, swirly pens, old-fashioned pencils made operable with a sharpener, cheap ball-point pens, and some worn-out highlighters from someone’s ardent studying. It was perched precariously close to the edge of the table, ready to topple with a single mis-pulled pen. Some of the pencils poked high above the pens, unsharpened and taller for it. Someone had shoved a receipt down the side of the jar as well, and the barcode was distorted beneath the pattern of the leaves. The jar would either fall - or someone responsible would push it back.

Papyrus

If it was ancient, its dark wooden frame made it an anachronism in its own time or in the present. And the colors are too vivid to be ancient, but they are genuine colors - lapis lazuli, ochre gold. The papyrus is dark, darker than anyone ever remembers seeing in Hollywood, but that means it’s older, because it was years before anyone realized one could bleach paper and make the ink on it more visible, legible, stark. A woman in a dress that looks like fish scales kneels on a tiny pedestal that’s barely long enough to support her legs from knee to toe, and her arms are up, unfurling her lovely wings of white, red, silver scales. So many scales for a woman so like a bird. Hieroglyphics litter the wall behind her, the panel beneath her. One day someone will be able to read them.

(146 words)

Curly Yarn

It curled, as if someone had turned a poodle into a ball of thread, dyed it variegated blues, greens, and whites, and then unwound it, slowly, slowly, slowly, fixing it into a skein to be sold at a superstore for some granny to turn into a hideous sweater for a grandchild. Soon enough it would be a simple scarf, a novice’s attempt at knitting, stark against the cheery magenta of a knitting loom. It would curl along the edges, knitted in all the wrong places, but it would be soft and warm, and maybe it would fend off the chill of a cold winter’s night.

(105 words)

Gift from a Friend

Silky smooth and cool to the touch, it lay on the table, full of promise. A heady aroma floated up from the soft and supple leather. Finely stitched and even finer grain spoke of elegance and a touch of anachronism. Gilt edges are slightly worn with time and use. The paper is thick and off-white; covered with a close and careful hand at times and loose hurried scrawl at others, capturing words. Words that flowed, occasionally, from the delicate quill pen that lay near the inkwell on the table, other times from a serviceable and worn fountain pen. Words expressing a soul, a life and a passion. Words that are hidden from the world, tucked carefully away on the shelf, waiting for an addition.

Spring Joys

Brightly stitched cloth flutters up into the sky, born aloft by a warm breeze out of the south. The fresh scents of spring lay heavy in the air that sends up a kite. Blues and greens swirl across the nylon fabric, it looks like waves in they sky. String is played out bit by bit, keeping just enough tension to keep it in the air. As it rises slowly in the golden light of they day it takes less effort to keep it in the air, and more to keep it connected to the ground, and the hand that controls it.

Mask

It hung half in, half out of a battered black shoe box. Someone had twisted two lengths of wire into large almond shapes - eye holes, and then covered the wire with delicate black stitching, delicate black knots that expanded outward in a complicated swirl of rings and chains, picots and clovers, a bridge for over the nose, peaks from which to hang crystals, holes to string through a ribbon. Lying there it looked incongruous, the blank eye holes and the medallion of clovers where the forehead would be, like a target to taunt an assassin. But when the ribbons were taught, knotted, high in a girl’s hair, and the mask was settled in place, it was mysterious and haunting, and turned any girl into an unspeakable beauty.

(127 words)

Clock

The frame was made of wood, a deep, dark, reddish hue that was inconsistent in gradation around the frame, as the frame was clearly constructed of multiple panels not all of the same section of tree, if from the same tree at all. The face was parchment-colored, off-white, like fine paper, and roman numerals were gracefully calligraphed in even intervals around the circular face, upside down at the bottom but legible all the same. Smaller rectangular notations formed a broken circle inside the implied ring of roman numerals, marking off each minute. A hole cut in the center of the face revealed an extensive network of golden cogs, wheels, dials, and spinners, out of which sprouted delicate wrought-iron hands in black, one long, one wide, one hours, one minutes.

