Project Assignment # 66 - Bad Moods

How do your characters deal with a bad mood? Does Keith start burning random things to cheer himself up? Does Bryan drive Mark mad when he is in a bad mood? How do our boys exhibit their powers, or lack thereof?

let set a limit of 200. Short and simple

happy writing!

Prize to the winner at the end of the week.

Overview #65: Armed & Dangerous

So this was a lot of fun. A very short word count each day helped a lot - I think my understanding of brevity has gotten a little lax with such massive word counts as of late. Certain things are sacrificed in the name of brevity, certain things that maybe don't have to be sacrificed. I definitely learned from this week's exercise, not just about my characters but also about writing short again.

And...I take it back.

This week's winner is totally me. Self-prize to follow at the usual place.

This One Thing

“Well?” Tobias asked.

“Well, everything’s gone to hell as much as it can, given that we have a telepath, a telekinetic, a pyrokinetic, an astral projectionist, a shapeshifter, and someone who can see the future on the team,” Keith said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“So I take it nothing we can do will get past the guards,” Gabriel said in a mock-reasonable tone.

“Yes,” Keith said.

Christian sighed. “There is this one thing.”

“What thing?” DJ asked.

Christian peered up over the edge of the barrier, cupped his hands, and blew.

Quislai diamond dust exploded across the gate.

Every Inch

"Would you like a copy watch?" Angel held open his coat. The irony was that all the Rolexes in his coat were real. There were never any takers, though, not when he greased his hair back and mocked up a thick Bengali accent and smelled faintly of curry. The man grimaced and waved a dismissive hand, turned away.

"Really, a new watch would help you attract the ladies, yeah?" Angel slung an arm around the man's shoulders, every inch the pushy salesman. The man turned, ready to protest, and Angel reached up with his other hand, snapped the man's neck.

Recipe for Death

Mark carefully combined his ingredients, scrupulously making sure that all of his skin was covered and his face mask and eye protection were in place.

Various vials of chemicals and other toxins were neatly arranged on his work surface. Mark worked precisely, adding a few drops of Potassium Cyanide to Japanese puffer fish venom, forming a clear toxic fluid.

Mark added exactly five drops of the poison to a bottle of fine cologne and packaged it neatly in a gift box.

Three days later the death was reported in the news as a heart attack.

Dance of Death

Bryan beckoned the pretty lady towards him, his smile seductive and full of the promise of adventure. His eyes glittered with something mysterious and his hips moved sinuously in time to the music.

Bryan pulled her close as she stepped towards him, their bodies moving in synchronization, his lips brushing her neck as they twined together.

"Let's get out of here," Bryan whispered in her ear, his voice low and husky.

The woman smiled and took his hand to lead him outside.

She was smiling up to the point when he neatly slid a knife between her ribs.

Mission accomplished.

Precision Strike

Joe crouched back into a fighters stance, one that bespoke of quick reflexes and powerful strikes. His eyes took in his challenger; a hulk of a man, heavily muscled with a cocky smile dancing about his mouth. Joe's mind ran through instinctive calculations of weight, mass, and inertia, profiling his opponent. Joe let fear show in his eyes, the perfect lure.

Joe took a step back as the man advanced.

One quick pivot of the hips and Joe flung his fist forward with devastating power and precision, connecting solidly with his opponents sternum with a sickening crack.

Another victory gained.

Only Keith

“What’s the stealth rating on this mission again?” Keith asked.

Christian ducked down behind the wall and checked the clip on his gun, sighed. “Zero, obviously. Else we wouldn’t be having an action-movie shoot-out with the facility security.”

“Why are we sitting here shooting, then?” Keith asked.

“Got a better idea?”

Keith curled his hands into fists, and his grin turned decidedly wicked. “Got a better weapon.” He stood up, and flames flared to life on his palms. He began to hurl them across the room.

Christian cringed at the scent of burning flesh, the screams. Only Keith.

So Surprised

They thought he was insane; there was no reason to attempt to decipher his unintelligible mutterings as he sat in the corner, rocking back and forth and talking at nothing, grimy fingers drawing obscure symbols on the linoleum. If Cody kept his head down, they barely noticed him.

