The Last Dance

“The night is almost over,” Tobias murmured in Veronica’s ear.

She nodded against his shoulder. “Indeed it is.”

“Is there no way to slow time?”

“I haven’t found one yet.” Veronica smiled faintly.

Tobias buried his face in her hair and sighed. He wondered if it was a high school cliché, to say that tonight had been the best night of his admittedly short life, and he didn’t want it to end.

“We still have the last dance,” Veronica said. They’d been swaying to slow music for the last fifteen minutes - straight duck walks, all five songs. Tobias thought a good stroll or jitterbug, a jive or a swing might liven things up - it’d be a great way to end the night, breathless and bright-eyed in each other’s arms. Veronica was a terrific dancer.

The DJ announced it, the last dance, the last three minutes Tobias would get to have Veronica in his arms, and he closed his eyes, ready for another pathetic duck walk. He loved feeling the warmth of her against him, of feeling her heartbeat against his, but this was -- too slow. He was restless, she was energetic, and...

The music that poured over the gym was a tango.

Tobias grinned. He pulled back, offered his hand and bowed. “May I have this dance?”

Veronica grinned right back at him. “You may.”

(226 words)

Hold Back or Hold On

“This is it,” Dylan said. He leaned against the railing, gazed out at the skyline where high-rises made it jagged, unnatural. He would miss the way the blues and greens played on the edges of the bay, the twinkle of the cable car up to the peak. He wouldn’t miss much else, not as long as Celia was beside him.

“The last fight,” Celia agreed. She nudged his shoulder with hers, the gesture subtle but comforting; he could feel the warmth of her through the sleeve of his jacket.

“I won’t hold back,” he said.

“I don’t think you ever have - at least, not in the first fight,” Celia said.

Dylan ducked his head and sighed. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“You thought I was a boy.” Celia smiled easily. She turned more fully toward him, pressed herself against his side. “You really thought I was a boy?”

“That jacket doesn’t fit nearly as well as you think it does,” he said.

“Yes, well, they’re one size fits all, and we don’t have money like you do. We were lucky to get cute matching jackets at all.” Celia fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve experimentally. “It’s a good thing Tiger has retarded notions about the 1950’s, eh?”

“Indeed,” Dylan agreed, tone mock-solemn. They stood, gazing out at the skyline in comfortable silence. Then Dylan sighed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Celia said. “You know I’m a capable fighter.”

Dylan turned to her, tugged her close, arms wrapped around her waist. “I know you are. It’s just --”

Celia’s golden eyes gleamed. “We have to make it believable. Give it your all, and I’ll do the rest.”

“Okay,” Dylan said. “One last fight.”

“Last fight,” Celia agreed, and kissed him.

Dragon pulled back when a car horn sounded from the street below. Soren and the others hollered for him to come take a ride.

“Catch you later, Demon,” Dragon said.

“Later,” Seal agreed. She watched him vault over the side of the balcony, shimmy down the tree with the agility of a professional acrobat. He had no idea what would hit him.

(362 words)

Last Kiss

James sat in the waiting room at the hospital, staring at his shoes. He had his hoodie pulled up to hide his face; he couldn’t deal with fans right then. He could remember, with painstaking clarity, their last kiss. It had been - innocuous. Soft and brief, the press of her lips against his as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her shoes.

“Going for a run,” she’d said, leaned down and pressed her lips to his. “I’ll bring back some fresh bread and cream, all right? Maybe some strawberries.”

“Fraises,” he’d murmured, half awake, drinking in the sight of her backlit by the morning sun.

And then she’d gone.

When Tobias stepped out of the little side room where the doctor had asked to speak to him, James knew. Tobias’s face was pale, expression dangerously blank - especially on an actor - and then he spoke. James saw Tobias’s mouth shape words, heard syllables, but nothing made sense.

After a few moments, he buried his face in his hands and cried.

(173 words)

Supper, First and Last

“What are you doing?” Jade stood in the doorway of the tent, arms crossed over his chest. Without his curls he looked older, more dangerous. With the curls, he’d looked benign and boyish. Puppy-like.

