“What would he want us to say about him?” Tom drummed his fingertips on his knee and avoided looking at the others.
Dan strummed a chord on his guitar. “Maybe there’s a God above and all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you...”
There were some thoughtful hums of assent. Rob had always loved the song, sung it lovingly from beneath the shadows on open mic night.
Emma cleared her throat. “How about something a little more epic?” She sang, “It’s the pain that cuts a straight line down through the heart. We call it love. We wrapped our arms around each other --”
Hugh threw a pen at her, his aim half-hearted. “Inappropriate, given how many of his aged aunts love him.”
Dan set his guitar aside, played a brief, minor glissando on the keyboard. “Well I’d rather bleed just to know why I die. Do you know why I die?”
“A little too direct, I suspect,” Tom said. He thought. Music was the only way to honor Michael and the life he’d led. None of them were talented enough to write a song for him, but they could sing one. As much as Michael had loved foreign music, the lyrics for this song had to count. He began humming a tune, one that had been hovering in the back of mind since they’d laid Michael’s wife Gina to rest a week earlier. One by one, the others began picking it up, and their gazes met as they caught onto the lyrics he was thinking of.
“...When you’re worn out and tired...when your heart has expired, oh lover, I’ll cover you...”
“He loved her with everything he had,” Emma said, “and he died for her. The world should remember that.”
(299 words)
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Words and Memories
"I don't know how to put my thoughts into words," Joe growled as he crumpled yet another piece of paper, "it's not like that Bastard would put an obituary in the paper for someone he took in only for a check every month."
Jen sighed and rubbed Joe's hunched shoulders; she could feel the tension in the muscles as she kneaded at them. "Tell me about Alec," she said gently as her fingers continued their soothing motions.
Joe drew in a breath after a few moments of thought and began to speak. "Alec was the best brother a person could have ever asked for. He was kind and supportive," Joe paused again before continuing, "when we were kids and bouncing from foster home to foster home, he made sure that we stayed together. I don't have any illusions that they didn't want to split us up, but Alec wouldn't allow it. He always threatened to just disappear with me." Joe laughed, and it was a little bitter, "for some reason the government just can't handle that. They can't keep their damn noses out of peoples lives."
Joe swallowed hard and continued, "most of the foster homes we ended up in, the 'Fathers' were abusive drunks, and the 'mothers' were either to scared to do anything or they didn't care what happened. I know that Alec tried to hide it from me, but I always knew that he took the brunt of the beatings. He took my licking so that I didn't have to. He always spared me the pain. And he never complained. He never blamed me, never resented what he went through to keep us together." Joe wiped at a tear that had run down his cheek and went on in a low voice, "Alec always talked about the future with such optimism that at times I could forget everything about where we were and what was happening and live in his dream, a dream of a world where we could just be 'we'. He always said that as soon as he turned eighteen he would petition the state to become my legal guardian and that we would get a small apartment together. He promised that we would have peace at last. No more moving around, no more beatings. He always said that we would go to college together and that we both needed to study hard so that we could get scholarships to a private University."
Jen's hands slowed and came to a stop as she listened to Joe recount the life of his brother; getting lost in the vivid images that Joe painted.
"He was going to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe continued as the tears came faster, "We were going to have a good life, we were going to have some measure of peace." Joe curled tightly into himself, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth, "and now that can never happen now that he's gone. That vision, that dream of peace is gone, faded and buried with his death."
Jen wasn't sure how to comfort him; knew no words to bring peace to a troubled soul, so she settled for simply holding him.
After a few minutes Jen finally said, "I don't think that he needs an obituary," she said gently, "all that he is is not words on a page, but words and memories in your heart and mind. I think that that is all the eulogy that Alec needs."
Joe's mouth twitched in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I wish I could have known Alec," Jen said.
Joe laughed slightly, a genuine, though sad smile playing across his face, "I remember this one time..."
Jen sighed and rubbed Joe's hunched shoulders; she could feel the tension in the muscles as she kneaded at them. "Tell me about Alec," she said gently as her fingers continued their soothing motions.
Joe drew in a breath after a few moments of thought and began to speak. "Alec was the best brother a person could have ever asked for. He was kind and supportive," Joe paused again before continuing, "when we were kids and bouncing from foster home to foster home, he made sure that we stayed together. I don't have any illusions that they didn't want to split us up, but Alec wouldn't allow it. He always threatened to just disappear with me." Joe laughed, and it was a little bitter, "for some reason the government just can't handle that. They can't keep their damn noses out of peoples lives."
Joe swallowed hard and continued, "most of the foster homes we ended up in, the 'Fathers' were abusive drunks, and the 'mothers' were either to scared to do anything or they didn't care what happened. I know that Alec tried to hide it from me, but I always knew that he took the brunt of the beatings. He took my licking so that I didn't have to. He always spared me the pain. And he never complained. He never blamed me, never resented what he went through to keep us together." Joe wiped at a tear that had run down his cheek and went on in a low voice, "Alec always talked about the future with such optimism that at times I could forget everything about where we were and what was happening and live in his dream, a dream of a world where we could just be 'we'. He always said that as soon as he turned eighteen he would petition the state to become my legal guardian and that we would get a small apartment together. He promised that we would have peace at last. No more moving around, no more beatings. He always said that we would go to college together and that we both needed to study hard so that we could get scholarships to a private University."
Jen's hands slowed and came to a stop as she listened to Joe recount the life of his brother; getting lost in the vivid images that Joe painted.
"He was going to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe continued as the tears came faster, "We were going to have a good life, we were going to have some measure of peace." Joe curled tightly into himself, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth, "and now that can never happen now that he's gone. That vision, that dream of peace is gone, faded and buried with his death."
Jen wasn't sure how to comfort him; knew no words to bring peace to a troubled soul, so she settled for simply holding him.
After a few minutes Jen finally said, "I don't think that he needs an obituary," she said gently, "all that he is is not words on a page, but words and memories in your heart and mind. I think that that is all the eulogy that Alec needs."
Joe's mouth twitched in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I wish I could have known Alec," Jen said.
Joe laughed slightly, a genuine, though sad smile playing across his face, "I remember this one time..."
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Two Certain Things
“What’s that?” Jade asked.
Chase slid the paper across the table toward him. “Obituary.”
“For who?”
“JC.”
Jade blinked. “What?”
“Tomorrow at 1100, I’m scheduled for retrieval. I know the press has one prepared - they always do. But I’d appreciate it if they used this one.”
“That’s - morbid,” Jade said.
Chase smiled faintly. “The only two certain things are death and taxes.”
Jade scanned the document, brow furrowed. “Well,” he conceded, “it’s not bad. A touch impersonal, but --”
“It’s everything I put into being him, but it’s not me. Of course, I’m not the one who’s going to die.” Chase stood up. “I have to pack.”
***
Their PR manager was pale when Jade handed her the obituary.
“It’s what he’d want,” Jade said. “Something one of us wrote.”
Helen nodded. The others looked ready to cry.
Jade left the room.
***
The obituary ran in the newspaper the following morning. Jade reflected that, wherever Chase had gone to school, he’d learnt to write well.
JC sang before he could speak, and he could play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ before he could hold a fork. Family and friends will remember a bright-eyed boy whose every breath was a melody and whose single desire was to make the world smile. People might remember wildly shaggy hair, outrageous clothes, and a dreamy smile, but the world will remember his singular voice and his musical vision. Girls the world over screamed his name, but the people he loved most rounded out his life-long five-part-harmony. He is survived by his mother, Karen, and his father, Roy, a sister Heather, and his brothers - Tony, J, Joe, Chris, and Scoop. He lived to show the world its song, and he will live on in the rhythm of every heart touched by his music.
(300 words)
Chase slid the paper across the table toward him. “Obituary.”
“For who?”
“JC.”
Jade blinked. “What?”
“Tomorrow at 1100, I’m scheduled for retrieval. I know the press has one prepared - they always do. But I’d appreciate it if they used this one.”
“That’s - morbid,” Jade said.
Chase smiled faintly. “The only two certain things are death and taxes.”
Jade scanned the document, brow furrowed. “Well,” he conceded, “it’s not bad. A touch impersonal, but --”
“It’s everything I put into being him, but it’s not me. Of course, I’m not the one who’s going to die.” Chase stood up. “I have to pack.”
Their PR manager was pale when Jade handed her the obituary.
“It’s what he’d want,” Jade said. “Something one of us wrote.”
Helen nodded. The others looked ready to cry.
Jade left the room.
The obituary ran in the newspaper the following morning. Jade reflected that, wherever Chase had gone to school, he’d learnt to write well.
JC sang before he could speak, and he could play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ before he could hold a fork. Family and friends will remember a bright-eyed boy whose every breath was a melody and whose single desire was to make the world smile. People might remember wildly shaggy hair, outrageous clothes, and a dreamy smile, but the world will remember his singular voice and his musical vision. Girls the world over screamed his name, but the people he loved most rounded out his life-long five-part-harmony. He is survived by his mother, Karen, and his father, Roy, a sister Heather, and his brothers - Tony, J, Joe, Chris, and Scoop. He lived to show the world its song, and he will live on in the rhythm of every heart touched by his music.
(300 words)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
His Whole World
David had read Ariana's official obituary in the newspaper that day. It was well done, but he felt it wasn't complete. There was no doubt that her family loved her and would miss her, but they didn't know what had happened that night. They didn't know her like he did.
David sat down at his desk and took out a couple sheets of paper and a pen.
On April 19th at 7:45 in the evening the world experienced a great loss. The life of Ariana Kingston was cut short at the age of eighteen. Ariana was full of life and laughter. She had a passion for life that was spread over everything that she did. She loved learning, and had been accepted to a prestigious college on the east coast which she was going to attend in the fall where she was to major in Astrophysics. Ariana was quick to laugh and loved to play the piano...
David continued to write; filling the pages with her accomplishments and merits. He came at last to the end. Ariana is survived by her parents and her brothers and by her long time boyfriend David Cole.
David blotted at the page where his tears had smudged the ink slightly. He added in a few final lines. Ariana was shortly to have been engaged to David. They were to be married before going to college in the fall.
David carefully folded the papers and slipped them between the pages of Ariana's favorite book and slid it onto the shelf next to his bed. It still didn't do her justice, but it was the best he could do to sum up the life of the woman that had become his whole world.
David sat down at his desk and took out a couple sheets of paper and a pen.
On April 19th at 7:45 in the evening the world experienced a great loss. The life of Ariana Kingston was cut short at the age of eighteen. Ariana was full of life and laughter. She had a passion for life that was spread over everything that she did. She loved learning, and had been accepted to a prestigious college on the east coast which she was going to attend in the fall where she was to major in Astrophysics. Ariana was quick to laugh and loved to play the piano...
David continued to write; filling the pages with her accomplishments and merits. He came at last to the end. Ariana is survived by her parents and her brothers and by her long time boyfriend David Cole.
David blotted at the page where his tears had smudged the ink slightly. He added in a few final lines. Ariana was shortly to have been engaged to David. They were to be married before going to college in the fall.
David carefully folded the papers and slipped them between the pages of Ariana's favorite book and slid it onto the shelf next to his bed. It still didn't do her justice, but it was the best he could do to sum up the life of the woman that had become his whole world.
In Action
Major David Cole was killed in action in July of this year. Major Cole was a dedicated member of our armed forces; quickly rising in the ranks to become a Major at the age of twenty-five. Major Cole served with distinction in many combat and special operations. Orphaned at 15 when his father was lost in a plane crash, he lived briefly with his aunt and uncle. He joined the military shortly after graduating high school where he made it his mission to keep the world safe.
Major Cole is survived by his team, First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood, Second Lieutenants Brian and Mark Allard, and Second Lieutenant Joseph Kendrick.
Steve sighed in frustration at how little he actually knew about his commander; how little the world knew about such a great man. Nobody knew how many times he had placed the safety of the country ahead of his own, how many times he had gone without the basic creature comforts so that others could have them. It bothered Steve that no one knew that David even existed; apart from the military and his own team. It didn't seem like enough, a short paragraph to lay to rest the memory of David. He knew that anyone reading the short clip would not know him. No one knew that he could sing or that he liked to look at the stars. No one knew that he liked to dance. No one knew that he had so great a love for one woman that most people would not be able to understand the depth of his passion for her. No one knew that he was a great leader and even better friend.
Steve knew that David didn't have anybody other than the team. Ariana was long gone and so were his parents. Steve didn't know if his aunt and uncle were still alive, but he doubted that they would even know that he was gone. In fact he would be surprised if the cared at all. Not that they were bad people, they just never connected with David.
Steve let his fingers hover over the keyboard, searching for the right words to capture the essence of David. He couldn't put in any specifics about the combat action, it was all classified and the rest seemed to personal for the casual perusal of the world.
Steve shook his head and clicked send on the screen, sending the email to the obituary columns of half a dozen papers. Even if no one else out there cared; the team cared. It was the least that they could do to let the world know that a great man had died.
Major Cole is survived by his team, First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood, Second Lieutenants Brian and Mark Allard, and Second Lieutenant Joseph Kendrick.
Steve sighed in frustration at how little he actually knew about his commander; how little the world knew about such a great man. Nobody knew how many times he had placed the safety of the country ahead of his own, how many times he had gone without the basic creature comforts so that others could have them. It bothered Steve that no one knew that David even existed; apart from the military and his own team. It didn't seem like enough, a short paragraph to lay to rest the memory of David. He knew that anyone reading the short clip would not know him. No one knew that he could sing or that he liked to look at the stars. No one knew that he liked to dance. No one knew that he had so great a love for one woman that most people would not be able to understand the depth of his passion for her. No one knew that he was a great leader and even better friend.
Steve knew that David didn't have anybody other than the team. Ariana was long gone and so were his parents. Steve didn't know if his aunt and uncle were still alive, but he doubted that they would even know that he was gone. In fact he would be surprised if the cared at all. Not that they were bad people, they just never connected with David.
Steve let his fingers hover over the keyboard, searching for the right words to capture the essence of David. He couldn't put in any specifics about the combat action, it was all classified and the rest seemed to personal for the casual perusal of the world.
Steve shook his head and clicked send on the screen, sending the email to the obituary columns of half a dozen papers. Even if no one else out there cared; the team cared. It was the least that they could do to let the world know that a great man had died.
Excellence, Laughter, and Memories
Holly Finnegan, 17, of Ulster, died in the incident on the High Street on March 21. She was caught in the blast of a pipe bomb that killed five other people. Holly, “Hols” to her friends, was orphaned at age four in a car accident and raised by her uncle, Caomhin Finnegan, a mechanic at an independent garage in Ulster. He recalled how Holly, who had “lads callin’ round all hours of the day and night,” pitched in at the garage and “spent an entire Saturday helping [him] rebuild an engine.”
Holly, in her fifth form at St. Stephen’s College, was a prefect and house captain. She competed on the swim team, winning medals in the butterfly, on her house and school field hockey team, and on the cross country team. Her teachers recall that she was hardworking and helpful. Her friends recall that she was spirited.
“Everyone thought she was a good girl, and she was,” Aine said, “but she was wild. She danced, she partied - she lived.” Clusters of girls and boys who knew Holly gathered in the hallways at St. Stephen’s, crying and whispering, laughing and remembering Holly. One friend, Keith O’Connor, remembered solemnly, though with a twinkle in his eye, how he and Holly once switched all the sugar for salt in the teachers’ tea room.
Caomhin Finnegan has opened his house for a wake, to be held on March 25. Caomhin, Aine, Keith, and others at St. Stephen’s ask Holly’s friends to bring merriment, laugher, and memories of Holly before she’s laid to rest at Killare Hill Cemetery on March 26 at 11:00 a.m.
(271 words)
Holly, in her fifth form at St. Stephen’s College, was a prefect and house captain. She competed on the swim team, winning medals in the butterfly, on her house and school field hockey team, and on the cross country team. Her teachers recall that she was hardworking and helpful. Her friends recall that she was spirited.
“Everyone thought she was a good girl, and she was,” Aine said, “but she was wild. She danced, she partied - she lived.” Clusters of girls and boys who knew Holly gathered in the hallways at St. Stephen’s, crying and whispering, laughing and remembering Holly. One friend, Keith O’Connor, remembered solemnly, though with a twinkle in his eye, how he and Holly once switched all the sugar for salt in the teachers’ tea room.
Caomhin Finnegan has opened his house for a wake, to be held on March 25. Caomhin, Aine, Keith, and others at St. Stephen’s ask Holly’s friends to bring merriment, laugher, and memories of Holly before she’s laid to rest at Killare Hill Cemetery on March 26 at 11:00 a.m.
(271 words)
Monday, February 22, 2010
Lady sings the last blues
College students, the hipsters working the coffee house scene, and the staff at the Dunham Center will say goodbye to Amy Reynolds, a staple of open mic night at the Haven. 17-year-old Amy hailed from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and came to New York to receive treatment for a long-term illness. According to staff and friends at the Dunham Center, she fought valiantly against her disease, and she was cheerful and optimistic that a cure was around the corner. She used to say, “Tomorrow we’ll find it. I’m willing to wait.”
Those who frequented the Haven knew Amy for her sultry voice, her folksy guitar skills, and her soulful lyrics; few were aware that she was battling illness. Her parents died in a car crash when Amy was four, and she was raised by foster parents until she went to the Dunham Center.
One of the nurses at the Dunham Center proudly recounted how well Amy did in school, always getting the best grades and helping other students who fell behind. “She was a comfort, a guiding light to the other patients at the Center,” the nurse said. Amy’s fellow patients recall how she took a particularly despondent patient, Sam, under her wing and encouraged him to work hard, be positive about treatment. In the last months of Amy’s life, Sam accompanied her to open mic night, expanding his musical skill alongside her.
A memorial service for Amy will be held in the chapel at the Dunham Center on June 25 at 11:00 a.m. The Haven will be hosting a vigil at 7:00 p.m. at the main stage. Musicians and aficionados of Amy’s music are encouraged to perform.
Sam said, “Amy was a lady. We’ll sing her last blues.”