It was precisely the way he wanted it. It took days, weeks, almost a full-on month to secure the spell, and he’d had to restart several components because he was working from memory. What they took to be insane mutterings were incantations, and they looked so surprised when the walls fell.

All of Those Things

It was the smile, the slow, gentle curve of his lips, the coy tilt of his head, the glimmer of blue as he peered up from beneath his lashes; it was the slender lines of his body and the smooth ripple of muscle under skin as he moved; it was the fine lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the silky-smooth paleness of his hair. It was the song festooning the air as his long-fingered hands drew music from the strings of a guitar. It was all of those things that made people miss the first punch every time.

Sneak Attack

"You're never going to get any better if you don't practice," David said, leaning against his foam sword.

"What's the point, I'll never beat you," Ariana pouted.

"Yes you will, but you must practice. Now, try again," David commanded.

Ariana narrowed her eyes at him as he began to stalk towards her. As he approached she rushed past his defenses and pressed her lips to his in a long kiss.

David was taken by surprise and his brain seemed to fizzle out. He was brought back to the present when he felt a blow to his back.

"Dead." Ariana said.

Seriously

It was the wide eyes, the trembling lower lip, the suspicious glimmer of tears on eyelashes, tears that would drop like crystals and draw shining silver lines down smooth cheeks, it was the hitch of breath in the throat and the beginnings of a sob –

It worked every time. Gabriel sighed and surrendered the sword. Instantly the tearful expression vanished, and Kyle leapt to his feet, brandishing his weapon like a miniature knight in shining armor.

Gabriel sat back and shook his head. A child that young shouldn’t have been able to defeat the general of armies of Heaven. Seriously.

Project #65: Armed and Dangerous

This week you have 100 words (set limit, to more no less) to describe your character's favorite weapon. Is it a gun? Is it a knife? Is it his smooth-as-butter English accent? Is it is disarming smile and cute southern drawl? How does he or she use it? When does he or she use it - is it for special occasions, or is it for an instant kill every time? Tell us how your characters fight and fight dirty, and show us the best - or most unusual - weapons in their arsenals.

Overview #64: Challenges

As usual, I responded better to someone else's challenge than my own, so let's see how well I do with my own challenge in the coming week, aye? Once again this was a pretty good week of characterization for me. As a general rule, the boys in Sector Five follow a pretty similar mold - they all have tragic pasts, and they're all inhuman killers now with a soft spot for their commander. It can run a little boring, right? I remembered that the best characters have flaws, and real ones. So this week I decided to explore what makes each of the boys more human than he'd like, and I did my best to tie it into their existing characters.

For example, Tobias can look like anyone he wants with the nature of his gift, but he's still scarred from the horror of both of his lives, being the quintessential high school loser on acid, and despite being a trained killer he still hates himself. Both of Gabriel's lives were rife with the horrors of racism, and it's difficult for him to pretend to be racist to get the job done. Keith's second life was set during The Troubles in Ireland, so he hates the British, and as far as he's concerned Angel, the James Bond figure, stands for all the worst of Britain, and Keith struggles with that. Angel is womanizer and has some very deeply entrenched notions of his own sexuality, and he can't let those go. Christian struggles with class issues, having swung from one end of the spectrum to the other between lives. What I liked about Christian was that I could develop his coming to grips with his sense of self by the time the rest of the boys show up. Christian has several decades' seniority over the others, and I don't know that I really ever explored that properly before.

Knowing what a character struggles with and showing a character facing a struggle - one that's deep-set in a personality or history - makes a character interesting, and I'm glad I'm learning more and more about what makes my boys tick.

Rules 3.2

3.2(a) - since almost everything we post is "prose", almost everything was tagged prose, and the tag had lost its usefulness, so from now on don't use it as a tag (I've removed it). If we do write poetry, however, do mark a poem as poetry so it'll be easier to find. The prose tag wouldn't help anyone find anything.

3.2(b) - prizes! We have not been picking winners and issuing prizes as of late, which is pretty sad. It'd be a bit insane to go back and attempt to issue awards and prizes, but from now on we would definitely like to get prizes and the like written again. Also, if there is anyone out there who would like to join the game and would contribute regularly, let me (Nagi) know and we'll see about getting you listed in the ranks.

Question: on tags, do we want contributor tags, so one writer can find everything he or she has written? It could be done. I could do it. Let me know.