Tobias was kneading dough with easy hands, humming an old jazz tune under his breath as he worked. “Sourdough bread. Homemade. Family recipe, as it were. Some of the boys said they were hankering for good sandwiches, and wonderbread doesn’t cut it out here.”

“You say it like it’s their last meal,” Jade said.

Tobias glanced over his shoulder; his eyes were dark. “For some of them it is.”

Jade took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his cheekbone where he’d caught some flak from an explosion earlier that day. “Right. Now that I’m - “ he gestured at himself vaguely - “I forget it’s so much harder for everyone else. To survive.”

“Yes, well, I figure some of the grunts deserve some good food. After all, it’s my last meal.”

Jade looked confused. “But...you don’t have to eat.”

“I know,” Tobias said. “And since I don’t have to eat, there’s no reason for me to waste upwards of three hours a day cooking for the troops, is there? The Commander needs me for things.”

The corners of Jade’s mouth turned down as he considered Tobias’s position, and then nodded. “I guess you’re right. Asia always used to tell me you were the best cook, you know. When she was training me to fly. I guess if you’re never going to cook again, you might as well go out with a --”

“Fondue,” Tobias said.

“Right,” Jade agreed, and grimaced at his poor decision to use a cliché.

Tobias used his elbow to point to a rolling pin. “Ever made pie from scratch?”

Jade rolled his sleeves up. “No. But there’s a first time for everything.”

“And a last,” Tobias agreed.

(316 words)

Knew it was a Lie

Joe glanced around guiltily as he ducked from the lighted street into a partially shadowed doorway. He pulled the door closed firmly behind him and made sure it was locked before he even turned away from it.

The hall that stretched before him was illuminated looked like any other hallway in a city condo building. Joe paced down the carpeted alley; making no noise as he passed five doors; three hundred paces to his final destination. Joe raised one fist and knocked gently.

The door was pulled open a crack and then shut again, he could hear the chain rattling on the other side of the wood. As soon as the door was open wide enough he slipped through and gently shut the door behind him so that no one would notice his passing.

The room was dim, though he could see well enough. He knew these rooms like his own and didn't hesitate as he toed off his shoes by the door and hung up his jacket. He could hear breathing coming from his right and turned to face Jen.

Joe took two steps and was enfolded in a soft and sensual embrace; his lips eagerly seeking out hers. Kisses that were soft and urgent quickly turned demanding and passionate; teeth clashing and tongues entwining. Joe quickly lost his shirt as he was backed up against the wall.

Hours later, he slipped quietly from the apartment on stockinged feet.

Each time Joe told himself that it was the last time. But he knew that it was a lie.

Overview # 61 - Poetry

So I was on a roll this week, but I ended up stumbling at the end of the week. I did turn out some poetry that I thought was rather well done and some that was not so much. I must say, writing the Dance club poem for me was intense as I remembered. Funny how memories can be so potent, and others that are just as important begin to fade...

Project #63: This is the Last Time

So...last times for characters. The last time David saw Ari alive. The last time Asia kissed James. The last time Joe held a gun. It's the last time for someone, so make it good. 100-400 words.

Overview #62: Poetry

So I started writing for this challenge at about 4 a.m. Sunday the week it began. The challenge was poetry, and the wordcount was unlimited, so I thought - well, what type of poetry represents an unlimited wordcount better than epic poetry? Of course, I'm no poet, so taking on an epic poem was really quite delusional of me. And it went pretty badly - it started off in the present tense, and switched to past tense, and then somewhere along the way I forgot what the verb tense was for each section anyway. It was a whole lot of description, similes and metaphors piled onto each other to make pointless things concrete. Some of it was real (like I google the directions from Glastonbury to Bath and then from Bath to Dinas Emrys), and some of it was totally made up (Arthur had no reason to be really hanging around Aquae Sulis), and some of it was more old-fashioned than necessary (Caledfwlch for Excalibur), but it was fun to write nevertheless, since I've been digging on Arthurian legends as of late. I structured the poem based on the typical conflicts found in fiction (self v. self, self v. another character, self v. society, &c), and I had a lot of fun with it (although technically there are seven standard conflicts; our weekly challenges only leave room for six.

So I was overambitious and under-performing, but it was good fun this week.