Those who frequented the Haven knew Amy for her sultry voice, her folksy guitar skills, and her soulful lyrics; few were aware that she was battling illness. Her parents died in a car crash when Amy was four, and she was raised by foster parents until she went to the Dunham Center.
One of the nurses at the Dunham Center proudly recounted how well Amy did in school, always getting the best grades and helping other students who fell behind. “She was a comfort, a guiding light to the other patients at the Center,” the nurse said. Amy’s fellow patients recall how she took a particularly despondent patient, Sam, under her wing and encouraged him to work hard, be positive about treatment. In the last months of Amy’s life, Sam accompanied her to open mic night, expanding his musical skill alongside her.
A memorial service for Amy will be held in the chapel at the Dunham Center on June 25 at 11:00 a.m. The Haven will be hosting a vigil at 7:00 p.m. at the main stage. Musicians and aficionados of Amy’s music are encouraged to perform.
Sam said, “Amy was a lady. We’ll sing her last blues.”
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Project #61: The Departed
So we know our characters inside and out, from birth to death. Here's what I want to see this week: obituaries. Make them funny, make them generic, make them simple but full of implication. How does David's team want him to be remembered? How does Joe want Alec remembered? Would Keith even get an obituary after the fifth time he set himself on fire?
100-300 words. Dearly departed, we love you.
100-300 words. Dearly departed, we love you.
Overview #60: Relaxation
At first I thought this would be a Dagaz run, but then I realized that other universes exist on this website wherein characters remained undeveloped. I know the boys in Sector Five pretty much inside and out, so it was good times working with them, but I figured other people needed some love, so I resurrected the Wordsmith and the Choirboys from the urban fantasy I will probably never properly write. Still, it was interesting, to see who did what, to see what makes people relax. Another decent week of characterization.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Whatever
“What’s he doing?” Keith asked. “It looks...poncy and kinky at the same time.”
“It’s called Yoga,” Christian said absently. “A form of physical meditation. It’s been practiced in India for thousands of years. Yoga masters are called Yogi.”
DJ and Tobias watched with solemn eyes as Angel tied himself into knots on a blue workout mat.
“Like Yogi Bear?” Gabriel asked, after a long moment.
Christian set down the tray of tea and distributed the mugs with easy hands. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. It’s very relaxing.”
“I don’t think I’m that flexible,” Keith said, expression dubious.
“You’d be surprised,” Christian said. “You’re immortal now. Your body’s better than it’s ever been or ever would have been, had you remained Dormant.”
“I still don’t think you should try that,” Tobias said. “You might hurt yourself.”
Gabriel closed his eyes, considered. “I suppose it is relaxing. His mind is...humming. Blank. Pleasant, actually, compared to the rabble that’s the rest of you combined.”
“As long as he’s all right with it, I guess,” Keith said. He sipped his tea and continued to watch his commander worship the sun or whatever.
“Whatever,” DJ agreed.
(195 words)
“It’s called Yoga,” Christian said absently. “A form of physical meditation. It’s been practiced in India for thousands of years. Yoga masters are called Yogi.”
DJ and Tobias watched with solemn eyes as Angel tied himself into knots on a blue workout mat.
“Like Yogi Bear?” Gabriel asked, after a long moment.
Christian set down the tray of tea and distributed the mugs with easy hands. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. It’s very relaxing.”
“I don’t think I’m that flexible,” Keith said, expression dubious.
“You’d be surprised,” Christian said. “You’re immortal now. Your body’s better than it’s ever been or ever would have been, had you remained Dormant.”
“I still don’t think you should try that,” Tobias said. “You might hurt yourself.”
Gabriel closed his eyes, considered. “I suppose it is relaxing. His mind is...humming. Blank. Pleasant, actually, compared to the rabble that’s the rest of you combined.”
“As long as he’s all right with it, I guess,” Keith said. He sipped his tea and continued to watch his commander worship the sun or whatever.
“Whatever,” DJ agreed.
(195 words)
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Problem of Kyle
“Do you ever relax?” Gabriel asked.
Kyle sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, weaving rings with determined hands. “This is relaxing.”
“No, that’s working.” Gabriel settled beside him, folded Kyle in the warmth of one of his massive wings.
“It’s mindless repetitive hand motions, which I find relaxing.”
“You never find anything relaxing.” Gabriel nudged Kyle with his shoulder. “You never even really sleep. You just...doze in this terrible state of half-drowsy half-wakefulness. One would think you were a great war soldier in a fox hole expecting the call to go over the top at any moment.”
“Should you be talking so much?” Kyle asked. “There could be Listeners outside.”
“Listeners are human and can’t hear through walls.” Gabriel sighed. “Look - just get some sleep. It’ll do both of us good if you don’t pass out on me in the middle of our next battle, whenever that may be.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Sleep is not an option?”
“No. The Fallen could come at any time.”
Gabriel rose to his feet, gestured at the crumbling walls glittering with the Alphabet. “No they can’t - nothing can get past your wards and you know it.”
“I’m not taking that risk.”
Gabriel knelt down in front of Kyle and shook him once, forcefully. “Look at me!”
Kyle lifted his head, startled, blue eyes wide. Gabriel shoved him toward one of the pews. “Sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
“I can’t --”
“Relax enough to fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” Kyle tugged his knees up to his chest.
“How did you fall asleep when you were a child?” Gabriel asked.
“My mother read me stories.”
“Oh. Well.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “I know a few stories.”
Kyle stared at him. Gabriel gestured for Kyle to lay down, so he did, curled up on one of the hard, uncomfortable pews.
“Once, in the Silver City,” Gabriel began.
Kyle closed his eyes and let Gabriel’s voice wash over him. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself begin to relax, lost in the cadence of words and syllables.
Kyle sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, weaving rings with determined hands. “This is relaxing.”
“No, that’s working.” Gabriel settled beside him, folded Kyle in the warmth of one of his massive wings.
“It’s mindless repetitive hand motions, which I find relaxing.”
“You never find anything relaxing.” Gabriel nudged Kyle with his shoulder. “You never even really sleep. You just...doze in this terrible state of half-drowsy half-wakefulness. One would think you were a great war soldier in a fox hole expecting the call to go over the top at any moment.”
“Should you be talking so much?” Kyle asked. “There could be Listeners outside.”
“Listeners are human and can’t hear through walls.” Gabriel sighed. “Look - just get some sleep. It’ll do both of us good if you don’t pass out on me in the middle of our next battle, whenever that may be.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Sleep is not an option?”
“No. The Fallen could come at any time.”
Gabriel rose to his feet, gestured at the crumbling walls glittering with the Alphabet. “No they can’t - nothing can get past your wards and you know it.”
“I’m not taking that risk.”
Gabriel knelt down in front of Kyle and shook him once, forcefully. “Look at me!”
Kyle lifted his head, startled, blue eyes wide. Gabriel shoved him toward one of the pews. “Sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
“I can’t --”
“Relax enough to fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” Kyle tugged his knees up to his chest.
“How did you fall asleep when you were a child?” Gabriel asked.
“My mother read me stories.”
“Oh. Well.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “I know a few stories.”
Kyle stared at him. Gabriel gestured for Kyle to lay down, so he did, curled up on one of the hard, uncomfortable pews.
“Once, in the Silver City,” Gabriel began.
Kyle closed his eyes and let Gabriel’s voice wash over him. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself begin to relax, lost in the cadence of words and syllables.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Practical Relaxation
David stretched to limber up his slightly stiff muscles; pulling one arm and then the other, rotating, bending and shaking out his ling arms and legs.
David centered within himself. He drew a deep breath and flashed into motion; spinning, kicking and punching in ancient forms, flowing from one to the next with perfect precision. Dragon Claw to Eagle, Cobra Strike to Scorpion. Sweat began to trickle down his brow and soak the collar of his shirt. He let his eyes fall closed; concealing the dark blue irises and the lurking memories.
David increased the pace, darting from one form to the next with almost reckless abandon, pushing himself to the limit. With a final sweep of his leg and a yell David dew himself up to his full height. He inhaled slowly and released the breath just as slowly.
David lay down on the mats and let all the tension flow out of his body. After ten minutes he stood up; centered and focused again, the perfect soldier.
David centered within himself. He drew a deep breath and flashed into motion; spinning, kicking and punching in ancient forms, flowing from one to the next with perfect precision. Dragon Claw to Eagle, Cobra Strike to Scorpion. Sweat began to trickle down his brow and soak the collar of his shirt. He let his eyes fall closed; concealing the dark blue irises and the lurking memories.
David increased the pace, darting from one form to the next with almost reckless abandon, pushing himself to the limit. With a final sweep of his leg and a yell David dew himself up to his full height. He inhaled slowly and released the breath just as slowly.
David lay down on the mats and let all the tension flow out of his body. After ten minutes he stood up; centered and focused again, the perfect soldier.
Better than the Old Days
Elise was a proud iconoclast. Cody called her a “Courtney Love” stereotype, and they squabbled half-heartedly, but she knew he was wrong. In the years since the Government had unleashed The Fallen, seeing other choirboys was few and far between and a dangerous risk at that. Elise knew that if the other boys could see her now, their eyes would fall out of their heads.
It was fairly common knowledge that repetitive hand-wrist movements could be...relaxing. Or straining. Elise was a guitarist, and she’d had to actively work to avoid coming down with carpal tunnel syndrome. The best thing about tatting and crocheting was that, even though she did both right-handed, the primary hands switched off, so if she did one for a spell, and then another, both of her hands got equal work.
Tatting looked about ten times as ornate as crocheting, and Elise loved the little dainty gothic accessories she could create with her skill, but the fact was, tatting was the same two knots over and over and over again. A bit of math, a bit of planning, but all one knot. Almost mindless in its repetition. Once she fell into a rhythm, she could muse over the banality of her day, be grateful for another day she’d lived on. The rhythm was almost like playing music again, but too many people remembered the punk guitarist who could level cities with a single note.
At the end of a long day, she could curl up on her sofa with her laptop streaming some inane movie in the background and just...create.
It was better than the old days, when she’d just destroy.
(279 words)
It was fairly common knowledge that repetitive hand-wrist movements could be...relaxing. Or straining. Elise was a guitarist, and she’d had to actively work to avoid coming down with carpal tunnel syndrome. The best thing about tatting and crocheting was that, even though she did both right-handed, the primary hands switched off, so if she did one for a spell, and then another, both of her hands got equal work.
Tatting looked about ten times as ornate as crocheting, and Elise loved the little dainty gothic accessories she could create with her skill, but the fact was, tatting was the same two knots over and over and over again. A bit of math, a bit of planning, but all one knot. Almost mindless in its repetition. Once she fell into a rhythm, she could muse over the banality of her day, be grateful for another day she’d lived on. The rhythm was almost like playing music again, but too many people remembered the punk guitarist who could level cities with a single note.
At the end of a long day, she could curl up on her sofa with her laptop streaming some inane movie in the background and just...create.
It was better than the old days, when she’d just destroy.
(279 words)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Auto-Pilot
The air was still ringing from the door being slammed open as Ariana left her work in a rage. Nothing had seemed to go right that day. Paperwork missing, accounts misfiled, and a continuous stream of people pestering her.
Ariana glanced back at the building with wrathful eyes and felt her hands curl involuntarily into fists. She muttered darkly to herself as she got into her car and gunned the engine. Peeling out of the parking lot, she almost dared anyone to get in her way.
Ariana flipped rapidly through the radio stations but snapped it off in irritation after a moment. She rolled down the window, hoping that a cool breeze would calm her down, but only found her thought returning to work. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as she ground her teeth in frustration; she drove on auto-pilot, not really caring where she was going.
Her car made it eventually to a small wooded area that she knew well. Dense packed trees hid a small clearing a few hundred yards from the road. Ariana jumped out of her car and practically ran to the clearing, dodging in and out of trees and around shrubs. As she entered the clearing she could hear the trickling of a small stream that ran through the trees nearby.
The grass was knee high and bright green from the spring rains. It had not yet had time to whither in the summer heat, though the sun was beating down; obscured now and then by a passing cloud.
Ariana took off her shoes and stood for a moment in the cold water of the stream, but that didn't seem to be helping. She shook the water off her feet and walked back to the center of the clearing.
Ariana sat down the the grass and it came up to her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled as she consciously unclenched her hands. She let her eyes fall shut and listened to the sounds of the stream, the whisper of the wind. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the top of her head.
Ariana reclined in the grass, letting the heat of the sun burn away the unpleasant memories of the day. She knew that she couldn't be seen anymore; she felt safe and protected as she drifted off to sleep.
Ariana glanced back at the building with wrathful eyes and felt her hands curl involuntarily into fists. She muttered darkly to herself as she got into her car and gunned the engine. Peeling out of the parking lot, she almost dared anyone to get in her way.
Ariana flipped rapidly through the radio stations but snapped it off in irritation after a moment. She rolled down the window, hoping that a cool breeze would calm her down, but only found her thought returning to work. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as she ground her teeth in frustration; she drove on auto-pilot, not really caring where she was going.
Her car made it eventually to a small wooded area that she knew well. Dense packed trees hid a small clearing a few hundred yards from the road. Ariana jumped out of her car and practically ran to the clearing, dodging in and out of trees and around shrubs. As she entered the clearing she could hear the trickling of a small stream that ran through the trees nearby.
The grass was knee high and bright green from the spring rains. It had not yet had time to whither in the summer heat, though the sun was beating down; obscured now and then by a passing cloud.
Ariana took off her shoes and stood for a moment in the cold water of the stream, but that didn't seem to be helping. She shook the water off her feet and walked back to the center of the clearing.
Ariana sat down the the grass and it came up to her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled as she consciously unclenched her hands. She let her eyes fall shut and listened to the sounds of the stream, the whisper of the wind. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the top of her head.
Ariana reclined in the grass, letting the heat of the sun burn away the unpleasant memories of the day. She knew that she couldn't be seen anymore; she felt safe and protected as she drifted off to sleep.
In the Meantime
The quickness of human hands was a marvel of a thing. After the initial blast, when Kyle had let Gabriel loose in a crowded church, Marsh had survived the best way he knew how - hustling. Three card monty, shell games, poker tables, pool - he’d done it all. Almost got his hands broken for his trouble, and then Tabris came up with a solution.
Go straight.
Odds were, Tabris said, no one would think to look for Marsh in a real job.
Tabris always knew the best odds, and it had always been in Marsh’s favor to go with them. At first the notion of physical labor repulsed him, but eventually Marsh realized that there was something...soothing. In painting. The repetitive motion - long, smooth strokes of the brush - gave him time to think.
Plot. Hate.
It was a sheer stroke of luck - and Marsh didn’t use the word lightly - that Marsh had stumbled across the art section of a paint shop one day. He’d been hoarding his money for important things like weapons and food, most of it carried in covert wads of cash, but - but there hadn’t been word from any of the other choirboys in a while, and maybe - maybe it was safe to settle down.
So on his day off, Marsh purchased a supply of watercolors, brushes, and set up at a local park to learn to paint trees. The first few came out looking more like green lollipops, but between some self-help books at the library, Tabris’s blunt, honest critiques, and time, Marsh became a fairly competent artist.
Sitting in the sun, paying attention to nothing but color and shape and line - it was almost heaven.
Marsh had glimpsed heaven, and he wasn’t ready for it yet.
In the meantime, he had a landscape to paint.
(301 words)
Go straight.
Odds were, Tabris said, no one would think to look for Marsh in a real job.
Tabris always knew the best odds, and it had always been in Marsh’s favor to go with them. At first the notion of physical labor repulsed him, but eventually Marsh realized that there was something...soothing. In painting. The repetitive motion - long, smooth strokes of the brush - gave him time to think.
Plot. Hate.
It was a sheer stroke of luck - and Marsh didn’t use the word lightly - that Marsh had stumbled across the art section of a paint shop one day. He’d been hoarding his money for important things like weapons and food, most of it carried in covert wads of cash, but - but there hadn’t been word from any of the other choirboys in a while, and maybe - maybe it was safe to settle down.
So on his day off, Marsh purchased a supply of watercolors, brushes, and set up at a local park to learn to paint trees. The first few came out looking more like green lollipops, but between some self-help books at the library, Tabris’s blunt, honest critiques, and time, Marsh became a fairly competent artist.
Sitting in the sun, paying attention to nothing but color and shape and line - it was almost heaven.
Marsh had glimpsed heaven, and he wasn’t ready for it yet.
In the meantime, he had a landscape to paint.
(301 words)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Flames and Adventures
Harsh driving winds slung the snow into the windows creating a hiss as a counterpoint to the pop and crackle of the fire. Bare, snow laden tree branches scraped across the window pane; creaking and tapping out and odd rhythm.
Mark released the curtains, letting them fall back into place to cover the dark and chill night. He could feel the cold from the storm seeping through the glass of the window if he held his hand close enough. He heard the clock strike eleven and turned from the darkness.
Mark stepped back whisper quiet on stockinged feet and moved closer to the fire. There was a nest of blankets and pillows set up a few feet back from the dancing flames. Mark settled his long and agile frame into the swirling mass of fabric and pulled a blanket around his shoulders just before reaching for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He inhaled the rich aroma of the carefully concocted brew and took a careful sip; allowing the warmth to creep across his tongue and trickle down his throat, warming him all the way down.
He sighed in contentment and reclined into the thick pile of pillows, his mug in one hand and a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in the other.
Mark released the curtains, letting them fall back into place to cover the dark and chill night. He could feel the cold from the storm seeping through the glass of the window if he held his hand close enough. He heard the clock strike eleven and turned from the darkness.
Mark stepped back whisper quiet on stockinged feet and moved closer to the fire. There was a nest of blankets and pillows set up a few feet back from the dancing flames. Mark settled his long and agile frame into the swirling mass of fabric and pulled a blanket around his shoulders just before reaching for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He inhaled the rich aroma of the carefully concocted brew and took a careful sip; allowing the warmth to creep across his tongue and trickle down his throat, warming him all the way down.
He sighed in contentment and reclined into the thick pile of pillows, his mug in one hand and a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in the other.