Lieutenants and Subordinates

Angel looked at Asia. Asia looked at Angel. On the other side of the room, Tobias cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

“Commander,” he began, “I have a question about –”

Asia held up one hand to forestall comment, and Tobias fell silent. Asia didn’t look away from Angel; veritable storm clouds were gathering in her eyes, and were they in a less public place, she’d likely have a storm cloud spinning on one open palm too.

“What you’re asking me to do –”

“Is no less repugnant than the time I ordered you to kill a pregnant woman,” Asia said.

The look on Angel’s face said he disagreed.

Asia threw her hands up. “How have you made it this far along in human existence and been so unrelentingly straight? How did you survive the Greeks and the Romans and the Seventies?”

“I’m not going in there and you cannot make me,” Angel said.

Asia’s eyes flashed silver, eerily, and Tobias felt power spark in the room. He knew that he and the rest of the boys hadn’t seen the full extent of her power; he’d always thought that was a shame, but now he suspected that was for the better.

“I can make you, but I shouldn’t have to, because orders are orders and you’ve been given a bloody command!”

DJ poked his head into the room; he wore a pleasant smile. Tobias attempted to ward him off, hand gestures and spikes across the web and all, but DJ was just coming off a kung fu high.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“I have to go undercover in a gay bar,” Angel said flatly.

Tobias’s heart plummeted into his shoes. No way. Angel was a womanizer nonpareil, the original Casanova, Romeo, Don Juan, James Bond. DJ’s pleasant smile turned into an amused smirk.

“Oh really? How about that?”

“I won’t do it,” Angel said.

“Yes, you will,” Asia said.

DJ tipped his head to the side, blue eyes gleaming, and Tobias recognized Chadstone in the mannerism. “Should mom and dad really be fighting in front of the children like this?”

“You’re doing your job, and that’s final,” Asia said.

The tension in the room rocketed upward, and Tobias realized that Angel’s gift was circling the room, closer and closer to Asia, ready to strike.

DJ grinned, and oh, but he was both beautiful and terrifying. “Now now, Lieutenant Rastaban, surely you aren’t unwilling to do something one of your subordinates would have to do.”

Angel turned a fierce glare on him.

DJ peeled himself away from the doorframe and strutted across the room, and there was something distinctly sinuous and dirty about every line of his body. “I danced in a gay strip bar once. Surely you can just flirt with a man a little bit, ask him out on a date?”

Angel spluttered at the display. Even Asia looked alarmed. DJ draped himself across the nearest piece of furniture.

“Come on, Angel,” he said, “come osi.”


(500 words)
Angel blinked. Then he sighed, defeated. “Fine.”

Maybe Not

“It’s pretty simple,” Christian said.

Gabriel looked down at the mission dossier, then up at Christian. “Where are Angel and Asia? Why are you giving me this?”

“They’re helping Tobias with some undercover work. When they’re gone, I’m the commanding officer. I outrank you all by at least three decades.”

“If we’re going by age –”

“DJ doesn’t count. He has a big sleep between his first and his second life.”

Gabriel accepted the dossier reluctantly and scanned through it. His gaze darkened. “You want me to –”

“Infiltrate and destroy an organization, yes,” Christian said patiently.

“You mean I have to pretend to – I have to wear the white pointed –” Gabriel flung the piece of paper aside. “No way. I won’t do that. I won’t!”

“Just because you associate with them and pretend to be like them doesn’t mean you believe what they say,” Christian said. He kept his voice gentle, even. “You just have to pretend long enough to get us their outlying schedule, and then you get first crack at total annihilation.”

“Like hell they’re going to accept me.” Gabriel ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. “Seriously. Why would they?”

“Tobias and DJ have a way,” Christian said. “A little illusion, a little shapeshifting, and no one will even recognize you.”

“You mean you’re going to make me look whiter than I am,” Gabriel said flatly.

“If you don’t want to get shot on sight, yes.”

Gabriel closed his eyes. “Do you know what it was like, back then?”

“I was alive during the sixties, thanks,” Christian said.

Gabriel shook his head. “I mean before - during my first life. Do you know what it was like to be treated as nothing better than an especially useful animal? To know that your life was subject to the whims of one drunken, tyrannical man and was forfeit for his amusement?” His words came out broken, choked, and Christian could see his hands were curled into white-knuckled fists.