Six Conflicts: VI

Denouement: Magic

The green waters of Aquae Sulis
Wash over him,
From crown to toe,
Warm and cleansing.
He breaks the surface,
Motion clean as a knife through flesh,
And he tips his head back,
Parts his lips in a breath,
A prayer to the stars.

He dresses as he did
At the last battle,
With his own hands –
Linen and gambeson,
Hauberk and pauldron,
Greaves and cuisses and gauntlets.
He smoothes his hands over the lines
Of his surcoat,
Of the blood-red and the dragon-gold,
And then he reaches for his helm.

The final battle is
Without opponent or spy,
Foe or troops.
It is for him alone,
And the voice calls
More urgently, pleading,
Come to me,
Free me,
They need you.

I need you.

He walks longer than before,
One foot in front of the other,
Head held high,
Gaze on the horizon,
Feeling the tug of destiny
Low in his belly,
Like the needle of a compass
Swinging toward Polaris.
Days and nights pass,
Cars roar by,
People yell and shout and cry,
What are you wearing?
Where are you going?
Are you mad?
But he ignores them all,
Because he can hear the call.

For a man to walk so,
Unsleeping, unstopping,
Without food or drink –
He knows the hunger and
Fatigue settling into his bones
Like the weight of his armor trebled –
The unnaturalness of it all is a sign.

Magic.

Like vanishing into thin air
With an icy blizzard for a wake.
Like razing an army with a handful of lightning.
Like summoning a lady –
Gleaming, glittering,
Beautiful beyond words –
From a lake.

The tower is in shambles,
A collection of rocks
Like a handful of pebbles thrown down
By a giant child
(Whose father he had likely slain).

The call tugs faster,
More insistent, vibrating
Through his blood like the
Buzz of battle.
He has Caledfwlch in his hand,
And he stands over the heap of stones,
Listening to the please please please
And hearing the song of the stars.

He drives the sword down,
Into the stone,
Into the earth,
And he knows that he can never
Pull the sword
From the stone again.

The ground quivers.
He casts about for balance,
A new sailor at sea,
And the song of the stars
Becomes real,
Dancing on air,
A weaving of notes
And whispers,
And then the earth opens,
Lips parted in a prayer toward the sky.

Emrys opens his eyes.
Rex quondam rexque futurus,
He says.
Arcturus holds out his hand.
Our people need us.

Six Conflicts: V

Society

The map is shiny-slick
Between his fingers,
Littered with tiny lines
And letters-numbers-words,
But he remembers
Broader maps of
Mountains-rivers-kingdoms
And he knows how to get
Where he's going.

Were he at his best –
Armored,
Weapon-strong,
Well-rested and well-fed
On freshly-caught venison
And thick stew from
The Chief Cook's hand –
He could march it in one day,
Imagine the steady
Thump-thump-thump
Of his knights and soldiers
Behind him
Beneath the fluttering penant
Of gules on a dragon passant.

But he is barely stronger
Than a boy,
Thin-limbed and frail
From sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.
So he folds the map into his pocket,
Seeks the skyline to divine
The compass point,
And he walks.

The grassy roadsides,
Gently-sloping hills,
Footpaths worn by marches previous –
They are his trail,
Cobbled together by questions,
Answers from a man outside a pub,
Puffing on a pipe
Who rolls his r's like the Sons of Orkney,
A group of giggling women-children
With painted faces and innocent-wide eyes.

Those lightning-fast machines,
Cars – steel and cold,
Wild beasts
Without the familiar
Affection and courage
Of a destrier raised from colt-hood –
Speed past,
Littering the air with
Mocking cries and
Honking horns
Like an army of jeering geese.

Only a madman would walk,
Or so these people think,
But then they do not remember
The long marches of tired men
In battered, blood-stained armor
That united this country.

He sleeps beneath the trees
And the stars –
Sky and Starlight –
Until uniformed enforcers,
More brutish, less trained
Than his shining ranks of
Knights upon knights,
Nudge him awake with their boots
And grunt for him to Move along, move along.

Why has he no food?
Why has he no clothes?
Why has he no money?
He is mad – he should be at home.
But he needs none of these things,
He explains, hands still, cautious.
They offer him help, assistance,
A bed for the night.