Puppy Therapy
The problem with being one of the Seraph-voiced was that people knew who they were. The infamy, after what had happened in Omaha in the middle of the instatement of the new archbishop, was impossible to escape. People expected Cody the Singer of the Angel of Death to wander morgues or church yards discussing tombstones and recently dead with his companion. Someone had jumped a poor ME a few weeks back because the fellow worked the graveyard shift and had a tendency to talk to himself, and his coworkers had suspected him of being Asrael’s singer.
Cody was a big fan of killing two birds with one stone - though less literally than Asrael - and so he solved the problem of staying incognito and finding something to do between facility raids with something Elise had once referenced: puppy therapy.
He volunteered four days a week at the animal shelter under cover of being a vet tech student - and he was certainly well-read enough to play the part - and had started the shelter’s outreach program. Two days a week he traveled the city to various retirement homes with a collection of stray puppies for the express purposes of cheering up the residents. It was perfect - he got to spend all day being nice to old people and cuddling puppies, and Asrael got to wander the halls and speak to the dying and the dead.
One day, Cody spotted a Listener - one who’d chased him from his school back he was still a teenager - in a nursing home. She wasn’t there on business, though - she was visiting her grandmother. She actually smiled at him when he walked by with a puppy in his arms and told him he was a nice young man and a dutiful citizen, tending to the elderly in his free time. Cody smiled back and ignored the way Asrael loomed over her, ready to strike her down with a flaming sword. Under cover of hoisting the puppy up higher, he gestured for Asrael to cut it out, and they headed out to the van the shelter lent to him on visit days.
“Humans are unnaturally fond of baby animals,” Asrael commented while Cody put the fussy puppy into a crate on the floor of the van.
“It’s the only way other species would survive - otherwise we’d kill them all.” Cody closed the van door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Asrael slid into the passenger seat. Cody sighed. “Don’t you have a war to go hover over or something?”
“No,” Asrael said. “Drive.”
Cody did.
(428 words)
Cody was a big fan of killing two birds with one stone - though less literally than Asrael - and so he solved the problem of staying incognito and finding something to do between facility raids with something Elise had once referenced: puppy therapy.
He volunteered four days a week at the animal shelter under cover of being a vet tech student - and he was certainly well-read enough to play the part - and had started the shelter’s outreach program. Two days a week he traveled the city to various retirement homes with a collection of stray puppies for the express purposes of cheering up the residents. It was perfect - he got to spend all day being nice to old people and cuddling puppies, and Asrael got to wander the halls and speak to the dying and the dead.
One day, Cody spotted a Listener - one who’d chased him from his school back he was still a teenager - in a nursing home. She wasn’t there on business, though - she was visiting her grandmother. She actually smiled at him when he walked by with a puppy in his arms and told him he was a nice young man and a dutiful citizen, tending to the elderly in his free time. Cody smiled back and ignored the way Asrael loomed over her, ready to strike her down with a flaming sword. Under cover of hoisting the puppy up higher, he gestured for Asrael to cut it out, and they headed out to the van the shelter lent to him on visit days.
“Humans are unnaturally fond of baby animals,” Asrael commented while Cody put the fussy puppy into a crate on the floor of the van.
“It’s the only way other species would survive - otherwise we’d kill them all.” Cody closed the van door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Asrael slid into the passenger seat. Cody sighed. “Don’t you have a war to go hover over or something?”
“No,” Asrael said. “Drive.”
Cody did.
(428 words)
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Permanence of Stories
“Whatcha doin’, kid?” Austin leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.
The Wordsmith was curled up on one of the uncomfortable office chairs, hands cupped around some small black device. He looked up and blinked at her blearily, and for one moment his eyes were ink-black, and he looked dazed, as if he’d just absorbed some long, dry tome - like the federal tax code.
Kory was a lazy prat, that he’d had The Wordsmith absorb that.
“I’m watching cartoons,” The Wordsmith said. He held up the device - an iPhone. “Old-fashioned cell animation. Do you know how they did it? They would make the drawings first, and then transfer the drawings onto cellulose, hence ‘cel’ animation --”
He sounded like he was reciting from a book. Austin could see ink swirling across his collarbones - he was shirtless, poor creature, and the heater in the bunker was broken. For one moment, Austin considered triggering him, asking for a touch of poetry - in the wake of Valentine’s Day, after all - but she didn’t want to get on Garrow’s bad side.
Austin smirked. “Did Garrow give you that toy?”
“He said it was a birthday present,” The Wordsmith said.
“Wasn’t your birthday two days ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been watching cartoons on that thing since then?”
“I’ve slept a little, ate a little. Called up some maps for Garrow. Why?”
Austin knew how little The Wordsmith ate and slept; he must have been glued to that thing for hours. “Didn’t your mother tell you that too much TV will rot your brain?”
“I don’t have a mother - and if I did, she never told me anything,” The Wordsmith said easily. Anyone else would have shown a moment of remorse, of loss at not having a mother, but The Wordsmith was weird and unemotional like that.
“Too much TV is bad for you,” Austin said.
The Wordsmith smoothed a hand over his forearm where a line from a novel flickered. “Maybe. Too many books can be bad for you too. Besides, with cartoons - I can enjoy the story and forget it when it’s done. It’s not - stuck in me. Forever.”
“I never thought of that,” Austin said, after a long moment.
The Wordsmith shrugged. “I can remember everything I’ve ever read, but not everything I’ve ever seen.”
Austin hummed thoughtfully. “What cartoons did Garrow give you?”
“Disney,” The Wordsmith said. “They’re curious permutations of traditional tales --”
Austin cut him off. “Have you ever seen anything by Hayao Miyazaki?”
(416 words)
The Wordsmith was curled up on one of the uncomfortable office chairs, hands cupped around some small black device. He looked up and blinked at her blearily, and for one moment his eyes were ink-black, and he looked dazed, as if he’d just absorbed some long, dry tome - like the federal tax code.
Kory was a lazy prat, that he’d had The Wordsmith absorb that.
“I’m watching cartoons,” The Wordsmith said. He held up the device - an iPhone. “Old-fashioned cell animation. Do you know how they did it? They would make the drawings first, and then transfer the drawings onto cellulose, hence ‘cel’ animation --”
He sounded like he was reciting from a book. Austin could see ink swirling across his collarbones - he was shirtless, poor creature, and the heater in the bunker was broken. For one moment, Austin considered triggering him, asking for a touch of poetry - in the wake of Valentine’s Day, after all - but she didn’t want to get on Garrow’s bad side.
Austin smirked. “Did Garrow give you that toy?”
“He said it was a birthday present,” The Wordsmith said.
“Wasn’t your birthday two days ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been watching cartoons on that thing since then?”
“I’ve slept a little, ate a little. Called up some maps for Garrow. Why?”
Austin knew how little The Wordsmith ate and slept; he must have been glued to that thing for hours. “Didn’t your mother tell you that too much TV will rot your brain?”
“I don’t have a mother - and if I did, she never told me anything,” The Wordsmith said easily. Anyone else would have shown a moment of remorse, of loss at not having a mother, but The Wordsmith was weird and unemotional like that.
“Too much TV is bad for you,” Austin said.
The Wordsmith smoothed a hand over his forearm where a line from a novel flickered. “Maybe. Too many books can be bad for you too. Besides, with cartoons - I can enjoy the story and forget it when it’s done. It’s not - stuck in me. Forever.”
“I never thought of that,” Austin said, after a long moment.
The Wordsmith shrugged. “I can remember everything I’ve ever read, but not everything I’ve ever seen.”
Austin hummed thoughtfully. “What cartoons did Garrow give you?”
“Disney,” The Wordsmith said. “They’re curious permutations of traditional tales --”
Austin cut him off. “Have you ever seen anything by Hayao Miyazaki?”
(416 words)
Warbreaker
"Whatcha doing Steve?" Bryan asked as he leaned over his teammates shoulder.
Steve's shoulders tensed slightly at the interruption, "I'm trying to relax," he said as he placed one finger between the pages of the rather thick book in his hands.
"Oh. What are you reading?" Bryan asked as he leaned forward to get a look at the title of the book.
"Warbreaker," Steve said in a clipped tone of voice. He flipped the book back open again to where he had left off.
"What's it about?"
Steve sighed in resignation and closed the book again. "It's about a man named Vash, a bunch of 'Gods', a sentient sword and a God king."
Bryan quirked an eyebrow. "So it's fantasy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You enjoy that type of stuff?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be reading it."
Bryan shrugged and walked away.
Steve shook his head and opened the book again; quickly loosing himself in the story.
Steve's shoulders tensed slightly at the interruption, "I'm trying to relax," he said as he placed one finger between the pages of the rather thick book in his hands.
"Oh. What are you reading?" Bryan asked as he leaned forward to get a look at the title of the book.
"Warbreaker," Steve said in a clipped tone of voice. He flipped the book back open again to where he had left off.
"What's it about?"
Steve sighed in resignation and closed the book again. "It's about a man named Vash, a bunch of 'Gods', a sentient sword and a God king."
Bryan quirked an eyebrow. "So it's fantasy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You enjoy that type of stuff?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be reading it."
Bryan shrugged and walked away.
Steve shook his head and opened the book again; quickly loosing himself in the story.
Project Assignment # 60 - Relaxation
I just realized that it was my turn to issue challenge!
Okay. This week we are going to explore how our characters relax. Do they read a book, soak in a hot tub, or lay out in the sun? Do they go swimming, or do they sleep?
Max word is 500
Okay. This week we are going to explore how our characters relax. Do they read a book, soak in a hot tub, or lay out in the sun? Do they go swimming, or do they sleep?
Max word is 500
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Overview #59: In Sickness and in Health
So this week was another chance for character studies. At first I got too caught up in the sickness portion, and I realized that wouldn't be nearly as fun, as most of the boys in the Dagaz are just that - boys. And they tend to have variations on a theme when it comes to illness, so I tried some different angles - health, recovery, and also lives that don't get explored nearly enough. (Dael, Gabriel, and Keith's first life that I cannot remember don't get nearly as much attention as they should, which is my own fault.) Still, character development and experimentation progresses, and that's what counts.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Onset
Sam tossed and turned. It hurt so, so badly. His head was on fire - he could feel it, burning behind his forehead, his eyelids and eyesockets, even above his teeth, his entire skull and under his hair.
He moaned and tried to claw the heat away, but someone smoothed his hands down, hushed him gently.
Mother.
“It’s all right, dear,” she whispered. “We’ll get you some medicine soon, okay?”
The pain abated a little when she placed a damp cloth on his forehead, but he hated the way it dripped, the wan the droplets ran down his overheated skin, heating as they went, making the itching worse.
“What the hell are you doing, wench?” his father demanded from the other room. “You’re supposed to be out hear fixin’ my supper --”
“Sammy’s sick,” his mother said.
“Let the brat die. I’ve been workin’ all day so you can eat bon-bons and sit around in his fine house. Man needs sustenance. Get that stove on!”
“He has a bad fever. I just need to run to the corner store to get some aspirin --”
“I said get into the kitchen.”
The thundering footsteps made Sam’s head hurt worse, and he whimpered.
He could hear his father’s anger, the rage and the jealousy and exhaustion. He could hear his mother’s terror, her love for her son and her desperation to just run away. He could hear the neighbors next door, their tiredness and frustration at another job loss.
He could hear them all, and they made his head hurt.
He rolled onto his side and threw up.
Through the haze of his burning throat and his burning head, he could hear his mother scream.
(281 words)
He moaned and tried to claw the heat away, but someone smoothed his hands down, hushed him gently.
Mother.
“It’s all right, dear,” she whispered. “We’ll get you some medicine soon, okay?”
The pain abated a little when she placed a damp cloth on his forehead, but he hated the way it dripped, the wan the droplets ran down his overheated skin, heating as they went, making the itching worse.
“What the hell are you doing, wench?” his father demanded from the other room. “You’re supposed to be out hear fixin’ my supper --”
“Sammy’s sick,” his mother said.
“Let the brat die. I’ve been workin’ all day so you can eat bon-bons and sit around in his fine house. Man needs sustenance. Get that stove on!”
“He has a bad fever. I just need to run to the corner store to get some aspirin --”
“I said get into the kitchen.”
The thundering footsteps made Sam’s head hurt worse, and he whimpered.
He could hear his father’s anger, the rage and the jealousy and exhaustion. He could hear his mother’s terror, her love for her son and her desperation to just run away. He could hear the neighbors next door, their tiredness and frustration at another job loss.
He could hear them all, and they made his head hurt.
He rolled onto his side and threw up.
Through the haze of his burning throat and his burning head, he could hear his mother scream.
(281 words)
Friday, February 12, 2010
Well
“Well?” the physician asked.
Christian tested his wrist gingerly. There was no pain when he rotated it. His face lit up. Then he remembered his father was in the room and he schooled his expression into one of noble longsuffering. “Thank you for your services, good doctor.”
“Of course, Sir Christian.” The physician bowed and then backed out of the room.
“Do you feel well enough to fight?” Sir Geoffrey asked.
Christian reached for his sword, but the weight made his wrist twinge. He reached for one of his wooden practice swords instead. He glanced up, but he knew he’d see the disappointment in his father’s face before he really looked. “Not in this tournament, My Lord.”
Sir Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” Then he spun on his heel and swept out of the room, his cape swirling dramatically.
Christian sighed and sank against his bed post. He would never match up to his brother’s memory. For one moment he wanted to hate Ranolfe for being so difficult, for being so perfect all his life, but then he remembered that it was rude to speak - or think - ill of the dead. Besides, he’d more or less healed from the injury. He was supposed to be grateful.
After contemplating the flagstones some more, Christian picked up the wooden sword, his old practice shield, and headed for the tilting yard. He had to be ready for the next tournament, then.
(241 words)
Christian tested his wrist gingerly. There was no pain when he rotated it. His face lit up. Then he remembered his father was in the room and he schooled his expression into one of noble longsuffering. “Thank you for your services, good doctor.”
“Of course, Sir Christian.” The physician bowed and then backed out of the room.
“Do you feel well enough to fight?” Sir Geoffrey asked.
Christian reached for his sword, but the weight made his wrist twinge. He reached for one of his wooden practice swords instead. He glanced up, but he knew he’d see the disappointment in his father’s face before he really looked. “Not in this tournament, My Lord.”
Sir Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” Then he spun on his heel and swept out of the room, his cape swirling dramatically.
Christian sighed and sank against his bed post. He would never match up to his brother’s memory. For one moment he wanted to hate Ranolfe for being so difficult, for being so perfect all his life, but then he remembered that it was rude to speak - or think - ill of the dead. Besides, he’d more or less healed from the injury. He was supposed to be grateful.
After contemplating the flagstones some more, Christian picked up the wooden sword, his old practice shield, and headed for the tilting yard. He had to be ready for the next tournament, then.
(241 words)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Deception
“Do you even eat enough?” Joe asked.
Chase paused mid-pump and considered his coworker. “What makes you say that?” He continued for five more reps, then set the weight back on the stand. He rolled off the bench and let Jade take his place, acting as spotter.
Joe looked Chase up and down. “Just - you’re so skinny.”
“It’s all muscle,” Jade said, jumping to his friend’s defense. “Jace’s really strong. Right?”
“Right,” Chase said. He rolled his eyes patiently at Joe. “I eat more than enough. I just have a very fast metabolism is all.”
“I’m pretty sure that if you turned sideways you’d vanish,” Joe said.
Chase shrugged. “Yes, well, it means I can get out of tight spots, doesn’t it?”
Joe snorted. “We sing and dance every night. What kind of tight spots do you get into?”
Chase didn’t tell Joe that every night after the singing and dancing was done, he had to keep up with a parkour runner of a thief to make sure he made his mark, and that escaping snarling doberman was a tight spot indeed.
Joe was probably right, though. Considering how much Chase burned every day, he probably didn’t eat enough.
The illusion of weakness in his slender form just added to the deception.
(213 words)
Chase paused mid-pump and considered his coworker. “What makes you say that?” He continued for five more reps, then set the weight back on the stand. He rolled off the bench and let Jade take his place, acting as spotter.
Joe looked Chase up and down. “Just - you’re so skinny.”
“It’s all muscle,” Jade said, jumping to his friend’s defense. “Jace’s really strong. Right?”
“Right,” Chase said. He rolled his eyes patiently at Joe. “I eat more than enough. I just have a very fast metabolism is all.”
“I’m pretty sure that if you turned sideways you’d vanish,” Joe said.
Chase shrugged. “Yes, well, it means I can get out of tight spots, doesn’t it?”
Joe snorted. “We sing and dance every night. What kind of tight spots do you get into?”
Chase didn’t tell Joe that every night after the singing and dancing was done, he had to keep up with a parkour runner of a thief to make sure he made his mark, and that escaping snarling doberman was a tight spot indeed.
Joe was probably right, though. Considering how much Chase burned every day, he probably didn’t eat enough.
The illusion of weakness in his slender form just added to the deception.
(213 words)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sick Day
“Would you stop rattlin’ the table, kid?” Uncle Zach growled.
Tobias cursed under his breath and hunkered down under the mass of threadbare blankets he’d gathered. “’M cold,” he said.
“Well we don’t got no money for heat, so hold still already. ‘M tryin’ t’sleep.” Uncle Zach was still slurring, still drunk.
Tobias resisted the urge to tell the man that his alcoholism was the reason they had no money for heat. He closed his eyes, but the throbbing behind his eyes wasn’t going away. Based on what little knowledge he’d picked up from biology class, headache plus fever plus runny nose meant he had a cold. Thanks to Uncle Zach’s dipsomaniac tendencies, they had no money for medicine, not that Tobias thought he needed a prescription. Just some cough medicine would help.
Sometime around three a.m., Uncle Zach yelled at him for coughing so loudly. Tobias coughed into his pillow for the rest of the night.
His head was swimming and when he woke up the next morning, his world was filled with a heavy fog and his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of his body combined. He managed to dress and fix some sort of breakfast and then his legs carried him to school. During first period he could feel the other students glaring at him as he sniffled, so he just ducked his head down and tried to take notes.