“Gabriel,” Christian began.

“Do you know?” Gabriel asked.

“Yes, dammit, I do know,” Christian snapped. “I was ripped from my home and sold to Roman slavers, and then I was sold to fight in the Colosseum where every day of my life I wondered if I would live or die, if the crowds would like me enough to save me from having to throw myself on my own sword. In my next life I was nobility, and I fought every day to never be a slave, never be subject to someone else’s will again, but guess what? We’re all slaves, every one of us, to whatever is going on above Sector Three. So do your job or forfeit your existence.” Christian shoved a bracelet at him, one woven with runes and Tobias’s blood to secure the illusion. He spun on his heel and walked away. As he left, he mused that Angel or Asia would likely have handled that a lot better.

Or, upon reflection with his own experiences, maybe not.

Leveling

Men and women in white ghees accentuated by various shades of belts milled about the large multipurpose room on the lower level of the training facility; the low buzz of conversation filled the air.

"Attention!" a Drill Sergent shouted as he stepped into the room followed by several men in Ghees, all belted at the waist with black belts stripped with red. All of the soldiers snapped to ramrod straight attention.

"Form ranks!" the Sergent shouted.

In less than a moment all of the soldiers were in perfectly dressed lines, standing at attention, awaiting orders.

"Alright you Leathernecks, time for belt advancements again," the Sergent said as he paced back and forth in front of the men, "your instructors today are Sensei Akane, Sensei Daichi, and Sensei Kiyoshi."

The Sergent stopped in front of the ranks, "I know you will all give it your very best, and I expect nothing less than completion of your rank requirements." He gave the gathered men a steely glance, "Pair up and get to it!"

Joe fiddled with his blue belt as he stepped up next to Steve in his red belt. "Steve, can you help me out for a moment?"

Steve looked around at Joe, his green eyes taking in the nervous young man, "sure Joe; what do you need help with?"

"The lower joint lock, I'm not sure I am getting it right," Joe said.

"Alright, lets run through it," Steve said as he fell into the ready stance.

Joe followed suit and stood ready, waiting for Steve to make the first move.

Steve moved with lightning fast reflexes, jabbing and twisting away. Joe reacted, blocking and turning in response to Steve's attack. Within a few minutes Joe had Steve in a joint lock, his face pressed to the mat.

"Good," a voice behind them said.

Joe released Steve and snapped to attention, "Sensei Kiyoshi!"

"Easy soldier," he said as he motioned Joe to relax.

Joe fell into a parade rest, waiting for Sensei Kiyoshi to speak.

"You're form could use a little work, but you have the basic principles," he said as he walked around Joe. "Try this," the Master said as he flowed through a couple of forms.

Joe studied the Sensei's forms with a sharp eye, taking in the movements. As the Sensei began the forms again Joe fell into sync beside him, his movements precise and sure as he relaxed into the rhythm.

"Good," Kiyoshi said as they finished, "I can, in good consciousness, award you the rank of green belt."

"Thank you Sensei Kiyoshi!" Joe said.

"Call me Scott," Kiyoshi said.

(perhaps a little lame, but my muse does not want to cooperate. I will work on it though)

Noble Pride

“You want me to do...what?” Christian asked.

Asia held out a mop and a bucket. “It’s just for a week - you need to pretend you’re a janitor and monitor the target’s movements, and then report back to Angel and I so we can arrange the kill.”

Christian drew himself up to his full height, indignant. “You want me to be a servant? I think not.”

Asia raised her eyebrows. “Are you serious? Look, orders are orders, your commanding officer has delegated this assignment to you, and you need to go do it or get punished.”

An angry flush rose on Christian’s cheeks. “I will not.”

Asia thrust the cleaning supplies at him. “Christian, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

“I am not a servant,” Christian said.

“I’m not saying you’re a servant, I’m saying you need to pretend to be one for a week so we can get critical information.” Asia kept her tone as patient and even as possible.

“That’s like being a servant for a week,” Christian huffed.

Asia took a deep breath. Then she set the bucket and mop down, grabbed Christian by the collar, and dragged him close. His eyes went wide, and the rune on his forehead flared, but she ignored the explosion of itching across her skin and held his gaze firmly.