He cannot explain
That even a king
Can sleep in the dirt
Of his kingdom,
And a man on a quest
Need only be led
By the stars.

Earth and Sea

I see you clearly on the path;
You are borne upon a gale.
Shrouded round in mystery;
From unknown lands you hail.

A boat to be your chariot;
A star to be your crown.
The wind to be your calling trump';
the world to gather round'.

The sun shines from your blazing eye;
O God of earth and sea.
And I would to thee worship;
If thou look'st on me

Six Conflicts: IV

Destiny

In the daily struggle of
get up
get out of bed
feet on the ground
push buttons
in the proper order
of one two three
red blue green
He forgets why he is
Awake.

Awake –
Not trapped in a cave
Beneath a winding sheet
Caged in rusting armor.
Awake –
Moving through a world
Of sound-light-air
And plastic-paper-electricity.

Destiny, he has heard
From the homeless man on the corner
Dirt-streaked and God-preaching,
Comes in visions
And dreams.
When he sleeps –
Back against the wall,
Clutching for Caledfwlch
With empty hands –
He does not dream.

He remembers –
Jenny, pretty Jenny,
All golden-haired and wide-eyed
And traitor-queen-wife;
Chasing arrows through
A brown-green undergrowth
For snarling, posturing Cei;
The wizened old man with the
Nut-brown, wrinkled face
Who was more handsome and
Youthful
Every day that dawned.

In the middle of the shop
He calls work –
Where he answers to
Oi, Pretty Boy
and not
My Liege –
He remembers the voice,
Whisper soft and piercing,
An arrow through his heart.
He remembers come to me
and your people need you.

He remembers
Stars and Sky,
Gentle fingertips brushing
His eyelids closed in a final
Farewell,
For the next time he sees 
Stars and Sky
It should be hello.

Aquae Sulis is the answer,
The place of prayer and
Cleansing before the
Old Gods.
Kingship is for the pure in heart,
And he has been empty of heart,
Empty of mind with the
Constant pressing of
Buttons buttons buttons.

He closes his eyes and remembers
The Voice
Calling Sire, and My Liege
and my friend.
He remembers the promise
He kept,
He gave.
When your people need you.

I will rise again.

Reviresco.

He leaves the buttons behind.

Arrow to the Mark

I never thought that I would fall in love.
There were so many I had admired.
But none that found my heart;
sure as an arrow to the mark.

I wasn't sure that I could love.
And you can out of the blue.
I was stunned by what I had discovered;
That all I wanted was you.

My day begins when I see your face;
And night falls when you are gone.
Now it is perpetual night;
And I don't know how to be strong

I hold you in my memories
And kiss you in my mind
I want you to come back to me
And bring again the sun.

Six Conflicts: III

Technology

This modern world
- modern; he likes to roll the word
On his tongue
Like a sugary lozenge
That he unwraps with careful,
Weapon-scarred hands –
Is a curious combination of
Inaction and speed.

The pushing, tapping, poking
At buttons while seated and staring
At things bright and glaring
Is enough to drive him mad.
The rush of wind through his hair
- the ghost of fingers
in a hazy caress –
On the buses, trains, cars
Is an unexpected thrill,
The thrust of blood
Through his veins
In the last moments before the herald
Called Slay on.

He feels feeble, less of a man
To press a button and watch a fire burn
Than to perspire over the heave of an axe
And the minor thunder-crack of
Splitting logs.
He feels cheated,
Aching with unslaked vengeance
When police swarm a criminal,
A foolish boy who thought to
Take on a knight.

He is still a knight,
Armor or no armor –
He can hear the clamor
And screams,
Steel on flesh,
Arrows zipping through air
At Badon Hill
and Camlann's green.

A man's strength,
He ponders, and he misses
The comforting weight
Of a sword at his hip,
Like the familiar presence
Of Cafall trotting at his heels,
Is lost to the strength of machines.

The world is clean lines,
Too-bright lights,
Inhuman precision in
Razor-sharp corners on tables
And crow-flight straightness
In the legs of chairs.