Together they all spun and kept lovely time.

(140 words)

Valentine's Gift

It hung from the corrugated steel snakes that kept the lamp bulbs aloft, a snake itself of green velvet. It drooped, bent under the relentless draw of gravity, a bright beacon of color against the industrial colorlessness of the floor lamp. The green velvet stem became fuller green velvet leaves, became brazen red velvet petals, curled and curved to become a rose. A rose, hanging from a floor lamp, in one corner of a small, cramped, messy apartment. A cloth tag jutted white, stark, incongruous from the stem, probably offering up laundering instructions. A white, heart-shaped tag printed with a bar code dangled from a petal, but it was an eternal bloom.

(113 words)

Throwing Knife

It was shining steel and smooth, graceful lines. The edges were smeared in rust-red, and a gentle notation on one flat surface read, in faded black, Pakistani Steel. It whistled through the air and spun with breathless clarity, and it thudded when it landed hilt-first. It ripped when it landed point-first, and when it missed the target altogether it clanged like a misplaced triangle chime amidst the otherwise perfect synchronization of an orchestra. It slid neatly into a leather wrist-sheath, up a sleeve, down a boot, and, when twined with flowers, nestled gently into a girl’s hair.

(101 words)

New Skin

It is strange how such a little drop of goo can cause such pain at the same time that it begins the healing process. Strange how a small point of pain spreads with application to cause widespread throbbing, intense pain. What a strange invention, a single swipe provides you with protection and essentially a new skin to protect your wounds as your own skin heals and regrows. And I suppose it is an improvement, at least we are not using superglue anymore to close a cut in a pinch. The included antiseptic is also an improvement, sanitation is a big thing these days. I wish they would add a numbing agent to it as well.

Chain of Civilization

O necessary chain of civilization I spurn you!

Small you are; and growing smaller year by year. I shall have no leash to tie me to the world. When I walk about, I wish and want no interruptions. And I thumb my nose at you; you who would connect me to work. Ha Ha, you can not reach me. I have no need of you, with your bright lights, buzzes and rings, alarms, cameras, and now internet and music. I refuse to be cowed into admitting you to my presence until I deem it to be a necessity. So leave me be, I heed not your siren call.




(Am I getting any better in grammar or is it still abysmally bad?)

Project #19: Object Lesson

Describe an object. A single object, not a person or a place, just a thing. Feel free to wax poetic about it in ways that are usually frowned upon in actual novel-writing. Capture the detail of the thing and make it come alive. Maybe study an actual object around you and do your best to commit it to paper. Sadly, we do not have a thousand words, so keep it 100-300 words in length. Happy writing and good luck!

Mod Post

All apologies to the girls (as yet there are no boys) on Master & Madness. Apparently both The Master and The Madness went AWOL this week. It's one of this times life takes over writing and some things end up on the back burner. Fear not, for this replacement is temporary, and writing will resume on Sunday with a new challenge posted by The Master. Until then, butter up your muse!

A Meeting in the Mists

Mist and smoke shifted between Heran and the malevolent presence in the dark before him. All that Heran could see were the eyes that burned with an inner light, the presence in the dark was immense, he could at least sense that.

Heran strained his eyes to make out who he was talking to. "Why do you seek a fool?"

The rasping, growling voice came to him again, "to do my bidding in the mortal world."

"And what will I get out of this?" Heran sounded braver than he felt at the moment. He could hear the shifting of hot gravel under the presence, it grated against his ears and made him shudder involuntarily.

"You will get to live, and I will give you what you have been seeking." The promise coming from this 'person' sounded more like a threat.

'I should have never come here.' The Elders warned me about coming, they told me that if I should get what I desire, it may not be what I expected. That in seeking the Cliffs of Fate, it would seal upon me the Fate that was handed to me. But I had disregarded their advice, thinking that I knew better, that I could master fate.