“Listen to me, and listen good. Your family is dead. None of your line remains, and what does remain is as common as the mud under my shoes. Chivalry, knighthood, and everything you lived for is dead. No one knows who you are, no one cares who you are, and no one thinks you’re any better than the rest of the peons out there. As far as Sector Three is concerned, you are a servant, and you will do whatever they say. Now get out there and do your job.” And she shoved him away.

Christian stumbled back, startled, eyes wide. But then he dusted himself off, expression mulish, and picked up the mop and bucket. Then he marched to do her bidding. He was going to lose his job at any moment.

Asia sighed. Damn Christian and his noble pride.

(361 words)

Bets

"I bet you won't do it," Bryan shouted as he nudged Mark in the side. They stood in the middle of a crowded club; music pounding and bodies bumping in time to the beat.

"I bet you I will," Mark shot back, clearly embarrassed. Massive amounts of people had always made him uncomfortable.

Bryan snorted, "yeah right. You have never taken the initiative and I doubt that you'll start now."

"I can do it," Mark said with determination.

"Then prove it. Get out there, pick a girl and dance with her. I'll even give you bonus points if you kiss her," Bryan leered at his brother. With one backward glance and a smirk Bryan disappeared into the crowd of gyrating bodies.

Mark stood for a few moments looking around, jostled by the surrounding people. Mark cracked his knuckles and shook his hands out as he let his eyes fall closed, waiting for the beat to become a part of him. It started in his chest, the throbbing of the bass that echoed his heart beat; felt it in the marrow of his bones, his feet and body beginning to move to the beat.

Mark opened his eyes and they met a pair of pretty brown eyes in the crowd. He smiled shyly as he moved towards her at her encouraging smile. He held out one hand in invitation and felt a cool hand slide into his in response.

Mark tugged her close and began to move to the music; the girl following his lead as she glanced up at him through thick eyelashes.

"I'm Mark," Mark shouted over the music.

"My friends call me Mishi," The girl shouted back.

"It's nice to meet you Mishi," Mark smiled at her as a new song came over the speakers and the fell into step again.

Mark of the English

“You’ve got to be joking,” Keith said. He looked Caomhin up and down, only he wasn’t really Caomhin, wasn’t the man who’d sneak Keith and his mates a pint of guinness after school.

“I’m not,” Caomhin - Angel - said. He had a smooth, upper-crust British accent, and all along, he’d been a bloody spy for MI6, hadn’t he? Keith knew he was breathing hard, that his gift was crackling dangerously under his skin, but he didn’t care. Maybe he should set this bloody impostor on fire - only he knew that the man before him had dangerous talents of his own.

“You lied to me all this time,” Keith said, voice low and dangerous.

“Yes and no,” Angel said. “I lied about who I am, yes, but I didn’t lie about why I’m here or what I believe –”

“You’re one of them!” Keith hissed. “You’re one of the English –”

“Look at me,” Angel said, patient. “Do I look like I’m English? Did Holly look English?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before – you’ve got it written all over you – you’re one of those James Bond types, aren’t you, all public schooled.” Heat began to flare in the palms of Keith’s hands; his skin itched, begging him to let flames coalesce on his skin.

Angel sighed. “Keith, you don’t understand – I’m just like you. I understand how you feel. Your country wasn’t the only one that the British overrode, captured and subdued. Do you understand?”

A fireball burst alight on Keith’s palm. “Why should I trust you?”

“Look at me,” Angel said, and something in his voice made Keith go still, and for the first time he looked.

“Oh,” Keith said. “Oh. But you – your lot had Ghandi, and...”

“The mark of the English hasn’t gone away,” Angel said. “Surely you know that.” His voice was low, his expression solemn. He met Keith’s gaze and held it, waited, and after a few minutes, the flames in Keith’s hands dissipated.

“I do know that,” Keith said.

Angel smiled. “Good. Now, if you think you’re ready, I have a job for you.”

Repeated Orders

"Hey boss," Steve called out as they hunched further down behind the makeshift barrier as bullets flew past overhead.

"Yeah Steve?" David yelled back to his second in command over the chatter of the machine guns.