The last thing he remembered was puzzling over a quadratic equation.
Then he woke up in the nurse’s office. Veronica was sitting next to his cot reading a history book. She looked up and smiled at him.
He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore, even though his throat ached, and something about her smile made him feel even better.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. “I think the nurse is trying to call your parents.”
“Don’t have parents,” Tobias croaked.
Veronica frowned. “Oh. Well.” She closed her book and leaned in, pressed her hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sleep more okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and slid into dreams again.
When he woke a second time, he felt much better, but Veronica was gone.
(366 words)
Tobias cursed under his breath and hunkered down under the mass of threadbare blankets he’d gathered. “’M cold,” he said.
“Well we don’t got no money for heat, so hold still already. ‘M tryin’ t’sleep.” Uncle Zach was still slurring, still drunk.
Tobias resisted the urge to tell the man that his alcoholism was the reason they had no money for heat. He closed his eyes, but the throbbing behind his eyes wasn’t going away. Based on what little knowledge he’d picked up from biology class, headache plus fever plus runny nose meant he had a cold. Thanks to Uncle Zach’s dipsomaniac tendencies, they had no money for medicine, not that Tobias thought he needed a prescription. Just some cough medicine would help.
Sometime around three a.m., Uncle Zach yelled at him for coughing so loudly. Tobias coughed into his pillow for the rest of the night.
His head was swimming and when he woke up the next morning, his world was filled with a heavy fog and his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of his body combined. He managed to dress and fix some sort of breakfast and then his legs carried him to school. During first period he could feel the other students glaring at him as he sniffled, so he just ducked his head down and tried to take notes.
The last thing he remembered was puzzling over a quadratic equation.
Then he woke up in the nurse’s office. Veronica was sitting next to his cot reading a history book. She looked up and smiled at him.
He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore, even though his throat ached, and something about her smile made him feel even better.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. “I think the nurse is trying to call your parents.”
“Don’t have parents,” Tobias croaked.
Veronica frowned. “Oh. Well.” She closed her book and leaned in, pressed her hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sleep more okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and slid into dreams again.
When he woke a second time, he felt much better, but Veronica was gone.
(366 words)
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Stubborn Pride
“I wouldn’t--!” Angel began, but it was too late.
DJ heaved himself off the cot, bit back a curse when pain lanced through his shoulder. “You set it?”
“You dislocated it,” Angel said. “You also have three cracked ribs, a black eye, and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. Why the hell are you moving?”
DJ growled, scooted toward the edge of the cot so he could toe on his shoes. “I’m not staying here.” He had to wriggle and squirm several times, trying to bend at the waist so he could reach his shirt to pull it on.
“You’re not going home in the condition either,” Angel said. “If you have a concussion, someone has to watch over you--”
DJ glared with his one good eye. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
“That’s what they all say,” someone else said, and DJ lifted his head.
Celia swept into the room. She had a tray of hot tea and a dish of something pungent-smelling. “Get back on that bed,” she said firmly.
DJ stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Did Angel not tell you?”
DJ slewed a glance at Angel, then turned back to her. “Tell me what?”
“We’re cousins,” Celia said easily. “Now get back on that bed and take your shirt off.”
“What for?” DJ made no move to obey.
“So I can rub some of this ointment on your shoulder - it’ll help with the pain.” Celia set down the tray and poured some tea in a mug. She handed one to Angel, then one to DJ. “It’s medicinal. It’ll help, too.”
It tasted foul.
Celia dipped two fingers into the dish of ointment and gestured. “Take off your shirt already.”
DJ tugged on the hem of his shirt in what he new was a maidenly gesture. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
Celia sighed. “Fine. Do it yourself.” She held out the dish.
“You’ll regret it,” Angel said.
DJ did, but he refused to admit it.
(335 words)
DJ heaved himself off the cot, bit back a curse when pain lanced through his shoulder. “You set it?”
“You dislocated it,” Angel said. “You also have three cracked ribs, a black eye, and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. Why the hell are you moving?”
DJ growled, scooted toward the edge of the cot so he could toe on his shoes. “I’m not staying here.” He had to wriggle and squirm several times, trying to bend at the waist so he could reach his shirt to pull it on.
“You’re not going home in the condition either,” Angel said. “If you have a concussion, someone has to watch over you--”
DJ glared with his one good eye. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
“That’s what they all say,” someone else said, and DJ lifted his head.
Celia swept into the room. She had a tray of hot tea and a dish of something pungent-smelling. “Get back on that bed,” she said firmly.
DJ stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Did Angel not tell you?”
DJ slewed a glance at Angel, then turned back to her. “Tell me what?”
“We’re cousins,” Celia said easily. “Now get back on that bed and take your shirt off.”
“What for?” DJ made no move to obey.
“So I can rub some of this ointment on your shoulder - it’ll help with the pain.” Celia set down the tray and poured some tea in a mug. She handed one to Angel, then one to DJ. “It’s medicinal. It’ll help, too.”
It tasted foul.
Celia dipped two fingers into the dish of ointment and gestured. “Take off your shirt already.”
DJ tugged on the hem of his shirt in what he new was a maidenly gesture. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
Celia sighed. “Fine. Do it yourself.” She held out the dish.
“You’ll regret it,” Angel said.
DJ did, but he refused to admit it.
(335 words)
Glassy Eyes
Steve stumbled as he took the last turn in the obstacle course and fell to the ground in a heap. Seconds later he was on his feet again racing towards the finish; breathing labored and ragged.
"Time. Two minutes forty-three seconds," David's voice called out.
Steve bent over his knees, huffing and struggling not to throw up. David approached from where he had been observing the course.
"You feel alright Blackwood?" he asked a trifle gruffly; there were other teams around.
Steve looked up at his commander from glassy feverish eyes and forced himself to stand up straight; his vision blurring and threatening to go black.
"Fine sir."
David took a step closer so that none could overhear them. "How long have you been sick Steve?"
Steve glanced around quickly, "a few days sir. This is the worst that its been."
David brought his hand up with a towel in it. To anyone looking on it would look like he was wiping some sweat from his soldiers brow, but David ran his wrist over his friends forehead.
"You're burning up Steve," David said quietly, and with a little disapproval.
"It's not that bad Boss," Steve said.
David leveled a look at his subordinate officer.
"Steve, I want you to go back to base and wait for me to get there. I will write you a week pass so that you can get well," David said as he pushed Steve's shoulder, steering him back toward the bunker.
It was a testament to how poor he felt that Steve didn't even argue; just turned and walked wearily back to base.
"Time. Two minutes forty-three seconds," David's voice called out.
Steve bent over his knees, huffing and struggling not to throw up. David approached from where he had been observing the course.
"You feel alright Blackwood?" he asked a trifle gruffly; there were other teams around.
Steve looked up at his commander from glassy feverish eyes and forced himself to stand up straight; his vision blurring and threatening to go black.
"Fine sir."
David took a step closer so that none could overhear them. "How long have you been sick Steve?"
Steve glanced around quickly, "a few days sir. This is the worst that its been."
David brought his hand up with a towel in it. To anyone looking on it would look like he was wiping some sweat from his soldiers brow, but David ran his wrist over his friends forehead.
"You're burning up Steve," David said quietly, and with a little disapproval.
"It's not that bad Boss," Steve said.
David leveled a look at his subordinate officer.
"Steve, I want you to go back to base and wait for me to get there. I will write you a week pass so that you can get well," David said as he pushed Steve's shoulder, steering him back toward the bunker.
It was a testament to how poor he felt that Steve didn't even argue; just turned and walked wearily back to base.
Monday, February 8, 2010
What It Felt Like
“Quit moving,” Holly said.
Keith hissed, impatient, and resisted the urge to bat her hand aside when she mopped his brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m not a bloody child.”
Holly cast a pointed glance over his stuffed tiger hot water bottle, his nest of fuzzy blankets, and the mountain of pillows making him comfortable. He’d pleaded for them bit by bit over the past few hours, blue eyes big and guileless, voice small and suspiciously child-like. Now he was decked out like an Arabic Sheikh and had Holly waiting on him hand and foot.
Duffy, Shannon, and Ste were out at the newsagents securing an army’s worth of tinned chicken noodle soup.
“You could’ve fooled me,” Holly said.
Keith felt his nose begin to run. He sniffled. Holly cast him another pointed look. He sniffled again, mutinously, but when it did no good he used the back of his wrist. Holly sighed and handed him a box of kleenex.
“You really were raised in a barn, weren’t you?” she said.
Keith blew his nose, loudly, and glared at her. She ignored his glare and reached out, brushed his hair aside gently to feel his forehead, check his temperature.
“It’s gone down a bit,” she said. “You ought to kick this fever in the next four to six hours.”
“I want to be better.” Keith knew he sounded whiny, but he knew as soon as the others were done dropping off the soup they’d be out on the streets, planning the next big strike. He was supposed to be with them. He was a warrior for the Glorious Cause.
Who couldn’t fight off a common cold.
“I know you do.” Holly kissed him on the cheek. Then she pulled back, tilted her head to listen. “The others are back. I’ll fix up a bowl of soup.”
When she left, Keith sank back on his bed of pillows and sighed. He wondered if this was what it felt like, when a mother watched over her sick child. He was so used to his father just thrusting a box of tissues and a packet of lozenges at him and telling him to get over it.
The lads came in to tell jokes and clown about while Holly cooked. When she returned, they left, and it was just the two of them. Keith fell asleep to Holly reading him Yeats.
(399 words)
Keith hissed, impatient, and resisted the urge to bat her hand aside when she mopped his brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m not a bloody child.”
Holly cast a pointed glance over his stuffed tiger hot water bottle, his nest of fuzzy blankets, and the mountain of pillows making him comfortable. He’d pleaded for them bit by bit over the past few hours, blue eyes big and guileless, voice small and suspiciously child-like. Now he was decked out like an Arabic Sheikh and had Holly waiting on him hand and foot.
Duffy, Shannon, and Ste were out at the newsagents securing an army’s worth of tinned chicken noodle soup.
“You could’ve fooled me,” Holly said.
Keith felt his nose begin to run. He sniffled. Holly cast him another pointed look. He sniffled again, mutinously, but when it did no good he used the back of his wrist. Holly sighed and handed him a box of kleenex.
“You really were raised in a barn, weren’t you?” she said.
Keith blew his nose, loudly, and glared at her. She ignored his glare and reached out, brushed his hair aside gently to feel his forehead, check his temperature.
“It’s gone down a bit,” she said. “You ought to kick this fever in the next four to six hours.”
“I want to be better.” Keith knew he sounded whiny, but he knew as soon as the others were done dropping off the soup they’d be out on the streets, planning the next big strike. He was supposed to be with them. He was a warrior for the Glorious Cause.
Who couldn’t fight off a common cold.
“I know you do.” Holly kissed him on the cheek. Then she pulled back, tilted her head to listen. “The others are back. I’ll fix up a bowl of soup.”
When she left, Keith sank back on his bed of pillows and sighed. He wondered if this was what it felt like, when a mother watched over her sick child. He was so used to his father just thrusting a box of tissues and a packet of lozenges at him and telling him to get over it.
The lads came in to tell jokes and clown about while Holly cooked. When she returned, they left, and it was just the two of them. Keith fell asleep to Holly reading him Yeats.
(399 words)
Beast
Joe curled tighter into a ball as the nausea reached its peak; groaned at the thought of anything making an appearance, but knowing at the same time that there was nothing in his stomach to come back up. A metal bowl rested on the floor next to his bed, just in case. He had sacrificed the convenience of the bathroom floor for the comfort of his own bed. And he hadn't been able to eat for three days.
Joe poked his head out of the covers when he heard the door to his room open and felt a fresh breath of clean air stir the close stuffy confines of the room and suddenly recoiled in agony as the light snapped on, illuminating it from shadowy to stark brightness. Joe hissed in displeasure and drew the covers over his head again.
"Joe?" Jen's voice drifted to him under the layers of covers where he lay shivering, "Joe. Come out."
"You can't make me," Joe called out in a muffled voice as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.
"You can either come out or I can come in after you," Jen threatened.
Joe cracked the covers just slightly, "what do you want?" he asked petulantly. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care at the moment.
"To make you feel better," Jen said brightly. She waved a plastic sleeve full of saltine crackers in front of him. "I also have chicken noodle soup."
"I don't think I can eat anything," Joe muttered.
"Well, it's either that or I can give you a shot," Jen threatened again, this time brandishing a needle.
Joe hissed again in displeasure. "All right," he wheezed as he reached for the crackers, "but I don't think this is a good idea."
"Just do it," Jen said, "I'll go run you a warm bath while you work your way through those."
As Jen stood to leave the room Joe laid a hand on her wrist, "thank you Jen. I know I'm a beast when I'm sick."
Jen sat back down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. She cracked a smile, "I've dealt with worse," she said and winked at him, standing again to go start the water running.
Joe poked his head out of the covers when he heard the door to his room open and felt a fresh breath of clean air stir the close stuffy confines of the room and suddenly recoiled in agony as the light snapped on, illuminating it from shadowy to stark brightness. Joe hissed in displeasure and drew the covers over his head again.
"Joe?" Jen's voice drifted to him under the layers of covers where he lay shivering, "Joe. Come out."
"You can't make me," Joe called out in a muffled voice as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.
"You can either come out or I can come in after you," Jen threatened.
Joe cracked the covers just slightly, "what do you want?" he asked petulantly. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care at the moment.
"To make you feel better," Jen said brightly. She waved a plastic sleeve full of saltine crackers in front of him. "I also have chicken noodle soup."
"I don't think I can eat anything," Joe muttered.
"Well, it's either that or I can give you a shot," Jen threatened again, this time brandishing a needle.
Joe hissed again in displeasure. "All right," he wheezed as he reached for the crackers, "but I don't think this is a good idea."
"Just do it," Jen said, "I'll go run you a warm bath while you work your way through those."
As Jen stood to leave the room Joe laid a hand on her wrist, "thank you Jen. I know I'm a beast when I'm sick."
Jen sat back down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. She cracked a smile, "I've dealt with worse," she said and winked at him, standing again to go start the water running.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Overview #58: Non-canon
Okay. Total fail this week. But I have been toxic, and my brain has not been functioning. I did enjoy tweaking Jen and Joe's relationship. Age wise at least.
Project #59: In Sickness and in Health
100-500 words. What are your characters like when they're sick? What do they do to stay healthy? What kinds of weird family or traditional remedies to they have lying around that they recommend to others? Explore your characters some more and see how they'd hold up to the old wedding vow.
Overview #58: Non-canon
I love James as a character a lot, and there are all sorts of things I want to do with him that really won't help the overall Dagaz arc, so this week, trying out some things between him and Asia was a lot of fun. I was sloppy and unrealistic, I realize, because a boy as good-looking as James is would definitely have had his first kiss by fifteen, and even if he hadn't, he'd remember the face of his first kiss forever, so when seventeen, nineteen, and twenty-three rolled around, he'd definitely recognize Asia's face. Still, I thought it might be fun to have Asia watch him growing up.
I think, making James another incarnation of Arcturus might be an injustice to him. Especially if Asia recognizes him. I liked watching the way her relationship played out with James, but the undercurrent of Arcturus angst got tiring pretty quickly, at least for me, and faces fade over time, so maybe it's plausible that Asia, though she remembers her once and future king, doesn't properly remember his face? It's something to think about.
I don't know. This was a good learning experience for the plot and characters, though.
I think, making James another incarnation of Arcturus might be an injustice to him. Especially if Asia recognizes him. I liked watching the way her relationship played out with James, but the undercurrent of Arcturus angst got tiring pretty quickly, at least for me, and faces fade over time, so maybe it's plausible that Asia, though she remembers her once and future king, doesn't properly remember his face? It's something to think about.
I don't know. This was a good learning experience for the plot and characters, though.
Page Mallory (Reprise)
Two weeks before shooting was supposed to begin, James turned up at the studio for training. He paused outside the door and watched, awed, at two knights in full armor jousting in the distance. On closer examination, one knight was much smaller than the other, but both were riding full tilt.
A groan and a cheer rose up when the smaller knight’s lance knocked the other knight off his horse, and then a whole cadre of horse wranglers were in the middle of the jousting grounds, soothing the horses.
“Well?” one of the producers - Simon - asked.
The smaller knight hopped off the horse, tugged off the bucket-like helmet - and shook out long, dark, curly hair.
“It’s sturdy enough,” she said. “You’ve chosen a good smith. Now you just have to make it period, hm?”
James could only stare. The victorious knight was a girl? Sure, James had read his fair share of historical fiction novels with their anachronistic heroines, but that was fiction. To actually see a girl win a jousting bout was unreal. James narrowed his eyes, shaded his gaze to see better. Something about the girl was oddly familiar.
Simon spotted him. “James! There you are. Just in time - come meet our combat coordinator.”
James trotted over, curious. As he drew closer, his memory stirred, and he realized that he recognized the girl. “Asia Kash,” he said.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “You know each other?”
A smile blossomed on Asia’s face. “James Mallory! I’d heard a DC boy had been cast as a principal, but I never thought it’d be you.”
“I thought if I saw anyone from my DC days around here it’d be your brother, not you.” James grinned back at her, feeling something warm bloom in his chest.
“Tobias has a gig teaching drama to wayward youth,” Asia said. “The one who made it in the business is me.”
James clapped her on the shoulder. He said to Simon, “Her brother was my roommate at drama school. We know each other well.”
“Good,” Simon said. “She’s going to be teaching you how to wield a sword.”
Asia grinned up at him. “Prince you may play, but under my tutelage, you are Page Mallory until further notice.”
James cast her an appraising look. “That’s not the first time someone’s called me that,” he said.
(389 words)
A groan and a cheer rose up when the smaller knight’s lance knocked the other knight off his horse, and then a whole cadre of horse wranglers were in the middle of the jousting grounds, soothing the horses.
“Well?” one of the producers - Simon - asked.