Heran wanted to leave, but he felt the bindings that he had not noticed before. The bindings that had wound around his mind, ensnaring him, rooting him to the spot. He could not leave now even if he wanted to.

"What would you have me do?" Heran sounded resigned.

"All in good time, fool."

"At least show me who you are."

A low chuckle rumbled out of the mists, and the ground shuddered as the figure took a step closer. "Look upon your new master."

Heran wanted to run screaming but he was still held in place by the powerful figure before him. Black leathery skin clung to bulging muscles and steam curled from it's snout. Wickedly sharp claws were only surpassed by the gleaming rows of teeth. Vast wings were curled around his body and his tail swished from side to side.

The black Dragon of legends.

(364)

Sliver Death

Hyun Lee huddled backstage, fiddling with his guitar, making sure it was tuned. He never let the roadies handle it, because it was his - he’d inherited it from one of his idols in Japan, and it was his most prized possession. When he’d been discharged from the Korean army after his two years’ service - no one in America questioned his being in high school, his youthful face serving him well - all he’d had were the clothes on his back and his guitar.

And now he was getting ready to rock the house. Riku was only twelve years old but a drum prodigy in his own right, and he loved everything he played, beaming to the crowd. Seiji, by contrast, was a veteran bassist, and worked in laconic solitude.

The manager knocked on the door. “You boys ready?”

“Where’s our singer?” Seiji asked.

Riku pointed to the bathroom door, and a moment later Eric emerged. He ran a hand through his green-streaked hair and grinned.

“Ready to roll?”

“Ready to rock,” Hyun said, and grinned.

Out in the club, the manager was running through his MC act. The four of them drifted onto the stage. Riku scampered up behind the drums and adjusted the cymbals with deft hands. Seiji plugged in his bass and strummed a quick riff. Once the manager was done, the rocking would begin.

“And now it’s my pleasure to introduce the one, the only Sliver Death!”

“Sliver Death?” Seiji asked, too low for the others to hear.

“After the Magic cards,” Hyun said. “We let Riku pick it.” Then he tossed his head and counted them off.

Riku crashed on the cymbals, and the guitars roared to life.

The crowd cheered.

(285 words)

Interupted Thougths

The set was over with. Alastrina knew that he would not be singing again tonight. I wonder why he is so familiar. Why I can't get his out of my mind.

Alastrina flagged down a passing waiter and asked for a refill on her drink. She was not sure why she stayed; every night after she had heard him sing it was like all the other performers were flat, lifeless, almost 2D in their lack of depth. She ruminated on her problem as she stared into her drink, the ice sending out nearly invisible currents in the amber liquid. She had tried asking around to find out who he was, but no one seemed to be able to tell her. He didn't get paid for singing so the manager never needed to know his name, and as far as she was able to determine from everyone else he just seemed to vanish after he was done with his set.

"Excuse me, may I sit with you?" A deep voice said, breaking into her revery.

Startled, Alastrina looked up from her drink, a quick glance around let her know that the club was packed, and that her booth was one of the last spots that could be occupied. She looked the man over once. He was in blue jeans that hung perfectly on his hips, a black long sleeve shirt with the cuffs pushed up his forearm. He had black eyes under dark eyebrows. His hair was equally as black short on the sides and slightly longer on the top. His sculpted lips were quirked in a small smile that Alastrina found familiar, but couldn't place.

She nodded once and the man slid into the other side of the booth.

"My name is Patrick."

(262)

(I will probably edit and lengthen this one later tonight or tomorrow.)

Even on the Job

The Mexican boys crowded around a shop window, peering in at the various television screens. The proprietor hovered at the door, watching them warily, but they were only interested in what was showing on the largest screen.

“Man, look at those guys pop and lock,” one of them said. “They’re like robots - it must have taken forever get that kind of control.”