"How long have we been chasing this guy?" Steve popped up for a brief second and laid down a spray of bullets.

"Boogieman Bates," David said with suppressed anger, "that man is a ghost. Each time I get close, he slips away. And it usually takes me years to find him again." David returned some of the incoming fire; screams from the other side of the room confirmed the hits. "I can guarantee that he is gone by now. He is always one step ahead of me."

David could hear the other men on the team talking about the same thing. David thought back to when he had first been assigned to take care of Bates. All he had was a grainy surveillance photo, and a cock sure attitude of one that had never failed.

That attitude and picture had landed him in the hospital for three weeks with a bullet wound in his leg. Bates had gotten away.

The next time, he was more cautious and methodical in his hunt. David still only narrowly escaped being blown up in a carefully laid trap.

David sighed in frustration. Killing Brody Bates was his one ongoing failure. He still had the original kill order tucked into his wallet.



From: Office of General Command
To: Captain David Cole
Attn: Brody Bates

Captain Cole; you are ordered to eliminate the terrorist known as Brody Bates. Methodology is to your discretion. Further intelligence provided by Commander Hayes.




David pulled out the order from time to time and tried to put himself in Bates's shoes. Tried to think as he would think; tried to get a few steps ahead of him.

David sighed and shook his head. It was near impossible to think like a psychopath like Bates.

Steve broke into David's musings, "so what are we going to do boss?"

"After we eliminate these, then the hunt begins again," David said.

High School Horror

“Just go in there, speak to the lady at the office and...wait until you see the target.” Angel smiled encouragingly.

Tobias ran a hand over his new, shorter hair and sighed, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a nervous colt. “You know I hate high school. Why would you send me back to one?”

“I’m just the operational lieutenant,” Angel said. “Sector Three picked this mission.” He smirked and pinched Tobias’s cheek. “They probably picked you because you have such a cute little face.”

Tobias scowled and swatted Angel’s hand aside. “I’m not going in there. I can wait until the target is alone, shift into a poisonous snake or spider or something and just - finish the job.”

Christian sighed. “Look, the whole point of this is that we send a message with this kill - that we have eyes and ears and hands everywhere. A death that could be written off as naturally caused will hardly have the effect we need.”

“Who says we need such an effect?”

“The brass.” Angel planted a hand in the small of Tobias’s back and shoved him toward the front steps of the school. “Now go. I shouldn’t expect to hear from you for at least a month, and then you’ll have to finish out the semester to make it look good.”

Anxiety and fear, all too familiar and sickening, curled in Tobias’s gut. With his grip on his bag white-knuckled, he marched toward the stairs. Halfway up someone jostled his shoulder. Tobias glanced up and saw a thick-necked, square-jawed teenager in a letterman jacket bearing down on him. A football player.

“Watch where you’re going, freak,” the football player snarled.

Tobias ducked his head automatically and mumbled an apology. Then he darted up the stairs and into the relative anonymity of the hallway. Now he just had to talk to the lady in the office, get his schedule and locker assignment, and everything would be fine. If he kept his head down, no one would notice him, no one would --

And then he saw her, the target, standing amidst of a group of admirers - her fellow cheerleaders. She tossed her long blonde hair, and her smile lit up the entire room.

Remember - you need to get the target to trust you, Asia had said. You have to get her alone so you can take your time with her.

Tobias looked down at himself, at the clothes he was wearing, and realized there was no way in hell a girl like the target would look twice at him. He was Tobias, that freaky kid who lived in a trailer park with his drunken uncle because his own parents didn’t even want him --

He swallowed hard and lifted his head cautiously, caught the girl’s eye, smiled. She sniffed and turned away. His throat tightened. How was he going to get this job done?

Project Assignment # 64 - Challenges

So the order to issue a challenge turned into this weeks challenge.

This week we are to write challenges our characters are going through. Is James just not getting his lines right or a particular fight scene? How about DJ he is always saying that being pretty is a challenge. How do the special ops boys respond to various challenges in the field? What was their reaction when they were challenged with even joining the service? How about Ariana; what are her challenges?

Have fun!