The smaller knight hopped off the horse, tugged off the bucket-like helmet - and shook out long, dark, curly hair.
“It’s sturdy enough,” she said. “You’ve chosen a good smith. Now you just have to make it period, hm?”
James could only stare. The victorious knight was a girl? Sure, James had read his fair share of historical fiction novels with their anachronistic heroines, but that was fiction. To actually see a girl win a jousting bout was unreal. James narrowed his eyes, shaded his gaze to see better. Something about the girl was oddly familiar.
Simon spotted him. “James! There you are. Just in time - come meet our combat coordinator.”
James trotted over, curious. As he drew closer, his memory stirred, and he realized that he recognized the girl. “Asia Kash,” he said.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “You know each other?”
A smile blossomed on Asia’s face. “James Mallory! I’d heard a DC boy had been cast as a principal, but I never thought it’d be you.”
“I thought if I saw anyone from my DC days around here it’d be your brother, not you.” James grinned back at her, feeling something warm bloom in his chest.
“Tobias has a gig teaching drama to wayward youth,” Asia said. “The one who made it in the business is me.”
James clapped her on the shoulder. He said to Simon, “Her brother was my roommate at drama school. We know each other well.”
“Good,” Simon said. “She’s going to be teaching you how to wield a sword.”
Asia grinned up at him. “Prince you may play, but under my tutelage, you are Page Mallory until further notice.”
James cast her an appraising look. “That’s not the first time someone’s called me that,” he said.
(389 words)
Friday, February 5, 2010
One of Those Faces
“...Put the computer by the window?”
“No - the glare from the sunshine will be obnoxious,” Tobias said.
Asia paused by his door, puzzled at how the other voice in the room - presumably his roommate - could sound familiar. Then she hefted the box of books she was carrying and nudged the door open with her foot.
“When you’re doing being Martha Stewart, how about you help me move your junk?” She edged into the room and dumped the box onto his bed. Which she’d made earlier and now was already rumpled.
“Nice, Asia.” Tobias rolled his eyes. “This is my sister, Asia. Asia, this is my roommate, James.”
Asia’s head came up sharply. There, standing across the room, was none other than James Mallory, Arcturus Dux reborn. He flashed her a wide, easy grin, and that was when she noticed the faint line of a scar running down the left side of his face. Easy for a talented make-up artist to cover, then.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. Then his brow furrowed. “You don’t look like his sister.”
“The milkman liked our house a good deal,” Asia said easily, and Tobias let out an indignant yelp.
“Hey! Don’t listen to her. We’re not blood-related; we were all foster kids in the same house growing up, but I think of her as my sister is all,” he said.
James nodded. “I see. I was afraid I’d stumbled into the middle of an awkward family drama.”
“Well, you’re in drama school, so it should come second nature to you.” Asia grinned, then pinched Tobias on the arm. “Come help me move boxes already.”
“I thought Angel was helping you.”
“He’s charming the dorm matron,” Asia said.
“I’ll help,” James offered.
Together, the three of them headed for the stairs.
“So,” James said, “Asia. Have we met before?”
“We haven’t even been roommates for a day and you’re already making a move on my sister?”
James shook his head quickly. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Then he looked at Asia. “Not that, er, I wouldn’t ever mean it like that.” Then he looked at Tobias. “It’s just - you look familiar.”
Tobias shot her a look; would she be a liability while he was undercover?
She shook her head and shrugged. “I guess I just have one of those faces,” she said. They made it into the parking lot where Angel was, indeed, chatting up the dorm matron.
“That’s our foster father, Angel,” Tobias said.
“He doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s father,” James said. He was refreshingly blunt.
“Don’t tell him that - his ego doesn’t need it,” Asia said lightly, and then called out, “old man, come help your spawn!”
Angel spun around, ready with a glare, and then he went still. Awe, confusion, then something akin to fear crossed his face.
So he saw the resemblance, too.
(481 words)
“No - the glare from the sunshine will be obnoxious,” Tobias said.
Asia paused by his door, puzzled at how the other voice in the room - presumably his roommate - could sound familiar. Then she hefted the box of books she was carrying and nudged the door open with her foot.
“When you’re doing being Martha Stewart, how about you help me move your junk?” She edged into the room and dumped the box onto his bed. Which she’d made earlier and now was already rumpled.
“Nice, Asia.” Tobias rolled his eyes. “This is my sister, Asia. Asia, this is my roommate, James.”
Asia’s head came up sharply. There, standing across the room, was none other than James Mallory, Arcturus Dux reborn. He flashed her a wide, easy grin, and that was when she noticed the faint line of a scar running down the left side of his face. Easy for a talented make-up artist to cover, then.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. Then his brow furrowed. “You don’t look like his sister.”
“The milkman liked our house a good deal,” Asia said easily, and Tobias let out an indignant yelp.
“Hey! Don’t listen to her. We’re not blood-related; we were all foster kids in the same house growing up, but I think of her as my sister is all,” he said.
James nodded. “I see. I was afraid I’d stumbled into the middle of an awkward family drama.”
“Well, you’re in drama school, so it should come second nature to you.” Asia grinned, then pinched Tobias on the arm. “Come help me move boxes already.”
“I thought Angel was helping you.”
“He’s charming the dorm matron,” Asia said.
“I’ll help,” James offered.
Together, the three of them headed for the stairs.
“So,” James said, “Asia. Have we met before?”
“We haven’t even been roommates for a day and you’re already making a move on my sister?”
James shook his head quickly. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Then he looked at Asia. “Not that, er, I wouldn’t ever mean it like that.” Then he looked at Tobias. “It’s just - you look familiar.”
Tobias shot her a look; would she be a liability while he was undercover?
She shook her head and shrugged. “I guess I just have one of those faces,” she said. They made it into the parking lot where Angel was, indeed, chatting up the dorm matron.
“That’s our foster father, Angel,” Tobias said.
“He doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s father,” James said. He was refreshingly blunt.
“Don’t tell him that - his ego doesn’t need it,” Asia said lightly, and then called out, “old man, come help your spawn!”
Angel spun around, ready with a glare, and then he went still. Awe, confusion, then something akin to fear crossed his face.
So he saw the resemblance, too.
(481 words)
Thursday, February 4, 2010
And Their Pride
Asia was used to the repeated betrayal of looking at a familiar face and finding instead of a long-lost friend an alien, distant stranger. She hadn’t thought it would hurt so much more to glimpse an unfamiliar face and see a long-lost love.
He was seventeen and now average height for his age. Asia knew there was no accounting for taste, but she would always think him the most beautiful man she had never known.
Only he wasn’t that man.
He was a boy surrounded by a pack of angry bullies.
One had a knife.
“Poofter!” he shouted, jabbed.
It was the way James stood firm, chin held high, that made Asia miss Arcturus.
“Go on, Kaz, cut the freak!” one boy yelled.
“He’s not one of us anymore,” another added. “He’s fair game!”
James spoke smoothly, elegantly. His was the voice that would lead a thousand men willingly into battle. “If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?”
Asia blinked, surprised. Since when did he know Shakespeare? Kaz lunged. James brought his arms up, ready to defend himself, but Kaz was faster, stronger. James went down, and Asia smelled the sharp copper of blood in the air.
No. She was in the fray in seconds, dispatching the stupid teenagers with swift, accurate strikes. After the first four went down, the last of them went running.
“Stay the hell away!” Asia shouted after them, and then she was on her knees beside James.
He had pushed himself up onto his haunches and had one hand pressed to his face. Blood streamed from between his fingers.
“Are you all right?” Asia asked.
“’M fine,” he muttered. “They’re just - bitter I quit playing football to do drama. They’re ignorant. They’ll grow out of it eventually.”
Asia tugged on his wrist. “Let me see.”
“He didn’t get my eye. I don’t need the hospital or anything.”
Asia tugged harder, and he yielded to her. Blood dripped from a gash that ran from brow to jaw. Asia shrugged off her jacket and balled it up, handed it to him.
“No,” he said, “blood stains.”
“You’ll probably need stitches,” Asia said. “Put pressure on it.”
“It’s not that deep - I can feel it,” James said.
Asia fished her mobile out of her pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
James sighed. “Please --”
“It’s going to scar,” Asia said. “He’s ruined your career.”
“Yes, well, I’d prefer it if people hired me because I’m a good actor instead of how pretty I am.” James tried to smile, winced. “They can’t call me pretty anymore.”
“Boys and their pride,” Asia muttered. She dialed, spoke to the operator.
Then James said, “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“I just have one of those faces,” Asia said. “I’ll wait with you.”
James looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Thanks.”
(500 words - quote from Merchant of Venice)
He was seventeen and now average height for his age. Asia knew there was no accounting for taste, but she would always think him the most beautiful man she had never known.
Only he wasn’t that man.
He was a boy surrounded by a pack of angry bullies.
One had a knife.
“Poofter!” he shouted, jabbed.
It was the way James stood firm, chin held high, that made Asia miss Arcturus.
“Go on, Kaz, cut the freak!” one boy yelled.
“He’s not one of us anymore,” another added. “He’s fair game!”
James spoke smoothly, elegantly. His was the voice that would lead a thousand men willingly into battle. “If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?”
Asia blinked, surprised. Since when did he know Shakespeare? Kaz lunged. James brought his arms up, ready to defend himself, but Kaz was faster, stronger. James went down, and Asia smelled the sharp copper of blood in the air.
No. She was in the fray in seconds, dispatching the stupid teenagers with swift, accurate strikes. After the first four went down, the last of them went running.
“Stay the hell away!” Asia shouted after them, and then she was on her knees beside James.
He had pushed himself up onto his haunches and had one hand pressed to his face. Blood streamed from between his fingers.
“Are you all right?” Asia asked.
“’M fine,” he muttered. “They’re just - bitter I quit playing football to do drama. They’re ignorant. They’ll grow out of it eventually.”
Asia tugged on his wrist. “Let me see.”
“He didn’t get my eye. I don’t need the hospital or anything.”
Asia tugged harder, and he yielded to her. Blood dripped from a gash that ran from brow to jaw. Asia shrugged off her jacket and balled it up, handed it to him.
“No,” he said, “blood stains.”
“You’ll probably need stitches,” Asia said. “Put pressure on it.”
“It’s not that deep - I can feel it,” James said.
Asia fished her mobile out of her pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
James sighed. “Please --”
“It’s going to scar,” Asia said. “He’s ruined your career.”
“Yes, well, I’d prefer it if people hired me because I’m a good actor instead of how pretty I am.” James tried to smile, winced. “They can’t call me pretty anymore.”
“Boys and their pride,” Asia muttered. She dialed, spoke to the operator.
Then James said, “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“I just have one of those faces,” Asia said. “I’ll wait with you.”
James looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Thanks.”
(500 words - quote from Merchant of Venice)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Pay
He was fifteen and tall for his age, broad in the shoulders, and completely and utterly grass-stained. His mother might have despaired of the state of his football uniform, only it was a football uniform and that’s what it was for. Asia suspected, after the last time she’d seen him, any hope he would look different from Arcturus was futile. He even moved the same, which she found uncanny.
She wondered how she could still find things uncanny when she lived with a quislai, a genie, a fire elemental, and a dragon.
He was fast, skilled from practice, and she felt something tug in her chest when she saw the rest of his teammates stand in a circle around him for a pep talk. Arcturus had been fifteen when he’d pulled the sword from the stone, and he was king soon thereafter, leading his men into battle. She remembered how much Emrys had fretted that the only table he could find on such short notice was circular.
The players spread themselves across the field once more, and James began shouting orders. Asia watched the teenagers move with ragged synchronicity. Even in practice, James ran his team like they were in competition. Then one of the boys made wild, flying kick, and the ball came right at Asia’s head.
She reached up and plucked it out of the air.
“Sorry about that!” James trotted toward her, waved his arms. “Give us a throw-in, would you?”
Asia abandoned her books and hurried down the bleachers toward the sidelines. She hefted the ball a few times, then looked at him, considering.
“What will you give me if I give this back?”
The confusion on his face was priceless. Apparently he’d never been challenged like this before.
“We’re in the middle of practice.”
Asia spun the ball on her index finger and looked up at him, amused. “Indeed you are, but as soon as this left the pitch it was no longer in your possession, and now it is in mine. So...what are you willing to pay?”
“Pay?” James echoed. “That ball belongs to the school --”
Asia remembered, wildly, baiting Arcturus when he was king, just to see the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes burned bright.
“Pay,” she said. “What will you give me?”
James patted down his pockets reflexively. “I don’t have any money, but -- this is madness. Can we have the ball back, please?”
Asia saw his players were getting restless and raised her voice. “What say you, lads? How much for your football? Is it worth a kiss? Maybe two?”
The boys gaped at her. One of them laughed, another let out an indecorous whoop and holler. James turned bright red.
“Go on, James, kiss her!” one of them called out.
James prowled toward the sidelines, wary and still blushing. He was muttering under his breath, and any other mortal wouldn’t have heard it, but Asia could.
She was pleased with herself, for taking his first kiss.
(500 words)
She wondered how she could still find things uncanny when she lived with a quislai, a genie, a fire elemental, and a dragon.
He was fast, skilled from practice, and she felt something tug in her chest when she saw the rest of his teammates stand in a circle around him for a pep talk. Arcturus had been fifteen when he’d pulled the sword from the stone, and he was king soon thereafter, leading his men into battle. She remembered how much Emrys had fretted that the only table he could find on such short notice was circular.
The players spread themselves across the field once more, and James began shouting orders. Asia watched the teenagers move with ragged synchronicity. Even in practice, James ran his team like they were in competition. Then one of the boys made wild, flying kick, and the ball came right at Asia’s head.
She reached up and plucked it out of the air.
“Sorry about that!” James trotted toward her, waved his arms. “Give us a throw-in, would you?”
Asia abandoned her books and hurried down the bleachers toward the sidelines. She hefted the ball a few times, then looked at him, considering.
“What will you give me if I give this back?”
The confusion on his face was priceless. Apparently he’d never been challenged like this before.
“We’re in the middle of practice.”
Asia spun the ball on her index finger and looked up at him, amused. “Indeed you are, but as soon as this left the pitch it was no longer in your possession, and now it is in mine. So...what are you willing to pay?”
“Pay?” James echoed. “That ball belongs to the school --”
Asia remembered, wildly, baiting Arcturus when he was king, just to see the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes burned bright.
“Pay,” she said. “What will you give me?”
James patted down his pockets reflexively. “I don’t have any money, but -- this is madness. Can we have the ball back, please?”
Asia saw his players were getting restless and raised her voice. “What say you, lads? How much for your football? Is it worth a kiss? Maybe two?”
The boys gaped at her. One of them laughed, another let out an indecorous whoop and holler. James turned bright red.
“Go on, James, kiss her!” one of them called out.
James prowled toward the sidelines, wary and still blushing. He was muttering under his breath, and any other mortal wouldn’t have heard it, but Asia could.
She was pleased with herself, for taking his first kiss.
(500 words)
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Prettiest Star
When she saw him next, he was twelve years old, huddled in precisely the spot she’d wanted to use as a surveillance point. He had a guitar across his knees and was strumming it with more enthusiasm than skill, though after a few bars she realized she recognized the riff. Oasis. Of course.
She wondered if his face had changed since childhood, sharpened toward the angles of manhood so that when he lifted his head to look at her she wouldn’t overlay the image with twelve-year-old Arcturus dressed in hunting leathers, Cully perched on one arm.
When he lifted his head to look at her, his face was pale and streaked with tears and his eyes were puffy, red. He scrubbed a hand over his face with an angry huff and resumed playing his guitar.
“Are you all right?” Asia asked.
“’M fine,” he muttered. “Wish people would stop asking.”
“Why would people keep asking?”
He peered at her through damp, spiky lashes. “Oh. You don’t know.”
Asia eased down onto the grass beside him. “What don’t I know?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.” He studied the frets intently.
Asia smiled easily and shrugged. “All right.”
He peered at her again, suspicious of her acquiescence, but she just hummed along to the song he was playing.
“You like Oasis?” he asked.
“On occasion,” she said. “How long have you been playing?”
“Couple of years,” he said. “Dad always says - he always said I need to practice more.” He swiped his hand over his face again.
Asia caught the verb tense, understood the tears. “Practice makes perfect,” she said. She held out one hand. “Would you like me to tune it for you?” She was nowhere near as good as DJ, Gabriel, or Christian, but she was competent.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“You look familiar is all.”
“People say that to me all the time. I have one of those faces,” Asia said.
He studied her for a long moment, then handed her his guitar. She tuned it with practiced hands, and he smiled at the clear notes she played.
“Can you play very well?” he asked.
“Not very well, but well enough,” Asia said. “What would you like to hear?”
“Can you play any David Bowie?”
Asia played The Prettiest Star, and he sang along.
Years later, when she found the song on a playlist someone else had put on her iPod, she couldn’t help but smile.
(418 words)
She wondered if his face had changed since childhood, sharpened toward the angles of manhood so that when he lifted his head to look at her she wouldn’t overlay the image with twelve-year-old Arcturus dressed in hunting leathers, Cully perched on one arm.
When he lifted his head to look at her, his face was pale and streaked with tears and his eyes were puffy, red. He scrubbed a hand over his face with an angry huff and resumed playing his guitar.
“Are you all right?” Asia asked.
“’M fine,” he muttered. “Wish people would stop asking.”
“Why would people keep asking?”
He peered at her through damp, spiky lashes. “Oh. You don’t know.”
Asia eased down onto the grass beside him. “What don’t I know?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.” He studied the frets intently.
Asia smiled easily and shrugged. “All right.”
He peered at her again, suspicious of her acquiescence, but she just hummed along to the song he was playing.
“You like Oasis?” he asked.
“On occasion,” she said. “How long have you been playing?”
“Couple of years,” he said. “Dad always says - he always said I need to practice more.” He swiped his hand over his face again.
Asia caught the verb tense, understood the tears. “Practice makes perfect,” she said. She held out one hand. “Would you like me to tune it for you?” She was nowhere near as good as DJ, Gabriel, or Christian, but she was competent.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“You look familiar is all.”