“Hey,” another said. He leaned closer, narrowed his eyes. “Dude! Check it out! It’s that Asian kid who danced with us yesterday on the corner.”

The others elbowed him aside, jostling for a closer look.

“No way, man - you can’t tell who he is - they all look the same.”

“And we all look the same to them,” the first boy said. “Seriously, it’s him - Kim Jo what’s-his-face.”

“Really?” one of the younger boys asked, scrunching up his nose.

“Really,” Jo Seung said. He grinned wickedly when all five boys jumped and spun around, fists up to fight.

“The hell, man? You nearly gave us a heart attack!”

Jo Seung shrugged and smiled innocently. He kept his hands jammed into the front pockets of his hoodie - he hadn’t had a chance to wash the blood off his hands from his last kill. “I heard my name and wondered if I was in trouble.”

The leader of the boys looked him up and down. “Are you a professional dancer or something?”

“Me? No, I just dance for fun. Back in Korea I’m an actor, actually.” He let them digest that for a moment.

“Well,” the leader finally said, “you’re good at what you do, man. If you’re ever around here and want to dance with us again, you’re welcome.”

Jo Seung bowed politely. “Thank you. And if you ever come to Korea, I will be a gracious host.” His commander’s voice blasted over his earpiece, but his expression didn’t waiver.

“So that’s why your hood is up, then?” the leader asked.

Jo Seung nodded. “Almost got mobbed by some girls in K-town.” He cast a mock-nervous glance over his shoulder. “I should get back to the hotel. Keep dancing!” And he walked away. This was why he liked coming to America - he could have innocent moments of fun even while on the job.

(377 words)

A Kind Deed

He couldn't believe that she was dying, and there was nothing that he could do about it. He looked on her sallow face, the light reflecting off of her bare scalp. The treatments had really taken it out of her. He knew she didn't have much time left.
Her breathing had become that much labored even over the last few hours he didn't think that she would last the night.

Sara's eyes fluttered open one last time and she smiled up at him. "I love you Kyle."
~~~~~~~~~

Sara snuck out of the hospital, the drugs that they had given her had worn off and she had come too in the morgue. She didn't know or care what body they would put in the casket, if they put in any body at all. Sara ran her hand over her scalp and muttered darkly, it would take a while for it to grow to a respectable length.
~~~~~~

Sara found it impossible to not go to the funeral, to say goodbye to a life. 'How cliche' she thought as the rain began to come down in the middle of the service. She was wearing a wig and standing in the back, no one would notice another body under all the umbrellas that were being opened.

Sara caught sight of Kyle, he was kneeling beside the grave after the others had trickled away, crying. She was sorry to hurt him again, even though he didn't know that the original hurt had come from her, she had hurt him again and she felt a stab of regret.

As she turned to go she realized that she had lied.

And when I go, he will never know that I never loved him.


(273)

Yet Another Beginning

David settled back on the seat, thinking over what he had been told. He would become like this man. Strong, capable, someone people could look up to.

They drove in silence, picking up speed as the hit the highway, leaving the city behind, leaving behind his revenge.

"So where are we going?" DAvid asked eventually.

"A training facility." The man didn't take his eyes off the road.

"Where is it?"

"Far away."

"Can you at least tell me your name?"

The man glanced at David briefly, "Hayes, commander Hayes."

"Who do you work for?" David sounded tired, more and more as if he didn't care.

"Officially, we work with the Marines."

David shrugged, the brief spark of life that was in his eyes was dimming again, he huddled back in his seat, withdrawing into himself. After a while he dozed off, the stress of the day getting the better of him.