Max word is 500

Overview #63: This is the Last Time

So I got nailed with an epic bout of writer's block this week, and so every piece I posted after the second was pretty much like pulling teeth. None of them were what I wanted them to be, but let's face it - with these boys, pretty much the best parts of their stories would be the last kisses. All of them. I think I captured James's pretty well in that it parallels the original but was also its own moment. Overall, however, I was dissatisfied with what I churned out this week.

Maybe it's me, or maybe's a pattern, but I feel like I do worse at my own prompts than on someone else's.

Figures.

(Also, Madness, it is your turn to pick a challenge.)

The beatings will continue until writing improves

okay so it was epic fail of all time for me. I only got in one post. I did however finally pick up a copy of strunk and white. So Master can smack me around and I will be reformed. (hopefully)

June 6th

“I don’t like the look of this at all,” Christian said.

“Neither do I.” Angel took a deep drag off his cigarette.

“Knock it off.” Christian elbowed him. “A sniper can see the cherry of your smoke from miles away. You’re gonna get yourself shot.”

“I noticed you said nothing about me getting myself killed.” Angel smiled grimly.

Christian closed his eyes and felt the rock and sway of the boat, wondered what one of his past incarnations would have thought of climbing into a giant metal death trap and hoping to float on the sea. “I’ve learned by now.”

“Good.” Angel flicked his cigarette over the edge of the boat. “I think this will be my last battle as a peon.”

“Oh? And how do you figure?”

Angel snorted. “You don’t know what it was like before. I’m a general by birth and by training. Taking orders like an automaton isn’t my thing.”

“And yet here you are, enlisted again.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure I can wrangle getting killed once we storm up this beach.” Angel closed his eyes and sighed. “Will humankind ever tire of wars?”

“No,” Christian said. “Somehow, it’s also in our blood.”

“You’re not humankind,” Angel pointed out rather undiplomatically.

Christian rolled his eyes. Then he sighed and shifted his gun, rolled his shoulders to loosen them up. “What time is it?”

“Oh-one-hundred-thirty-seven,” Angel said without looking at his watch. His sense of time had always been uncanny. Christian wondered if it was a telekinetic thing. “Technically it is now June 6th.”

“Normandy Beach, here we come.” Christian closed his eyes.

“Here we come,” Angel agreed. “Our last charge, right?”

“The last.”

(281 words)

She Would

“Leave us,” Arcturus said, and his knights bowed respectfully, ducked out of the tent.

Elaine continued fastening his armor with steady hands, as if this were any other battle, but she knew that it wasn’t. They had been at Camlann for three days now, and both of them had seen Clarent shining in Medraut’s grip on the other side of the battlefield. Arcturus had Caledfwlch and Rhongomyniad, but Elaine had seen the end, and she knew it.

In all her years serving Arcturus, in her years training the young lad Arthwr, he’d never questioned her presence at Emry’s side as anything more than a dogsbody and a master-of-arms, but now she realized that he had suspected the truth all along, that he knew the truth of their power.

“I’m going to die out there, aren’t I?”

“You will kill Medraut.”

“And he will kill me.”

Elaine focused on fastening Arcturus gorge plate, fascinated by the soft, smooth skin at the nape of his neck. He sighed, and she knew that sound, lifted her hands away obediently. He turned to face her, and she kept her gaze obediently averted; she had become too good at playing a servant after so long in the role. He sighed again, and she felt the cool leather of his glove as he tilted her chin up.

“Elaine --”

“My Lord.”

“You never call my Arthwr anymore.”

“You are my king.”

He arched one eyebrow. “I was never your king.”

“You have always been my king,” Elaine said softly, and he had been her king in her dreams long before he was even born.

“You know and I know that this is my last battle,” Arcturus said. “As your king, I ask you to grant me a last request.”

“Anything, My Lord.”

“Call me Arthwr.”

“Yes, Arthwr,” Elaine said. She swallowed hard.

He stepped closer, and his hand slid to cup her face. “Elaine - kiss me --”

She shook her head and stepped back. “My Lord - your queen --”

His green eyes were wide, almost boyish in their fear. “Elaine --”

“I cannot,” she said. But she knew she would, when she was kneeling on the battlefield with him in her arms, listening to him breathe his last.

He bowed his head. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Elaine picked up Caledfwlch, pressed it into his hands. “I would forgive you all, my Lord, but there is naught to forgive.”

(400 words)

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.