“People say that to me all the time. I have one of those faces,” Asia said.
He studied her for a long moment, then handed her his guitar. She tuned it with practiced hands, and he smiled at the clear notes she played.
“Can you play very well?” he asked.
“Not very well, but well enough,” Asia said. “What would you like to hear?”
“Can you play any David Bowie?”
Asia played The Prettiest Star, and he sang along.
Years later, when she found the song on a playlist someone else had put on her iPod, she couldn’t help but smile.
(418 words)
Monday, February 1, 2010
Ages
"How old are you Jen?" Joe asked absentmindedly as they walked along the beach.
Jen laughed, "don't you know it's not polite to ask a woman her age?"
"You can't be much older than me," Joe said as he pulled her to a stop at the edge of the water.
"Well, I did graduate early from high school, and I jumped right into the local nursing program. I always knew that that was what I wanted to do with my life. I always wanted to help people. And look what it brought me," Jen said as she held up their intertwined hands.
"You're evading the question," Joe accused as he began to walk again.
"No I'm not, I just haven't answered you yet."
"Are you going to answer me?"
"Would it make a difference how old I was?"
"Not really," Joe said, "I'm just curious."
Jen looked out at the setting sun and then back to the handsome young man by her side. "I'll be twenty one in six weeks."
"And I'll be eighteen in a month," Joe said.
Jen laughed, "don't you know it's not polite to ask a woman her age?"
"You can't be much older than me," Joe said as he pulled her to a stop at the edge of the water.
"Well, I did graduate early from high school, and I jumped right into the local nursing program. I always knew that that was what I wanted to do with my life. I always wanted to help people. And look what it brought me," Jen said as she held up their intertwined hands.
"You're evading the question," Joe accused as he began to walk again.
"No I'm not, I just haven't answered you yet."
"Are you going to answer me?"
"Would it make a difference how old I was?"
"Not really," Joe said, "I'm just curious."
Jen looked out at the setting sun and then back to the handsome young man by her side. "I'll be twenty one in six weeks."
"And I'll be eighteen in a month," Joe said.
Page Mallory
It was the flash of golden hair and the song of a wooden sword cutting through the air that caught Asia’s attention. She was wandering along the boardwalk, idly browsing the bright wares at the stalls and considering buying a stick of Brighton Rock for a pre-mission sugar rush when she saw him.
He was no more than eight, but then Arcturus had been the same age when he’d first met Emrys and his nameless, faceless Prentiss. He stood on the sand, swinging the sword with more enthusiasm and skill, and Asia recognized the determination in his expression.
She paused, leaned on the railing, and watched him battle an invisible foe. Over the years she had seen many faces repeated, knew that it was the way of DNA and biology, but she’d never hoped to see his face again. Asia closed her eyes and remembered her king as she’d seen him last, face peaceful in magic-woven sleep.
“Take that!” the boy cried, lunging and jabbing with the sword.
Asia opened her eyes and saw him trip over his own shoelaces, land in the sand.
“Ow,” he muttered, and heaved himself up, dusted himself off.
“If you slide your back foot forward and push off with it a little bit before you lunge, you won’t over-extend yourself and lose your balance,” Asia said.
The boy tilted his head to look at her. “You know how to fight with a sword?”
She nodded. “I do.”
The boy clambered to his feet, picked up his sword. “Will you teach me?”
Asia glanced at her watch. She still had forty minutes until she had to meet her contact. “I don’t have much time, but why not?” She hopped over the railing and landed in the sand, neatly like a cat.
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Wow. Are you a ninja or something?”
“Or something,” Asia said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the boy began.
“Yes, well, considering what I can do with a sword, if I’d wanted to hurt you, you’d already be hurt,” Asia said. She winced when she realized just how aggressive that sounded.
“That’s not true,” the boy said. “You might have been paid to kidnap me and bring me undamaged.” He brandished his sword at her.
Asia knew enough about children that she didn’t laugh. She kept her expression solemn. “Yes, well, you have my word I’m not going to kidnap you.”
The boy gazed at her for a moment, and Asia reflected that children had an uncanny ability to sense deception that at times rivaled Gabriel’s gift. “My name is James,” he said finally. “James Mallory.”
“Well, Page Mallory, let’s see your sword,” Asia said.
He handed it to her.
“Why am I Page Mallory? Shouldn’t I be Sir Mallory?”
“Before a man becomes a knight, he must first serve as a page, then as a squire,” Asia said easily. “Now come on - this is how you hold a sword.”
(499 words)
He was no more than eight, but then Arcturus had been the same age when he’d first met Emrys and his nameless, faceless Prentiss. He stood on the sand, swinging the sword with more enthusiasm and skill, and Asia recognized the determination in his expression.
She paused, leaned on the railing, and watched him battle an invisible foe. Over the years she had seen many faces repeated, knew that it was the way of DNA and biology, but she’d never hoped to see his face again. Asia closed her eyes and remembered her king as she’d seen him last, face peaceful in magic-woven sleep.
“Take that!” the boy cried, lunging and jabbing with the sword.
Asia opened her eyes and saw him trip over his own shoelaces, land in the sand.
“Ow,” he muttered, and heaved himself up, dusted himself off.
“If you slide your back foot forward and push off with it a little bit before you lunge, you won’t over-extend yourself and lose your balance,” Asia said.
The boy tilted his head to look at her. “You know how to fight with a sword?”
She nodded. “I do.”
The boy clambered to his feet, picked up his sword. “Will you teach me?”
Asia glanced at her watch. She still had forty minutes until she had to meet her contact. “I don’t have much time, but why not?” She hopped over the railing and landed in the sand, neatly like a cat.
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Wow. Are you a ninja or something?”
“Or something,” Asia said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the boy began.
“Yes, well, considering what I can do with a sword, if I’d wanted to hurt you, you’d already be hurt,” Asia said. She winced when she realized just how aggressive that sounded.
“That’s not true,” the boy said. “You might have been paid to kidnap me and bring me undamaged.” He brandished his sword at her.
Asia knew enough about children that she didn’t laugh. She kept her expression solemn. “Yes, well, you have my word I’m not going to kidnap you.”
The boy gazed at her for a moment, and Asia reflected that children had an uncanny ability to sense deception that at times rivaled Gabriel’s gift. “My name is James,” he said finally. “James Mallory.”
“Well, Page Mallory, let’s see your sword,” Asia said.
He handed it to her.
“Why am I Page Mallory? Shouldn’t I be Sir Mallory?”
“Before a man becomes a knight, he must first serve as a page, then as a squire,” Asia said easily. “Now come on - this is how you hold a sword.”
(499 words)
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Overview #57: Weather Poetry
So in my shame, weather poetry became more like seasonal poetry (Halloween and Summer, anyone at all?) and I think, surrounded by terrible cold and dirty snow made me want to write mostly about how horrible winter is, and that would have been boring. I think I went a long way in sticking to concrete imagery, but in doing so I lost out on emotion and themes. By the end of the week, all my poems were starting to sound the same to me. I'm not a poet, and I know it, but it was fun, ignoring things like definite and indefinite articles and not having to worry about plot or characters.
It was a growing exercise for me, but I'm not sure how much I genuinely improved at the art of poetry.
Still, another week is here, and I shall write on.
It was a growing exercise for me, but I'm not sure how much I genuinely improved at the art of poetry.
Still, another week is here, and I shall write on.
Project Assignment # 58 - Non-Canon
Okay. This is a week to switch it up. Write something that your characters would never do under normal circumstances, or just some good old things that have been kicking around in your brain, but would not work in the story.
Maybe a change to tweak something, to experiment with it before it becomes part of your story.
A chance to explore a relationship that could never happen, or what might have happened if things had turned out differently.
Have fun and happy writing.
500 words max.
Maybe a change to tweak something, to experiment with it before it becomes part of your story.
A chance to explore a relationship that could never happen, or what might have happened if things had turned out differently.
Have fun and happy writing.
500 words max.
Overview # 57
So I totally failed this week at posting. And when I did post, it was not so great. I don't know where my mind has been, but obviously not on writing. *Bows head in shame*
Nagi totally owned this week in writing. Her work was fantastic!
This next week will be better.
Nagi totally owned this week in writing. Her work was fantastic!
This next week will be better.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Summer Day
Golden sand burns soles and toes.
Waves lap at ankles and knees.
Open sky glows blue, dotted with birds
And clouds.
Sunlight glitters on
Clear blue waves;
The air filled with
Coconut-scented suntan lotion and
Melting ice-cream.
Voices weave a cheerful din -
Children chasing a frisbee,
College boys tossing a football -
And slowly the day wends on,
Suntans getting deeper,
Shadows getting longer.
(65 words)
Waves lap at ankles and knees.
Open sky glows blue, dotted with birds
And clouds.
Sunlight glitters on
Clear blue waves;
The air filled with
Coconut-scented suntan lotion and
Melting ice-cream.
Voices weave a cheerful din -
Children chasing a frisbee,
College boys tossing a football -
And slowly the day wends on,
Suntans getting deeper,
Shadows getting longer.
(65 words)
Friday, January 29, 2010
Happy Halloween
Golden leaves, red, brown
That crunch underfoot
Mean harvest moons and
Pumpkins carved and grinning
On the doorstep.
Chimney-smoke
Like unfurling ferns on the horizon
Smells like family warmth
And apple cider.
Ghosts and goblins,
Fairies and princesses,
Knights and queens,
Laughter and costumes rustling.
Shoes patter down pavement In time to the swish, swish of
Leaves in a blue-cool breeze.
Dawn will bring
Candy-sickness and
Sore throats.
Happy Halloween.
(73 words)
That crunch underfoot
Mean harvest moons and
Pumpkins carved and grinning
On the doorstep.
Chimney-smoke
Like unfurling ferns on the horizon
Smells like family warmth
And apple cider.
Ghosts and goblins,
Fairies and princesses,
Knights and queens,
Laughter and costumes rustling.
Shoes patter down pavement In time to the swish, swish of
Leaves in a blue-cool breeze.
Dawn will bring
Candy-sickness and
Sore throats.
Happy Halloween.
(73 words)
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Typhoon Season
It’s lightning and moonbeams,
The army-roll of thunder across the heavens
As rain sleets down
In ordered rows, columns, ranks
To pierce the sand,
Innumerable crystalline needles.
It’s white-capped waves
Whipped by the same invisible hands
That bend palm-trees toward breaking,
Fronds of green lashing against the horizon.
It’s thousands of homes laid waste
Like toys scattered by a careless titan;
It’s death and tears and shallow graves,
Oceanic byres,
And alphabetical names.
It’s typhoon season.
(79 words)
The army-roll of thunder across the heavens
As rain sleets down
In ordered rows, columns, ranks
To pierce the sand,
Innumerable crystalline needles.
It’s white-capped waves
Whipped by the same invisible hands
That bend palm-trees toward breaking,
Fronds of green lashing against the horizon.
It’s thousands of homes laid waste
Like toys scattered by a careless titan;
It’s death and tears and shallow graves,
Oceanic byres,
And alphabetical names.
It’s typhoon season.
(79 words)
Fog Bound
Hazy mists obscuring
Sight; sound dimmed,
Life muffled.
Diffused light
Surrounding, enveloping.
Air sparkles
an opalescent sheen.
Enshrouded trees loom
Out of the mists
Sentinels of time
Sight; sound dimmed,
Life muffled.
Diffused light
Surrounding, enveloping.
Air sparkles
an opalescent sheen.
Enshrouded trees loom
Out of the mists
Sentinels of time
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Raining Stars
Warm air -
The perfect temperature for
Short sleeves and bare feet -
Rustles tall green grass.
Clear skies glitter
With diamond-chip stars
Even as the sun
Dips its last
Down the horizon.
The last wafts of barbecue
And soda
Potato chips and
Homemade brownies
Fade in the breeze,
And as the moon creeps up
The summer perseids
Start to rain.
(60 words)
The perfect temperature for
Short sleeves and bare feet -
Rustles tall green grass.
Clear skies glitter
With diamond-chip stars
Even as the sun
Dips its last
Down the horizon.
The last wafts of barbecue
And soda
Potato chips and
Homemade brownies
Fade in the breeze,
And as the moon creeps up
The summer perseids
Start to rain.
(60 words)
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tornado Season Again
Green skies signal
Sirens that
Break city din and
Bring on the wind.
Clouds form a wall
Black
From land to space
Triggering
Artificial night
And too-bright sunlight
Juxtaposed like
Opposing pieces
On a chessboard
Poised to kill.
The wind is
A thousand voices
Weeping and angry
And an army of fists
Battering windows
Breaking glass.
A second siren is
A false alarm
The eye in the sky.
It’s tornado season
Again.
(73 words)
Sirens that
Break city din and
Bring on the wind.
Clouds form a wall
Black
From land to space
Triggering
Artificial night
And too-bright sunlight
Juxtaposed like
Opposing pieces
On a chessboard
Poised to kill.
The wind is
A thousand voices
Weeping and angry
And an army of fists
Battering windows
Breaking glass.
A second siren is
A false alarm
The eye in the sky.
It’s tornado season
Again.
(73 words)
Into the Night
Warm breathe of spring
Whispers silk soft
Against the skin.
Lily scent and Lilac grace
Ripening in the sun.
Color on the green.
Heavens dew distilling
Soft upon the grass
Fading into night.
Whispers silk soft
Against the skin.
Lily scent and Lilac grace
Ripening in the sun.
Color on the green.
Heavens dew distilling
Soft upon the grass
Fading into night.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Winter out the Window
Wind carries white
In an upward spiral,
Winter silk in an
Arctic breeze that
Turns my breath to crystal
And my words to
Weight.
Pristine powder on branches turns
Muddy in the streets
Under boots and tires and
Human industry.
Sirens and gales
Sing counter-harmony howls
Against the windows and
Around the gaps between
Doors and door frames.
The sun was
Golden
Yesterday.
(64 words)
In an upward spiral,
Winter silk in an
Arctic breeze that
Turns my breath to crystal
And my words to
Weight.
Pristine powder on branches turns
Muddy in the streets
Under boots and tires and
Human industry.
Sirens and gales
Sing counter-harmony howls
Against the windows and
Around the gaps between
Doors and door frames.
The sun was
Golden
Yesterday.
(64 words)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Project #57: Weather Poetry
Up to 300 words! Tell us what the weather is like where you are or where you want to be, or anywhere in the world, and make it poetic. Does the snow glisten/like a thousand crystals/ dropped from a careless giant hand or is the sun / desert-hot and deceptively / golden / like molten metal / that burns to the touch? Let us know! Open-form or closed-form as is your pleasure. Work on concrete imagery.
Overview #56: Fluff
Okay. So I confess, I basically used this week's challenge as an excuse to get some Asia/James fluff out there in the open, because James is going to go through hell, and I needed a fluffy baseline to work from. I decided to completely give into the fluff and try out alternative forms of fluff, which ended up being some of the other boys of Sector Five just being decent human beings. I wanted to see what counted as nice and what didn't, how different people viewed compassion and what counted as compassion to them. I rather enjoyed the fact that DJ resorted to violence as an act of compassion.
Go DJ.
Still, it was more difficult than I thought it would be, trying to come up with non-cliché fluff, so in the end I resorted to cliché. For the last post.
Go DJ.
Still, it was more difficult than I thought it would be, trying to come up with non-cliché fluff, so in the end I resorted to cliché. For the last post.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Quarantine
“Where’s James?” Asia paused in the hallway outside Riley’s door.
“He’s caught a cold,” Riley said, darted a nervous glance down the hall toward James’s room.
Asia craned her neck and saw that someone had taped a biohazard sign to James’s door. “Oh dear. He doesn’t take illness well, does he?”
“He’s officially quarantined,” Serena added. “We’re shooting around him until he gets better.”
“Has a doctor been to see him?”
Serena shook her head. “No. No one’s to go near him. He’s contagious.”
Asia knew that contagion mattered little for her. “I’m going to take him some chicken soup.”
Riley winced. “You really shouldn’t. George has forbidden anyone from going in there.”
“I’ll be fine,” Asia said. “I’m tough.”
“He’s really, really ill!” Riley called after Asia, but she was already halfway down the stairs.
As she spoke fluent French, she managed to bully her way into the kitchen. Then she called Tobias and demanded his best chicken soup recipe. The cooks seemed amused at her cooking attempts, but in a couple of hours she had a bowl of soup and some bread rolls. One of the waitresses helped her load it onto a tray, and one of the maids slipped her a master key.
“’M miserable, George,” James said, muffled through the door. “Can’t I just see someone? I’ll take the nagging costume girls --”
Asia nudged the door open with her hip. “Chicken soup for the patient.” She smiled brightly.
James was disheveled and pale, though his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his hair stuck up every which way. He was huddled miserably on the bed, and it looked like he was in the middle of watching The Labyrinth. Again.
“Asia!” James’s face lit up, and then he dissolved into hacking coughs.
She set down on the tray and then sat down on bed next to him. She reached out and checked his forehead; he acquiesced to her touch easily enough; he was clearly hungry for human company.
“You’re quite ill,” she said.
James nodded. “I know. George said I’ve been quarantined. How’d you get permission to see me?”
“I didn’t,” Asia said, “but I’m tough. I won’t catch what you have.”
“How do you know?”
Asia just smiled and offered up the bowl of soup. “I know these things. Now come on - eat some soup and some bread rolls, and then I’ll pamper you for the next few hours, hm? Back rubs and foot rubs and anything else you’d like.”
James accepted the tray gratefully. “Thanks.”
Asia pressed a kiss to his cheek. “No problem.”
(429 words)
“He’s caught a cold,” Riley said, darted a nervous glance down the hall toward James’s room.
Asia craned her neck and saw that someone had taped a biohazard sign to James’s door. “Oh dear. He doesn’t take illness well, does he?”
“He’s officially quarantined,” Serena added. “We’re shooting around him until he gets better.”
“Has a doctor been to see him?”
Serena shook her head. “No. No one’s to go near him. He’s contagious.”