Hayes looked over at his passanger. "Some wounds go to deep, but eventually they do scar over," he said to the silence.

~~~~~~

David found himself being shaken awake. He sat up abruptly and rubbed his eyes, he stepped out of the car into the painfully bright, dry desert morning. The wind whistled over the barren landscape, and all David could see was scrub brush and cacti aside from a small bunker like hut.

"Come this way David," Hayes lead him towards the bunker and out of the daylight. "This will be your home for the next year or so if you decide to stay." Hayes said as he swiped a security badge and an elevator opened. "Remember you can always leave before you sigh up with us officially."

"I have no where to go, no one to go to." David said at last as the elevator opened onto an empty hallway.

"Yes, but what we do is not for everyone."

"I will have my revenge eventually?"

"Yes you will, but when that point comes, you may decide not to exact your revenge. You may find that you have changed and that you no longer need revenge."

"I doubt it."

(323)

Draining the Node

The shield came down as soon as Morgan’s spear pierced it, and then the room was bristling with people, Orphan mages armed with all manner of arcane, banal and bizarre foci. One boy was swinging a pair of fuzzy dice as if they were hunting bolas.

Lyle’s magic was on the ball. “Take the node!” He lunged at the nest of voodoo dolls and scattered them with a swift kick. Then he had to hop aside as someone let loose a blast of mage fire.

“Node it is,” Cyrus said, and Selene was momentarily distracted by the graceful arc of his arms as he slid into a kung fu form - pheonix, from the looks of it.

One of the Orphans laughed. “What are you going to do, dance us to death?” And he was knocked backward by sheer percussive force of Cyrus’s elemental projection.

Curses littered the air. “He’s Akashic! Take him down!”

Morgan bared her teeth in a fierce grin. “You’ll have to get through me first,” she said. With a twining of her hands, one over another, running up her forearms, she was armed with a pair of scimitars. The battle cry she loosed filled the cathedral to the ceiling, and then the screaming began.

Selene fanned her cards with a quick flick of her wrist, and then she braced herself behind Lyle while he worked on dismantling the node. He had Tass to transfer the node’s contents, but a transfer for a node this big took time, and they were starting to run high on paradox. The Orphans were half-trained and their lack of shielding on the place ran up the vulgarity cost of casting exponentially, and Selene could feel the warp and weft of the Tapestry begin to protest.

There was one thing she could do, one last thing before the universe slapped her in the face for her audacity. She knelt and dealt a wheel of life, slapped an incomplete Celtic Cross down in the middle, and then everything -- stopped.

“The hell?” Cyrus asked.

“I froze their time,” Selene said. “Now get over here and help Lyle.”

Morgan, whose forearms dripped with blood, looked surprised. “You can do that?”

“I’m gonna get paradoxed into next week, but yeah. So hurry!”

“Hurrying, hurrying,” Cyrus said.

(380 words)

The Hurry

“What’s the hurry?” Thom asked.

Jesse dragged him into the shop, out a side door, into the next shop, down a flight of stairs, and onto an entirely different street. Best as Thom could tell, Jesse had no clue where he was going.

“You just outed me to a public street,” Jesse said.

“But you’re not gay,” Thom said. He was very confused.

“But that girl I was talking to had no idea who I was until you shouted my name for the world to hear.” Jesse checked both ways before he darted out of the alley, Thom stumbling along behind him, and ducked behind a line of German tourists.

“What does it matter if she knows your name?” Thom asked.

A shriek pierced the air. “It’s Jesse! Jesse Carlisle!” A dozen other shrieks rose, all stabbing people’s eardrums with Jesse’s name.

Thom’s eyes went wide in horrified realization.

“That’s why it matters,” Jesse said. He dropped Thom’s wrist and broke into a sprint. “Come on!”

(166 words)

T-shirt or Something

Garrow’s eyes went wide. “The Necronomicon? Are you insane?” He reached out and batted Austin’s hand away from the bookshelf. “No. I’m not going to let you do that to him.”

Austin glanced over her shoulder at The Wordsmith, who was obediently holding the book on the flat of his palms, ready for her to pile more on top of it if she so chose.

“Hey, The Authorities’ orders are pretty straightforward, and that’s to get prepped for this next mission. It’s gonna be a long haul, and we need all the background info we can get. It’ll be handy to have the kid absorb everything we need to know.” She tugged her wrist out of Garrow’s grip and continued to peruse the spines of books.

Garrow suppressed a growl of irritation. “He’s a person, Austin, not a damned pocket computer. And we’re supposed to know the background for this mission, not tug it out of him when we get stumped. If you want to get informed, do it the old-fashioned way and read for yourself.”

Austin’s eyes narrowed. “What’s up with you all of a sudden, Mr. Defensive?” She glanced over her shoulder again; The Wordsmith was shivering and doing his best to pretend he couldn’t hear their argument.

“I’m sick of the way everyone around here treats him,” Garrow said.