The roughness of wood
From a man's uneven strokes
By blade on branch,
Curved to fit human hands
Is evidence of effort,
Blood, sweat and tears
Poured into the soil
Of the harvest of a man's labor.

Under cover of darkness
He roams the cool grass,
Barefoot to slip on dew,
Ears alert for the song of a
Grasshopper, the call of a
Bird, and winds his hands
In the motions of battles gone by.

By day he smiles,
Presses buttons,
Hands slow and clumsy
And deliberately gentle.
He learns to move to the unnatural
Thump, thump, imitation war-drums
Modern children call music
And ignore the constant noise –
Chatter, pings, flood of information –
But Albion sings in his blood,
And when he kneels in an open field,
He can feel her.

I am alive.

Time's Running Out.

Each precious second
slides into the past
Ticking of the clock
echoes heartbeats

Time running out.

Leave an impression
the world to remember
Leave them with laughter
Memories of the joy of days

Time's running out

Watch a brilliant sunrise;
count the evening stars
Dance upon the dewy grass
Sing a joyful tune

Time's running out.

Give to those who gave to you;
love that they can keep
Leave them with a gladdened heart
When you have gone to sleep.

Time's run out.

Six Conflicts: II

Character

She screamed first,
A maiden confronted by a dragon.
But he raised his hands,
The age-old gesture of surrender,
And spoke slowly, softly.

Her words were a tumble of vowels,
Foreign, incomprehenisble,
The song of water over rock.
She wore nearly nothing,
Boldened to show knees, elbows, throat,
And she carried
A man’s tools,
Metal, massive,
Cave-breaking.

He tried other languages
Rusty from disuse,
Infrequent use,
Disdain for boyhood tutors.

Her French was accented,
Awkward, filled with
Foreign sounds,
But the trip-hammer of his heart
Against his hauberk calmed
At her first, Je m’appelle Celine.

The hunger that overtook him –
Ripped through his limbs
Like lightning across the sky –
Overthrew any doubt
- guilt, awkwardness –
Of walking with a woman unchaperoned.

He followed her,
Wobbling fawn-like on legs
Unused to the smooth, stony black
She called road.

Her food was bright,
Soft, too sweet,
Too light,
And he fumbled at the shiny-smooth
Packages, at the parchment-thin glass
That crackled like popping fire.
But the hunger in his belly subsided.

Hands on skin
Made him shiver, blush
Like a lad at his first tumble,
But she was clinical, neat,
As she peeled his hauberk away from
His skin, eased the weight of battle
From his aching shoulders.

The things she called clothes –
And the whispering voice in the
Back of his skull that
Prodded at his thoughts
And curled at his ear
Like a lover's caress
Taught him words
Phrases,
Hello and jeans –
Were sturdy, strong,
Ill-fitting as if he were
Attempting his father's garb
Attempting his father's crown
When still just a boy.

Aquae Sulis
He was looking for.
Complete with scrubbing and
Praying motions,
Clumsy by his fighters' hands.

She pressed a map –
Shiny, colorful,
Roman tiles polished to gleaming
In sky-grass-earth
Blue-green-brown.

Bath, she called it.
Goodbye. She hugged him.
Good luck. She waved.
My King. She bowed.
He bowed.

No one's King.

Not yet.

I'm coming.

One Night

Eyes meet through masses of bodies
Everyone moving in time to the beat
Pounding rhythm that vibrates bones
And sets the blood racing.

Raised eyebrows and a beckoning gesture
And you are with me. Moving,
Bodies meeting in a wordless need
To be held, to forget and just feel.

Time looses meaning as the beat rages.
Intertwine together, merging in need and desire
Pulling close, teasing, sweat dripping
Every sense heightened.

Muskiness at his throat; feeling his pulse,
barest stubble along his jaw.
Hands exploring, running over body contours,
Firm chest, strong arms, sensual hands, soft lips.

Mouths meet, hungry yet gentle;
exploring. Intoxicating darkness
envelops dancers, hiding them.
Pull me close; hold me tight, move with me.

Satisfy my need for one night only.

Six Conflicts: I

Self

It’s the call of two best friends
Sky and Stars
Who’d join hands
In a jar full of fireflies
And decorate the firmament with
Constellations.