Asia knew that contagion mattered little for her. “I’m going to take him some chicken soup.”
Riley winced. “You really shouldn’t. George has forbidden anyone from going in there.”
“I’ll be fine,” Asia said. “I’m tough.”
“He’s really, really ill!” Riley called after Asia, but she was already halfway down the stairs.
As she spoke fluent French, she managed to bully her way into the kitchen. Then she called Tobias and demanded his best chicken soup recipe. The cooks seemed amused at her cooking attempts, but in a couple of hours she had a bowl of soup and some bread rolls. One of the waitresses helped her load it onto a tray, and one of the maids slipped her a master key.
“’M miserable, George,” James said, muffled through the door. “Can’t I just see someone? I’ll take the nagging costume girls --”
Asia nudged the door open with her hip. “Chicken soup for the patient.” She smiled brightly.
James was disheveled and pale, though his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his hair stuck up every which way. He was huddled miserably on the bed, and it looked like he was in the middle of watching The Labyrinth. Again.
“Asia!” James’s face lit up, and then he dissolved into hacking coughs.
She set down on the tray and then sat down on bed next to him. She reached out and checked his forehead; he acquiesced to her touch easily enough; he was clearly hungry for human company.
“You’re quite ill,” she said.
James nodded. “I know. George said I’ve been quarantined. How’d you get permission to see me?”
“I didn’t,” Asia said, “but I’m tough. I won’t catch what you have.”
“How do you know?”
Asia just smiled and offered up the bowl of soup. “I know these things. Now come on - eat some soup and some bread rolls, and then I’ll pamper you for the next few hours, hm? Back rubs and foot rubs and anything else you’d like.”
James accepted the tray gratefully. “Thanks.”
Asia pressed a kiss to his cheek. “No problem.”
(429 words)
Friday, January 22, 2010
Sport of Their Own
“You all right?” DJ asked. He sank down on the edge of the basketball court beside Lee Hong.
Lee shrugged, carded a hand through his hair. “I’m not much one for American sports,” he said wryly. He had a black eye from catching an accidentally-on-purpose elbow to the face, and DJ had winced when he’d seen the hit.
“Yes, well, I’m not sure they’re much for your sports either,” DJ said.
Lee cast him a sidelong glance. “You’re the first person who hasn’t insisted that basketball should be my sport.”
DJ gave Lee a once-over and could see why the other boys at the high school might make that insistence. Lee was a good six-foot-three and built along the lean lines of a runner - or a martial artist. He had curly dark hair and Persian-dark eyes and mediterranean-olive skin, but he spoke fluent Chinese and took his notes vertically, right to left when he was in class. None of the students understood how Lee, who looked faintly like a Greek korous statue, was Chinese. Because he’d been raised by Chinese monks in the mountains of norther China and, until some foreigner had spotted him and offered him a mirror, hadn’t realized he wasn’t like his brothers in the faith.
“I can play it, and I like it, but it’s not my sport either,” DJ said.
“You can play it very well,” Lee agreed. “What is your sport?”
DJ eyed Lee up and down. Then he lunged, swinging one fist out in a snake-strike. Lee reacted automatically, blocking crane, striking tiger, and then they were nose-to-nose, Lee’s eyes wide in surprise, DJ grinning.
“You know wushu.” Lee blinked.
DJ’s grin widened. “Southern Shao Lin. What’s yours?”
“Northern,” Lee said.
DJ rocked back, kipped up onto his feet. He settled into an easy mantis stance. “How about we show those boys what your sport is?”
Lee followed suit, and then he crouched low, phoenix stance.
What came next was the best sparring match DJ could remember having in a long time. While he and Lee were weaving across the gym floor looking for openings in the other’s defense, the basketball game they’d been ejected from screeched to a halt, and the other boys could only stare.
DJ let Lee win, just barely, and when he was down on the ground he could see some of the other boys shuffling nervously.
As Lee pulled DJ to his feet, DJ asked, loud enough for the others to hear,
“Why did you take that elbow to the eye?”
He knew the answer, but hearing Lee say it was what made it worth it. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
DJ clapped Lee on the shoulder, and together they headed for the locker rooms. The coach forgot to blow his whistle, for he was still staring.
“How about you come to my house for dinner tonight? My brother makes killer spring rolls...”
(496)
Lee shrugged, carded a hand through his hair. “I’m not much one for American sports,” he said wryly. He had a black eye from catching an accidentally-on-purpose elbow to the face, and DJ had winced when he’d seen the hit.
“Yes, well, I’m not sure they’re much for your sports either,” DJ said.
Lee cast him a sidelong glance. “You’re the first person who hasn’t insisted that basketball should be my sport.”
DJ gave Lee a once-over and could see why the other boys at the high school might make that insistence. Lee was a good six-foot-three and built along the lean lines of a runner - or a martial artist. He had curly dark hair and Persian-dark eyes and mediterranean-olive skin, but he spoke fluent Chinese and took his notes vertically, right to left when he was in class. None of the students understood how Lee, who looked faintly like a Greek korous statue, was Chinese. Because he’d been raised by Chinese monks in the mountains of norther China and, until some foreigner had spotted him and offered him a mirror, hadn’t realized he wasn’t like his brothers in the faith.
“I can play it, and I like it, but it’s not my sport either,” DJ said.
“You can play it very well,” Lee agreed. “What is your sport?”
DJ eyed Lee up and down. Then he lunged, swinging one fist out in a snake-strike. Lee reacted automatically, blocking crane, striking tiger, and then they were nose-to-nose, Lee’s eyes wide in surprise, DJ grinning.
“You know wushu.” Lee blinked.
DJ’s grin widened. “Southern Shao Lin. What’s yours?”
“Northern,” Lee said.
DJ rocked back, kipped up onto his feet. He settled into an easy mantis stance. “How about we show those boys what your sport is?”
Lee followed suit, and then he crouched low, phoenix stance.
What came next was the best sparring match DJ could remember having in a long time. While he and Lee were weaving across the gym floor looking for openings in the other’s defense, the basketball game they’d been ejected from screeched to a halt, and the other boys could only stare.
DJ let Lee win, just barely, and when he was down on the ground he could see some of the other boys shuffling nervously.
As Lee pulled DJ to his feet, DJ asked, loud enough for the others to hear,
“Why did you take that elbow to the eye?”
He knew the answer, but hearing Lee say it was what made it worth it. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
DJ clapped Lee on the shoulder, and together they headed for the locker rooms. The coach forgot to blow his whistle, for he was still staring.
“How about you come to my house for dinner tonight? My brother makes killer spring rolls...”
(496)
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Fake Assignment
“I don’t think she likes me very much, Mr. Andrews,” Zach said.
Tobias sat down next to him and followed his gaze to where Marisa Halloway was standing and talking with her friends. Best as Tobias could tell, Marisa was stylish and fashionable by modern standards, but Tobias would always have eyes for a golden-eyed girl with black curls.
“Have you told her you like her?” he asked. He figured, of all the boys on the team, he best understood how to be a compassionate high school teacher.
“I tried.” Zach shrugged helplessly. “But I don’t think she even knows I’m alive.”
“Well...” Tobias studied Marisa. “Do you have any special talents?”
“I’m an orchestra geek, Mr. Andrews.” Zach rolled his eyes.
Tobias nodded patiently. “What instrument do you play?”
“The violin,” Zach said.
“I play the violin.” Tobias gave him a friendly nudge. “It’s a noble instrument. No need to be ashamed.”
“It’s classical and boring,” Zach pointed out. “All the cool guys play the guitar.”
“That’s not true,” Tobias said. “How about this - you play her a song?”
“Modern girls don’t like it when a guy serenades them out their window,” Zach said.
Tobias nodded. “I know. But...how about you make her a CD? Find out her favorite pretty ballads and record them.”
“An entire CD of violin solos? That’s kinda boring.”
“I know some musicians,” Tobias said. He smiled encouragingly. “You’d have back-up.”
“Really? And how would we record it?”
“Don’t worry - I’ve got that covered. You just need to find out what her favorite songs are.”
Zach gazed at Marisa for a long moment. Then he hauled himself to his feet. “All right.”
***
It took a fake assignment on Tobias’s part to find out Marisa’s favorite songs, some wheedling of DJ, Gabriel, and Keith, and a month in Tobias’s basement studio before the project was done. On the big day, Tobias lingered in the hallway and watched as Zach taped the CD to Marisa’s locker (DJ had made cover art specially for the project). Then Tobias and Zach watched together as Marisa approached her locker, slowed, inspected the gift.
She opened her locker and popped the CD into her discman right then and there. A smile spread across her features as she heard the first song, and Tobias saw Zach’s face light up. Tobias patted him on the shoulder and walked away, just in time for Marisa to look up and notice Zach.
Mission accomplished, Tobias thought, and headed for the teacher’s lounge.
(420 words)
Tobias sat down next to him and followed his gaze to where Marisa Halloway was standing and talking with her friends. Best as Tobias could tell, Marisa was stylish and fashionable by modern standards, but Tobias would always have eyes for a golden-eyed girl with black curls.
“Have you told her you like her?” he asked. He figured, of all the boys on the team, he best understood how to be a compassionate high school teacher.
“I tried.” Zach shrugged helplessly. “But I don’t think she even knows I’m alive.”
“Well...” Tobias studied Marisa. “Do you have any special talents?”
“I’m an orchestra geek, Mr. Andrews.” Zach rolled his eyes.
Tobias nodded patiently. “What instrument do you play?”
“The violin,” Zach said.
“I play the violin.” Tobias gave him a friendly nudge. “It’s a noble instrument. No need to be ashamed.”
“It’s classical and boring,” Zach pointed out. “All the cool guys play the guitar.”
“That’s not true,” Tobias said. “How about this - you play her a song?”
“Modern girls don’t like it when a guy serenades them out their window,” Zach said.
Tobias nodded. “I know. But...how about you make her a CD? Find out her favorite pretty ballads and record them.”
“An entire CD of violin solos? That’s kinda boring.”
“I know some musicians,” Tobias said. He smiled encouragingly. “You’d have back-up.”
“Really? And how would we record it?”
“Don’t worry - I’ve got that covered. You just need to find out what her favorite songs are.”
Zach gazed at Marisa for a long moment. Then he hauled himself to his feet. “All right.”
It took a fake assignment on Tobias’s part to find out Marisa’s favorite songs, some wheedling of DJ, Gabriel, and Keith, and a month in Tobias’s basement studio before the project was done. On the big day, Tobias lingered in the hallway and watched as Zach taped the CD to Marisa’s locker (DJ had made cover art specially for the project). Then Tobias and Zach watched together as Marisa approached her locker, slowed, inspected the gift.
She opened her locker and popped the CD into her discman right then and there. A smile spread across her features as she heard the first song, and Tobias saw Zach’s face light up. Tobias patted him on the shoulder and walked away, just in time for Marisa to look up and notice Zach.
Mission accomplished, Tobias thought, and headed for the teacher’s lounge.
(420 words)
Buried
David awoke slowly from his nap. The sun was still high and warm on his face and he felt like he was surrounded in warmth. He could remember lying down on the warm sands of the beach, Ariana beside him.
David turned his head and saw that Ariana was still sleeping. He smiled to himself and went to sit up, and found that he couldn't. Puzzled, David looked down at his chest and saw that he was buried up to his shoulders in a thick layer of warm sand.
After a few moments of fruitless struggle David sat still. He turned his head to look at Ariana and saw that she was shaking with silent laughter, tears rolling from her eyes.
"Ari, what on earth..."
Ariana burst out laughing and rolled onto her stomach as she scooted closer to her trapped boyfriend. She bit her lip, trying to hold back the laughter.
"Okay Ari, will you let me go now?" David laughed, trying again to free himself.
Ariana cocked her head to one side, "no. I don't think I will. At least not yet."
"Why not?" David asked with one eyebrow raised.
"Because now I can do this," Ariana said, as she bent over him. Ariana captured his lips in a long passionate kiss.
David turned his head and saw that Ariana was still sleeping. He smiled to himself and went to sit up, and found that he couldn't. Puzzled, David looked down at his chest and saw that he was buried up to his shoulders in a thick layer of warm sand.
After a few moments of fruitless struggle David sat still. He turned his head to look at Ariana and saw that she was shaking with silent laughter, tears rolling from her eyes.
"Ari, what on earth..."
Ariana burst out laughing and rolled onto her stomach as she scooted closer to her trapped boyfriend. She bit her lip, trying to hold back the laughter.
"Okay Ari, will you let me go now?" David laughed, trying again to free himself.
Ariana cocked her head to one side, "no. I don't think I will. At least not yet."
"Why not?" David asked with one eyebrow raised.
"Because now I can do this," Ariana said, as she bent over him. Ariana captured his lips in a long passionate kiss.
Ghostly
"You know, it really sucks that I can't touch you all the time," David said as he reclined in a chair, half in shade and half in the sun. Ariana hovered as if she were sitting on his lap.
"But you can see me almost all the time," Ariana said with laughter in her voice. "If you could touch me all the time, or rather, I could touch you, then I would be alive and I couldn't do my work."
"What exactly is your work?" David asked. He had gotten used to talking to her out loud, but only when he was sure there was no one around.
"Mostly to keep you safe," she said, "that's why I had to die. God knew that you would need me to help keep you safe. But thankfully, He didn't want to separate us."
"You said mostly," David said after a few moments, "what else do you do?"
"Well, you are by far the person that takes up most of my time. The other two don't need me so much. I also keep a general eye on your team, though each of them have their own guardian," she said.
"So when can you touch me?" David asked with a wink.
"When it won't endanger you, when it will keep you from harm, and when I think it is for your good," Ariana ticked them off on her fingers, her voice singsong as if reciting a list of rules.
"For my good," David laughed, the lost twinkle in his eye sparking to life, "wouldn't that be all the time."
"No," Ariana smiled, "I have to judge when it is for your good."
"Like when?" David asked.
"Like now," Ariana whispered and leaned in for a ghostly kiss.
"But you can see me almost all the time," Ariana said with laughter in her voice. "If you could touch me all the time, or rather, I could touch you, then I would be alive and I couldn't do my work."
"What exactly is your work?" David asked. He had gotten used to talking to her out loud, but only when he was sure there was no one around.
"Mostly to keep you safe," she said, "that's why I had to die. God knew that you would need me to help keep you safe. But thankfully, He didn't want to separate us."
"You said mostly," David said after a few moments, "what else do you do?"
"Well, you are by far the person that takes up most of my time. The other two don't need me so much. I also keep a general eye on your team, though each of them have their own guardian," she said.
"So when can you touch me?" David asked with a wink.
"When it won't endanger you, when it will keep you from harm, and when I think it is for your good," Ariana ticked them off on her fingers, her voice singsong as if reciting a list of rules.
"For my good," David laughed, the lost twinkle in his eye sparking to life, "wouldn't that be all the time."
"No," Ariana smiled, "I have to judge when it is for your good."
"Like when?" David asked.
"Like now," Ariana whispered and leaned in for a ghostly kiss.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Made On National Radio
“You get so antsy before publicity,” Devon remarked. Once in a blue moon the fans liked to see the producers and the writers, but Devon was content to stand in the wings and watch the principal actors do their thing.
Asia shrugged and watched with narrow eyes as the make-up girl spent longer than necessary combing James’s hair. “Yes, well, this one is going to be special, isn’t it? Usually the fans don’t see me live. I have to go out there and get my spar on.”
“I saw you and James rehearsing the routine,” Devon said. “It looked fine to me.”
“James is fine with a sword,” Asia said, distracted. She knew she was being irrational - James was attractive, and half the reason the fangirls tuned in each week was to see him with his top off (which distressed him more than he’d admit, but that was an argument for a later time), so it was expected that girls would throw themselves at him.
Finally James batted the make-up girl’s hands aside and scrambled up on the sofa to sit beside Riley for the radio interview before the live interview.
The DJ was a charming fellow, easy with the friendly banter and the jokes, loosening the boys up - since Riley was still awkward when it came to publicity and often let James answer for them both - and Asia was glad. Sometimes DJs liked to pick on James for being a pretty boy.
“What about the ladies?” the DJ asked. “James, you’re strapping and golden blond and fine with a sword - does it help? With the pulling?”
“I’m not much one for anonymous pulls, actually,” James said. “People recognize Riley more than me anyway. Unless I go out on the street wearing armor, no one looks at me twice.”
“That’s not true,” Riley said. “I mean, sure, all the girls think I look like a pixie, but you’re all strong and handsome --”
James blushed. “Yes, well, all right, being on the show has garnered me more attention on the streets, but - I’m seeing someone actually, so there you go.”
“Oh - so being on the show has helped you get a girlfriend?”
Asia didn’t hear the rest. She had told James it would be all right if he didn’t tell people about them, because he had a career to think about, and she really wouldn’t have minded, but - that he cared enough to say anything made her feel strangely warm inside. While the DJ quizzed Riley about his love life, James cast a glance toward the sidelines, and when he saw Asia, he smiled.
“I think,” Devon said, “you’ve just been made on national radio.”
“I think you’re right,” Asia agreed.
James grinned and made a motion liked swinging a sword, and Asia felt strangely warm, calm.
(468 words)
Asia shrugged and watched with narrow eyes as the make-up girl spent longer than necessary combing James’s hair. “Yes, well, this one is going to be special, isn’t it? Usually the fans don’t see me live. I have to go out there and get my spar on.”
“I saw you and James rehearsing the routine,” Devon said. “It looked fine to me.”
“James is fine with a sword,” Asia said, distracted. She knew she was being irrational - James was attractive, and half the reason the fangirls tuned in each week was to see him with his top off (which distressed him more than he’d admit, but that was an argument for a later time), so it was expected that girls would throw themselves at him.
Finally James batted the make-up girl’s hands aside and scrambled up on the sofa to sit beside Riley for the radio interview before the live interview.
The DJ was a charming fellow, easy with the friendly banter and the jokes, loosening the boys up - since Riley was still awkward when it came to publicity and often let James answer for them both - and Asia was glad. Sometimes DJs liked to pick on James for being a pretty boy.