After a moment, Austin snickered. “Oh, hell no, you’ve got to be joking. You’re sweet on our boy, aren’t you?”

Garrow’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Austin in the shoulder too hard for it just to be play. “You’re being a brat and you know it. Unless it’s something absolutely vital or The Authorities hand down the title of a book specifically, he’s not absorbing a thing.”

Austin tugged a volume - bound in black leather, spine blank of a title but slowly cracking - and spun away. “You’re such a sissy underneath it all, aren’t you?” She thrust the book at The Wordsmith. “Here, absorb this.”

The Wordsmith set the first book aside and accepted the black volume, hands hesitant. He flipped it open - it was the Necronomicon. “Right now?” He bit his lip.

Austin nodded. “Yeah. Right here, right now.”

“Are you sure?”

Austin’s brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just...” The Wordsmith shrugged, the motion a little defensive. “The Elders never liked to watch is all.”

Garrow felt his blood run cold. If the Elders of Rosenkreuz couldn’t stand the sight of an inkbearer absorbing a book, it had to be fairly horrific.

Austin gestured carelessly. “Seriously, do it. So Garrow will stop being a sissy.”

The Wordsmith took a deep breath and reached out, placing his palm on the first page.

Garrow caught his wrist, tugged his hand away from the book. He leveled a look at Austin. “No. Come on, kid, let’s get you a t-shirt or something.”

Maybe it was just Garrow’s imagination, but the kid looked relieved as Garrow led him away.

(492 words)

First Sighting

"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

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

Ryan tied off his line with the others to the chains. Ryan was just a midshipman, only one step above a cabin boy, but he wore his new uniform proudly. He had high hopes to have a commission before to much longer and he went about his work with a spring in his step.

"Mr. Raines!" The bosun hollered.

"Yes Sir?" Ryan hurried over to where the great bull necked man stood, adapting is gait to the particular roll of the ocean.

"You have watch in the nest." The bosun said as Ryan approached him. "Get up there and keep an eye out."

"Yes Sir!" Ryan saluted smartly and hurried over to the shrouds. Grasping the bottom most rope, Ryan began to pull himself up the precarious ladder to the nest, the pitch and roll of the ship becoming more pronounced the higher he climbed. The wind's fingers plucked at his hat and tossed his necktie into his face. He passed the men working on the yardarms, adjusting the tension of the sails for maximum speed, the men called friendly greetings to him as he passed.

Ryan climbed over the railing to the crows nest and took up the glass. There was no land behind them anymore, and none ahead that he could see. The wind raked through his sandy blond hair, his keen green eyes scanning the horizon. Below him he could hear the chanting of the line and he hummed along as he sat his post.

Ryan was scanning the sea when he caught on the edge of the horizon a ship. Bringing the glass to his eye he focused it on the ship. He cold see a field of black, white, and red on the flag or the other ship and his heart leapt.

"Bosun!" he hollered from the top of the mast, "Pirates to the port side!"

Ryan scuttled down the rigging as quickly as he could and took up arms to defend the ship as the Captain called, "Men to the ready!"

Project #18: Expansion

Sorry for the lateness of this post. This week's project is to take a previous post and expand on it. Any post you choose. Include the original post or at least a link to the original post. Explore the possibilities.

Lets keep the word count of the new portions to 500 words. Don't include the word count from the previous post.

Overview #17 - Growing Up

I had fun this week getting to know David. At times he did not want to cooporate and tell me what was going on. I knew from the off set that I would be revising these posts, and I did. After rereading them and some very helpful input from Master, David is starting to take shape. It was interesting for me to explore the birth to death, what events would shape his life. I had the most trouble with his death. I think that that is only the second or third of my characters that have died. I think I can get to attached to characters and I don't want them to go away. I enjoyed working with David, he is the first paramilitary character that I have created. He is actually kind of a cross between military and Weiss Kreuz. I definitely had fun this week.

Overview #17 - Growing Up

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

If You Give Me a Chance

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

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

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

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

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

“There was a legend,” The Wordsmith began.

Garrow glanced over his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wordsmith said, “Go.”

And collapsed.

(300 words)

The End

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

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

"But David..."

"I said NOW!"

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

Promotion

It had been seven years since Arianna's death.

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