It’s the sleep earned by kings
Fallen in battle
Whose nations are footnotes
And fodder for bard songs.

It’s the war of the two
Clamoring in his head.
The call begs him rise, come,
Step out of his stone-walled prison.
It’s a voice on the wind,
In the crashing waves on the sea.
It’s begging and pleading.

It echoes a memory,
A woman kneeling at his feet,
Sobbing,
I love you both.

Pleading tastes of ashes
On his lips,
And he wishes the sea
Would wash away the taste,
Replace salt for salt.

Come to me.

The lure of sleep is calm, lulling,
The sway of tall grass in the breeze,
The rough, solidarity of wheat
Between his fingertips
As he reaches out for a handful of field.
Sleep promises
A cocoon of warmth,
Sunlight on a spring day.

It echoes a memory,
The broken sound of men
Weeping, creaking in their armor,
The scratchy-warm half-comfort of the linen
Shroud they wrapped around him,
Round and round, winding,
Wound.

And then they lowered him
Into the ground.

Sleep forever.

Behind his eyelids,
In the hollow in his chest
Where his heart used to beat
Two voices clamor
For answers.

Come to me.
Sleep forever.

Sunlight breaks upon
Starlight.
Fireflies dissolve from between
Fingertips like
Wheat crushed in a gauntleted fist.

Voices clash,
And it’s a tug, tug, tug,
Of war,
Of strength,
Of wills,
Of ex calce liberatus

And he opens his eyes,
Rex quondam rexque futurus.

Your people need you.

Project Assignment # 62 - Poetry

This week is free poetry writing! Any form, any theme, and genre. Create something beautiful or something thought provoking, something leaning towards horror or something downright funny.

No word limit.

Overview #61: The Departed

This week was the first time in a while I've shortchanged. Near the end I broke away from the formal sterility of actual obituaries and went for the informal ones, the obituaries that are part eulogy. I hit up some of the eulogies I love, like the reprise of "I'll Cover You" during Angel's funeral in RENT, the song one in "Love Actually", and I tried to think of non-traditional ways that people might want to remember a friend. I did one totally non-verse random piece because I could (although anyone who cared/was nerdy enough would notice that the characters' names all come from a common set). At the beginning of the week I'd intended to write an obituary for each of Asia's undercover aliases for her different lives with the guys, and I managed - Keith's Holly, Sam's Amy, DJ's Celia. It occurred to me that Christian's Anna wouldn't get an obituary, and I couldn't think of what to say for Tobias's Veronica, so there you go. Ultimately, it was an interesting writing exercise, trying to combine the best of a person in a few short words.

Overview #61: The Departed

Okay, so I failed in getting all my posts in, but what I did post I though was rather well done. I am sure there were some random stylistic and grammatical errors though. What can I say. Life gets in the way. I pray to do better this next week. Not to mention how long it has been since I did an overview.... :P

Memories and Sentiments

They’d hovered on the edges of the cemetery, watching the priest spout his nonsense, the case workers and hired mourners do their bit. Casey had almost done his nut when he saw the Dragon lingering on the outskirts of the crowd, dressed in sombre black. What the hell right did he think he had, showing up to her funeral?

The message on her tombstone was pathetic, “Precious Daughter”, because she’d had no parents of which to speak. The newspaper had only garbled about what a good student she was and how unfortunate her childhood had been. Casey and Trick and the others exchanged glances, and they knew what they would do.

They managed to get halfway through Seal’s official obituary - cans of spray paint, a blank wall in Wan Chai - before the cops came, and then they ran, but they’d managed to say what they wanted to say.

Dearest Sister and Fists of Fury; chess and tea under the moonlight; That time at that place with those firecrackers; the Lion Dance on New Year’s. A smattering of memories and sentiments, epitaphs and slogans. Fought with the best, died like the rest.

When Casey and the others returned the next day, they saw that someone else had added to their work, a great red oriental dragon melting out of the smoke from a rising phoenix.

With Everything He Had

“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)

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..."

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)

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.

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.

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)

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.”

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.

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.

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)

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.

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.

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)

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.

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)

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.

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)

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)

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.

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

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.

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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.

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)

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.

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.

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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.

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)

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.

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.

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.