“What about the ladies?” the DJ asked. “James, you’re strapping and golden blond and fine with a sword - does it help? With the pulling?”
“I’m not much one for anonymous pulls, actually,” James said. “People recognize Riley more than me anyway. Unless I go out on the street wearing armor, no one looks at me twice.”
“That’s not true,” Riley said. “I mean, sure, all the girls think I look like a pixie, but you’re all strong and handsome --”
James blushed. “Yes, well, all right, being on the show has garnered me more attention on the streets, but - I’m seeing someone actually, so there you go.”
“Oh - so being on the show has helped you get a girlfriend?”
Asia didn’t hear the rest. She had told James it would be all right if he didn’t tell people about them, because he had a career to think about, and she really wouldn’t have minded, but - that he cared enough to say anything made her feel strangely warm inside. While the DJ quizzed Riley about his love life, James cast a glance toward the sidelines, and when he saw Asia, he smiled.
“I think,” Devon said, “you’ve just been made on national radio.”
“I think you’re right,” Asia agreed.
James grinned and made a motion liked swinging a sword, and Asia felt strangely warm, calm.
(468 words)
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Concept of a Surprise
Joe slipped the blindfold over Jen's eyes and gently but firmly tied it, blocking her view of the world.
"Joe. What are you doing?" Jen asked with laughter in her voice.
"You'll see," he said as he helped her into the car.
"So where are we going?" Jen asked as they accelerated into the flow of traffic.
"You don't get the concept of a surprise do you?" Joe teased.
"Can I ask questions?"
"I won't guarantee that I will answer them," Joe said with a grin.
"That's not fair," Jen pouted.
"Have I ever told you how adorable you are when you pout?" Joe asked as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
They kept up the easy banter as they drove along. After what seemed like a short time, Joe was pulling the car off the road and onto a bumpy path. Joe knelt next to the car of Jen's side and slipped off her shoes.
"Hey," Jen protested, but Joe silenced her wit ha finger on her lips. He helped Jen out the car and she felt a fresh breeze blowing across her face and the moisture of a nearby body of water. She felt soft cool grass and earth beneath her feet. Joe took both her hands and lead her forward; she could sense the warmth of the sun on her face.
"Sit here," Joe said as she stepped from cool grass to soft fabric.
Jen settled herself down on the blanket and reached for the blindfold only to have Joe's strong hands arrest her own.
"Not yet," he whispered.
Jen placed her hands in her lap, waiting for him to say it was time. She could hear him rustling around next to her and wondered what he was doing. After a few more moments, Jen felt his strong fingers slide through her hair and release the blindfold. It fell to reveal a dazzlingly beautiful sunset over a lake; surrounding the blanket was a half dozed oil lamps, and a picnic dinner.
"Oh," Jen breathed.
"Do you like it?" Joe asked, his voice holding just the barest hint of uncertainty.
Jen leaned towards him and pressed a passionate kiss to his lips. After a moment she pulled back, "I love it," she said and kissed him again before curling into his chest to watch the sun set.
"Joe. What are you doing?" Jen asked with laughter in her voice.
"You'll see," he said as he helped her into the car.
"So where are we going?" Jen asked as they accelerated into the flow of traffic.
"You don't get the concept of a surprise do you?" Joe teased.
"Can I ask questions?"
"I won't guarantee that I will answer them," Joe said with a grin.
"That's not fair," Jen pouted.
"Have I ever told you how adorable you are when you pout?" Joe asked as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
They kept up the easy banter as they drove along. After what seemed like a short time, Joe was pulling the car off the road and onto a bumpy path. Joe knelt next to the car of Jen's side and slipped off her shoes.
"Hey," Jen protested, but Joe silenced her wit ha finger on her lips. He helped Jen out the car and she felt a fresh breeze blowing across her face and the moisture of a nearby body of water. She felt soft cool grass and earth beneath her feet. Joe took both her hands and lead her forward; she could sense the warmth of the sun on her face.
"Sit here," Joe said as she stepped from cool grass to soft fabric.
Jen settled herself down on the blanket and reached for the blindfold only to have Joe's strong hands arrest her own.
"Not yet," he whispered.
Jen placed her hands in her lap, waiting for him to say it was time. She could hear him rustling around next to her and wondered what he was doing. After a few more moments, Jen felt his strong fingers slide through her hair and release the blindfold. It fell to reveal a dazzlingly beautiful sunset over a lake; surrounding the blanket was a half dozed oil lamps, and a picnic dinner.
"Oh," Jen breathed.
"Do you like it?" Joe asked, his voice holding just the barest hint of uncertainty.
Jen leaned towards him and pressed a passionate kiss to his lips. After a moment she pulled back, "I love it," she said and kissed him again before curling into his chest to watch the sun set.
What Matters
“I don’t trust your intentions toward my brother.” Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and did her best to stare Asia down.
Asia briefly considered refusing to look up, continuing chopping carrots, but then she sighed and set her knife down. “I can understand your skepticism, seeing how we only started dating after the show drew its first six million, but what I feel for James has nothing to do with how famous he is.”
Natasha arched an eyebrow. “I’ve seen girls talking to him at pubs, smiling at him -- all his life. I’ve heard how they talk about him, how fit he is, the things they’d like to do to him --” She closed her eyes and shuddered.
“Natasha, I’d be an idiot not to realize your brother’s a very handsome man, but that’s not why I’m interested in him,” Asia said.
Natasha opened her eyes and continued to pin Asia with an expression both dubious and disdainful.
Asia had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “I’ve known James since he was in drama school. I’ve seen him first thing in the morning when he has bed-head and has been drooling all over his pillow. No matter what the fangirls think, that sort of thing is never attractive. And I love him anyway.”
Natasha’s closed-off posture made it clear that she didn’t believe it.
“Look, I’ve seen James at his worst - his sulkiest, his drunkest, his most foul-tempered when he’s ill - and I love him.”
“I’ve seen loads of girls who put up with his moods because he’s James Mallory.”
The frustration welling in Asia’s chest was enough to make her want to punch something. Again, she resisted the urge. Natasha was staring at her, waiting for some other verbal riposte. Asia reached into her pocket and drew out her wallet, rifled through it. Then she tugged out a picture and thrust it at Natasha.
Natasha’s expression went from mulish to awed in three seconds flat. “That - that’s DJ Callahan. The supermodel. And - you’re standing with him. How do you know him?”
“He’s one of my foster brothers,” Asia said.
Natasha blinked. “Wha?”
“That’s right. One of my brothers. I do his dirty laundry and feed him chicken soup when he’s sick and laugh at him when he spends his money on stupid things.” Asia smiled hopefully. “Don’t you see? Pretty faces and money don’t matter. What matters is love. And I love your brother.”
Natasha didn’t seem to be listening anymore, but Asia felt that it ought to be said anyway.
“I love James,” Asia said, “enough that I’d die for him. Or kill for him.”
“Right,” Natasha said faintly. It would be another ten minutes before she’d give the photo back.
Asia sighed and went back to chopping carrots.
She didn’t notice James lingering in the kitchen doorway, watching her and smiling.
(480 words)
Asia briefly considered refusing to look up, continuing chopping carrots, but then she sighed and set her knife down. “I can understand your skepticism, seeing how we only started dating after the show drew its first six million, but what I feel for James has nothing to do with how famous he is.”
Natasha arched an eyebrow. “I’ve seen girls talking to him at pubs, smiling at him -- all his life. I’ve heard how they talk about him, how fit he is, the things they’d like to do to him --” She closed her eyes and shuddered.
“Natasha, I’d be an idiot not to realize your brother’s a very handsome man, but that’s not why I’m interested in him,” Asia said.
Natasha opened her eyes and continued to pin Asia with an expression both dubious and disdainful.
Asia had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “I’ve known James since he was in drama school. I’ve seen him first thing in the morning when he has bed-head and has been drooling all over his pillow. No matter what the fangirls think, that sort of thing is never attractive. And I love him anyway.”
Natasha’s closed-off posture made it clear that she didn’t believe it.
“Look, I’ve seen James at his worst - his sulkiest, his drunkest, his most foul-tempered when he’s ill - and I love him.”
“I’ve seen loads of girls who put up with his moods because he’s James Mallory.”
The frustration welling in Asia’s chest was enough to make her want to punch something. Again, she resisted the urge. Natasha was staring at her, waiting for some other verbal riposte. Asia reached into her pocket and drew out her wallet, rifled through it. Then she tugged out a picture and thrust it at Natasha.
Natasha’s expression went from mulish to awed in three seconds flat. “That - that’s DJ Callahan. The supermodel. And - you’re standing with him. How do you know him?”
“He’s one of my foster brothers,” Asia said.
Natasha blinked. “Wha?”
“That’s right. One of my brothers. I do his dirty laundry and feed him chicken soup when he’s sick and laugh at him when he spends his money on stupid things.” Asia smiled hopefully. “Don’t you see? Pretty faces and money don’t matter. What matters is love. And I love your brother.”
Natasha didn’t seem to be listening anymore, but Asia felt that it ought to be said anyway.
“I love James,” Asia said, “enough that I’d die for him. Or kill for him.”
“Right,” Natasha said faintly. It would be another ten minutes before she’d give the photo back.
Asia sighed and went back to chopping carrots.
She didn’t notice James lingering in the kitchen doorway, watching her and smiling.
(480 words)
I Put Something On Your iPod
Asia awoke abruptly when she sensed someone ducking out of her hotel room.
The only people who could get into her room totally unnoticed were on her team. Anyone else who might sneak into her room in the wee hours of the morning without disturbing her had to be someone familiar, someone she instinctually knew was safe.
The only people she could think of were the principal actors, and if they were sneaking into rooms, pranks were bound to ensue. Asia crept around her room, checking nooks and crannies, her luggage and furniture and even the door for any prank rigging, but there was nothing. She scoured the bathroom before she dared shower, but as it turned out, nothing was amiss. She scooped up her iPod and went to pocket it, and that was when she noticed the sticky note on the screen.
I put something on your iPod, it read. She’d know that handwriting anywhere. Asia immediately turned on her iPod and thumbed through the “recently added” list, but she saw nothing. Then she thumbed through her videos, but again, nothing was out of the ordinary. And then she spotted it, a brand new playlist labeled Jamie. At first she was tempted to scroll through it and see what songs James had deemed worthy of representing him on her iPod forever, but then Asia decided she wanted to be surprised.
She put in the earbuds, grabbed her training bag, and decided to walk to the castle. No one had to know that she didn’t take a car. As she walked, she listened to the songs he had cobbled together: Rest in Peace by James Marsters, because James liked Buffy; Sweet Child of Mine by Guns’n’Roses; The Prettiest Star by David Bowie, and --
Asia went still, closed her eyes, and drank in the sound of James’s voice.
As soon as she heard the words The Wart she knew what book he was reading from even if she’d read the book a thousand times over the years. Asia stood in the middle of a wooded glade, head tipped back, lost in the cadence and rhythms of the voice that led her from her nightmares.
When the words ended, another song kicked on - Baby Can I Hold You, the Boyzone version - and Asia resumed walking.
For the next week, anyone who spotted her listening to her iPod would occasionally notice that, randomly, she would stop whatever she was doing and close her eyes, go completely still, and lose herself in whatever she was listening to, and then when it ended she would go on as if nothing strange had happened.
As Asia listened to James’s voice, she determined to find some way to hint to him that next time, he should read her a sonnet.
(463 words)
The only people who could get into her room totally unnoticed were on her team. Anyone else who might sneak into her room in the wee hours of the morning without disturbing her had to be someone familiar, someone she instinctually knew was safe.
The only people she could think of were the principal actors, and if they were sneaking into rooms, pranks were bound to ensue. Asia crept around her room, checking nooks and crannies, her luggage and furniture and even the door for any prank rigging, but there was nothing. She scoured the bathroom before she dared shower, but as it turned out, nothing was amiss. She scooped up her iPod and went to pocket it, and that was when she noticed the sticky note on the screen.
I put something on your iPod, it read. She’d know that handwriting anywhere. Asia immediately turned on her iPod and thumbed through the “recently added” list, but she saw nothing. Then she thumbed through her videos, but again, nothing was out of the ordinary. And then she spotted it, a brand new playlist labeled Jamie. At first she was tempted to scroll through it and see what songs James had deemed worthy of representing him on her iPod forever, but then Asia decided she wanted to be surprised.
She put in the earbuds, grabbed her training bag, and decided to walk to the castle. No one had to know that she didn’t take a car. As she walked, she listened to the songs he had cobbled together: Rest in Peace by James Marsters, because James liked Buffy; Sweet Child of Mine by Guns’n’Roses; The Prettiest Star by David Bowie, and --
Asia went still, closed her eyes, and drank in the sound of James’s voice.
As soon as she heard the words The Wart she knew what book he was reading from even if she’d read the book a thousand times over the years. Asia stood in the middle of a wooded glade, head tipped back, lost in the cadence and rhythms of the voice that led her from her nightmares.
When the words ended, another song kicked on - Baby Can I Hold You, the Boyzone version - and Asia resumed walking.
For the next week, anyone who spotted her listening to her iPod would occasionally notice that, randomly, she would stop whatever she was doing and close her eyes, go completely still, and lose herself in whatever she was listening to, and then when it ended she would go on as if nothing strange had happened.
As Asia listened to James’s voice, she determined to find some way to hint to him that next time, he should read her a sonnet.
(463 words)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Project Assignment # 56 - Fluff
Yup. You heard it right folks. This week is all about the fluff.
500 words max.
Get out all your warm fuzzies and get to writing fluff.
500 words max.
Get out all your warm fuzzies and get to writing fluff.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Overview #55: Urban Fantasy
I confess I was, in part, inspired to create this project after reading Holly Black's Tithe, which I enjoyed but I didn't find nearly as accessible as The Demon's Lexicon or The Mortal Instruments Trilogy, both of which are pretty awesome urban fantasy. I think I have a pretty good start on characters and a universe sketched out, but I don't know that anything I produced this week would actually be a good start for a novel itself. I sort of lost some of the urban after the first piece, because the mark of Urban fantasy is that it's set in a city, so readers can experience the bizarre juxtaposition of fast-paced modern life thrown in with the usually medieval conceptions of traditional high fantasy. Of course, the urban setting often lends a certain urgency and energy to the fantastical elements that develop. I have no idea what central conflict I could derive from the characters and setting I've created, but I think I did a decent job of weaving the mundane and supernatural.
Why does it always come back to Angels for me? Even the Wordsmith-verse had angelic elements in it.
Go figure.
Why does it always come back to Angels for me? Even the Wordsmith-verse had angelic elements in it.
Go figure.
The Fallen
“You’ll never guess who I caught singing in the streets the other day,” Kyle said, and for a moment Cody had no clue what he was talking about, but then Elise asked,
“Who?”
“Abbadon.”
Cody sucked in a breath sharply. “What? But I thought The Fallen didn’t have Voices.”
“Not natural ones,” Kyle said. “But the government hates it when ordinary people have an edge over them. So they tried to find voices of their own.”
“Who else has a choirboy, that you know of?” Marsh tossed a pair of dice up in the air, caught them with practiced ease.
“Olivier, or so the rumor goes.”
Cody could only stare as Kyle hoisted himself up onto the railing and perched for a moment, looking so much like one of those morons who tried to suicide off the footbridge between Nebraska and Iowa. Then Kyle stepped off the railing - and into the air. Marsh swore under his breath, and Cody saw Elise’s grip on her guitar go white-knuckled, but Kyle hovered for a moment, then began to descend slowly, gently, as if on an invisible elevator. In a movie he’d have been accompanied by a pillar of light filled with swirling dust motes.
“Malpas and Samael, too. Maybe even Zagan,” Kyle said. He paused, beckoned, and Cody’s entire world was filled with the beating of mighty wings.
Then Gabriel appeared on the ground beside Kyle. Amidst the shadows and the rubble, Gabriel looked too bright, too vivid to be real.
“Can the listeners catch on to them, too?” Elise asked.
Kyle nodded. “I suspect Olivier let himself be caught. Imagine what the government will do, once it has what it thinks is an actual Angel in its grasp?”
“We already fought this war,” Cody said. “The Fallen have their answer - and one third of us. What’s going on?”
“Don’t you get it?” Marsh asked, his voice tight. He was staring at his dice where they lay on his open palm. Snake eyes. “This is a whole new war.”
(338 words)
“Who?”
“Abbadon.”
Cody sucked in a breath sharply. “What? But I thought The Fallen didn’t have Voices.”
“Not natural ones,” Kyle said. “But the government hates it when ordinary people have an edge over them. So they tried to find voices of their own.”
“Who else has a choirboy, that you know of?” Marsh tossed a pair of dice up in the air, caught them with practiced ease.
“Olivier, or so the rumor goes.”
Cody could only stare as Kyle hoisted himself up onto the railing and perched for a moment, looking so much like one of those morons who tried to suicide off the footbridge between Nebraska and Iowa. Then Kyle stepped off the railing - and into the air. Marsh swore under his breath, and Cody saw Elise’s grip on her guitar go white-knuckled, but Kyle hovered for a moment, then began to descend slowly, gently, as if on an invisible elevator. In a movie he’d have been accompanied by a pillar of light filled with swirling dust motes.
“Malpas and Samael, too. Maybe even Zagan,” Kyle said. He paused, beckoned, and Cody’s entire world was filled with the beating of mighty wings.
Then Gabriel appeared on the ground beside Kyle. Amidst the shadows and the rubble, Gabriel looked too bright, too vivid to be real.
“Can the listeners catch on to them, too?” Elise asked.
Kyle nodded. “I suspect Olivier let himself be caught. Imagine what the government will do, once it has what it thinks is an actual Angel in its grasp?”
“We already fought this war,” Cody said. “The Fallen have their answer - and one third of us. What’s going on?”
“Don’t you get it?” Marsh asked, his voice tight. He was staring at his dice where they lay on his open palm. Snake eyes. “This is a whole new war.”
(338 words)
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