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

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

"Then what Sir?"

"You will see."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hayes turned to David, "Carry on Major."

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

All Apologies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better luck next time.”

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

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

(300 words)

The End of Innocence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

David drew in a breath sharply in shock.

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

Seventeen Years' Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But - Elder Haschen and the others --”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(300 words)

The Boy

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

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

“Hello,” he said cautiously.

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

“What’s your name?”

“Lena,” she said.

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

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

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

“The Elders didn’t say,” Lena said.

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

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

“Any kind you like.”

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

“Poe,” she said. “I like Poe.”

He smiled and began to recite,

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

(300 words)

Meeting of Fate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"David."

"Nice to meet you David."

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

Going away

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes she will."

"Will she come to see me?"

"I don't know son."

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

"I think so." James embraced his son.

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

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

Here But Not Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Value of Silence

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

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

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

“What’s your name?”

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

“What is your name?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“What do people call you?”

“I am The Wordsmith,” he said.

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

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

(227 words)

Better Than Reading

“What does it say?” Haschen asked.

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

“What does it say?” Haschen repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

“How old is he?” another Elder asked.

Haschen said, “Two.”

(170 words)

Left on the Steps

“You found him?”

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

“Let me see him.”

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

“And no one seeks him?”

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

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

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

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

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

“He’ll learn not to cry.”

(181 words)

Sart at the Beginning

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

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

"...So handsome..."

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

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

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

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

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

Project #17: Growing up

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

Overview #16 - Proverbs

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

At Risk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Not Heal

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

Aya had stabbed him through the kidney.

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

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

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

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

“How are you feeling?”

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

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

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

“Like an assassin?” Aya arched one eyebrow.

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

“Ano...what’s with the luggage?”

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

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

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

He couldn’t even say goodbye.

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

Aya nodded. “Thank you.”


Momoe-san was waiting for him when he returned.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Ken shrugged. “It still hurts.”

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

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

(492 words)

Why do you do it?

David was not sure what to make of the man behind the wheel of his car. He had stopped him, told him to follow where he lead, and he would have his revenge and make the world better.

He was not sure if he should fear this man. That he could kill David without a thought he knew without a doubt, some instinct told him this. But the same instinct told him that he would not kill him, that he had plans for him. After a long silence, the street lights flashing on the slick windshield, David finally asked, "What would you ask of me? What would you have me do?"

The man spared a glance at the teenager in the passenger seat, not speaking at first. He looked so young, so innocent, excpt for his eyes. His eyes were blank, no inner light was there anymore.

"I would have you become one of us. I ask that you follow my lead to whatever end."

"Who is us?" David sounded only mildly curious, as if asking were a reflex rather than a true desire to know.

"In time you will know. I am asking you to give up your old life, all your connections, all your past. I am asking you to become what we need you to be."

"And what is that?" The same resigned voice asked.

"Mercenary, thief, commander, anything that we need."

David shrugged. "I have nothing left, no reason to stay. I guess I might as well go with you." David looked at the man, the first glimmer of life sparking in his deadpan face. "Did you give up who you were? Why do you do it? If I do well what happens?"

The man smiled, "all information in its time. As you see yourself, I once saw myself; as you see me now, you will be seen."

David settled back on the seat, thinking over what he had been told. He would become like this man. Strong, capable, someone people could look up to.

Revenge, Anger, Cruelty

Garrow knelt over The Wordsmith. He reached out, hands shaking, and checked for a pulse. The kid was alive, only barely. His lip was split and one eye was swollen shut, and ink was bleeding out from under his fingernails. He must have absorbed over a hundred books in the last day.

“Kid, talk to me,” Garrow said.

The Wordsmith moaned softly.

“Damn them.” Garrow gathered the kid into his arms, wrapped the kid in his coat, and scooped up his body.

The Wordsmith curled against Garrow’s chest and whimpered. “Hurts.”

“I know, kid,” Garrow said. “We’ll get you back to the Virtues - they’ll fix you right up.”

The Wordsmith tossed his head. “No - need to get to the vault.”

“You’re not going back there.” Garrow headed for the nearest Metro station. “Those books in the vault --”

“Are all in my blood. Destroy it.” The Wordsmith gazed at Garrow with his one good eye.

“Kid --”

“Please. So no one else has to read them.”

Garrow stopped. “Kid...”

“Garrow - please,” The Wordsmith said. His tone was pleading.

“Kid --”

“My name is Matthew.”

Garrow went still. “What?”

“Rosenkreuz. They tried to take away my name, but I remembered it. It was the first thing I absorbed, but they broke me of it - for a while. I found it in one of the books they had me absorb in the vault.” He smiled faintly.

“Matthew,” Garrow said. He reached out, brushed an unruly lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes. “Did you know that’s my name too?”

He nodded. “That made it easier to remember when the time came.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but his breath hitched, and his entire body tensed, curling in on itself.

Garrow’s eyes went wide. “Kid? Kid! Matthew? Talk to me, baby boy, let me hear your voice. Tell me one of those sonnets you always have --”

The smile slid off of Matthew’s face, and his body went limp.

Garrow went still. Then he knelt, slowly, and laid Matthew’s body on the ground. He sat beside the body for a while, stroking the boy’s hair, and then he stood up. He drew his scimitar and his shotgun, and he turned in the direction of the vault.

“Damn them,” he said again. “I’ll damn them.” He began to walk away.

On the ground, Matthew stirred, and one last time, words wrote themselves across his skin.

When Anger and Revenge marry, their daughter is called Cruelty.

The Beginning

In the gathering darkness David loaded his gun, readying it for action. He was tired of letting the injustice in the world exist. Tired of the innocent falling to the evil. A face flashed in his mind, the greatest injustice of all.

David stepped out of his car into the rain. They would pay for what they had done.

"Wait son." A voice said out of the night.

David spun around, trying to see who the voice belonged to, bringing his gun up.

"Who are you?" David yelled.

"A man who will show you a different path. A path that will make a difference in the world." The shadow of the man was wrapped in a long coat and a wide brimmed hat pulled low.

"I don't need a path! I don't need to save the world! I need vengeance!" Tears rolled down his face, David was incensed, his prey was going to get away. He was young, his hand shaking on the gun.

"You will get that too, but it would be a sad waste for you to die tonight, as I know that you would. Do you think that his men will let you live? You think that you will even get close to him? You will die, and then who will avenge her, or you for that matter?" The man remained calm.

"I have nothing. Nothing left. They took everything from me. At this point I don't even care if I live or die."

The man smiled, "Beware of him who has nothing to lose." The man took a step towards the teenager. "Come with me David."

David dropped the gun to his side. "Who are you?" he sounded resigned, lifeless.

"I will be your Captain." The man took the gun from David and lead him to the car.