“Why aren’t you doing your homework?” Tabris asked.
Marsh was buried in a gaming manual, scribbling notes about storylines, NPCs, and possible adventures. “Because it’s not due for another couple of days. I can do it tomorrow night.”
“But what if you’re distracted tomorrow night?” Tabris leaned his chin on his hand and blinked at Marsh with wide gray eyes.
Marsh didn’t look up. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take, isn’t it? Life’s a game of chance. Homework is chance – either I’ll get it done, or I won’t, and in the end if I’m not supposed to get it done it won’t get it done, no matter how hard I work.”
Tabris hummed thoughtfully, tunelessly, and his eyes gleamed red briefly. “Perhaps. Or maybe you misunderstand your place in the universe – and mine.” He reached out and scooped up a handful of Marsh’s dice, cast them across the carpet.
“Don’t ruin my dice mojo,” Marsh said.
Tabris prodded him in the arm. “Look.”
Marsh huffed, annoyed, and rolled his eyes, lifted his head to look. And stared. All five dice had come up twenty. Marsh turned to Tabris and gaped.
Tabris fluttered his fingertips and said, “Just because life is a game of chance doesn’t mean you can’t take action to tip the scales in your favor. If you do your homework now, there’s a greater chance that it’ll get done and you’ll face no repercussion. But if you wait till tomorrow...”
Marsh set aside his manual and reached for his backpack. “It’s creepy, you know,” he said. “You’re a worse nag than my mum, and you’re a dude.”
Tabris arched an eyebrow.
“Well,” Marsh amended, “you’re sort of a dude.”
Tabris threw his head back and laughed, shook out his massive gold-tipped wings. “I’m an angel, and there’s nothing else like me on earth.”
“Except Israfel, Asrael, and Gabriel,” Marsh said.
Tabris swiped at him, and Marsh dodged, laughing.
At the foot of the stairs, Marsh’s mother stared at her son’s madness and shook her head. The doctors had told them it was hereditary; she should have known it would fall on her shoulders, one way or another. In her family, the dice were always loaded.
(369 words)
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Overview #83: Raise a character
So...I spent a bit too much time on his childhood and then skipped straight to his death. I guess, in my head, the full novel would cover his adolescence, which is pretty much why I skipped it. I hadn't intended to make Cody a super-genius (in my head he was always smart, but Kyle was meant to be the special one) and I really didn't intend for Cody to die (but it looks like Elise died too), but in the end it worked, and I'm okay with it. So...now I at least have the hang of Cody.
Poor Cody.
I killed him.
Poor Cody.
I killed him.
Project Assignment #84 - Deadlines
This week is about deadlines! Deadlines for work, applications to school, projects...
Do your characters crack under pressure? Do they carefully plan out everything so there is hardly any stress involved? Do they perform best when time is short? Are they procrastinators or the type that is right on top of things? Do they abhor deadlines with a passion or work best when they have one?
500 words max
Have Fun!!
Do your characters crack under pressure? Do they carefully plan out everything so there is hardly any stress involved? Do they perform best when time is short? Are they procrastinators or the type that is right on top of things? Do they abhor deadlines with a passion or work best when they have one?
500 words max
Have Fun!!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
It All Went Wrong
Maybe Cody had been listening to Elise’s music too much, because as he stood facing down Agent Samuels and a dozen other armed agents, all he could think of were song lyrics.
Six feet under by age twenty-five.
It was a sad, sad day when his life could be summed up by the lyrics to song by a band called Venus in Furs. Somewhere, while she plucked playfully at Israfel’s wings, Elise was laughing.
“Stand down, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. Her voice shook, but her hands on the gun were firm.
Cody knew why her voice was shaking. Even though she couldn’t see them, she could feel them, the Fallen who’d accompanied the choirboys the government had rounded up, had foolishly thought were prizes. Samael, Abbadon, Malpas and Zagan. They hovered on the edges of the crowd, black eyes glittering with malicious glee, and their choirboys stared past Cody, eyes devoid of human soul.
“I have nowhere to go but down,” Cody said. “Six feet under, from the looks of it.”
“You don’t have to die today, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. “What do you say? Will you come with me?”
Samael was the first to move, had always been the first to move, from the war in heaven to the war on earth, and he was grinning.
Cody felt afraid and tired, but mostly tired, because he’d spent the last ten years being afraid, and he was tired of it.
“Can you hear me? Cohen? Don’t listen to your angel. Listen to me. Cohen!” Agent Samuels said.
She didn’t know Asrael was gone and, for the first time in a long time, Cody was alone.
Agent Samuels shouted again, “Cohen!”
And Cody remembered lyrics to a song half-forgotten.
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but...
“Hallelujah,” Cody whispered, and stepped back over the edge of the cliff.
(322 words)
Six feet under by age twenty-five.
It was a sad, sad day when his life could be summed up by the lyrics to song by a band called Venus in Furs. Somewhere, while she plucked playfully at Israfel’s wings, Elise was laughing.
“Stand down, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. Her voice shook, but her hands on the gun were firm.
Cody knew why her voice was shaking. Even though she couldn’t see them, she could feel them, the Fallen who’d accompanied the choirboys the government had rounded up, had foolishly thought were prizes. Samael, Abbadon, Malpas and Zagan. They hovered on the edges of the crowd, black eyes glittering with malicious glee, and their choirboys stared past Cody, eyes devoid of human soul.
“I have nowhere to go but down,” Cody said. “Six feet under, from the looks of it.”
“You don’t have to die today, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. “What do you say? Will you come with me?”
Samael was the first to move, had always been the first to move, from the war in heaven to the war on earth, and he was grinning.
Cody felt afraid and tired, but mostly tired, because he’d spent the last ten years being afraid, and he was tired of it.
“Can you hear me? Cohen? Don’t listen to your angel. Listen to me. Cohen!” Agent Samuels said.
She didn’t know Asrael was gone and, for the first time in a long time, Cody was alone.
Agent Samuels shouted again, “Cohen!”
And Cody remembered lyrics to a song half-forgotten.
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but...
“Hallelujah,” Cody whispered, and stepped back over the edge of the cliff.
(322 words)
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Welcome to Growing Up
“Well this is an unfortunate turn of events,” Cody said, staring at himself in the mirror.
Behind him, Asrael spread his wings, and for a moment it looked like Cody had two heads and a pair of massive feathered wings. “How so?”
Cody poked at his jaw. “I have a zit.”
“Aren’t blemishes a common occurrence for all adolescents?” Asrael said. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.
“I’ve never had one before, and school pictures are today,” Cody said. He sighed. It didn’t really matter what he looked like for school pictures since people only really saw Jonathan’s pictures anyway, but he shuddered to think about what Sterling Shepard’s friends would do if they saw.
“As you always say, there’s a first time for everything.” That Asrael could smile and make a joke like that was disturbing, seeing how he was the angel of death. Or maybe he’d just been around Cody for too long.
Cody sighed and reached for his toothbrush. He’d heard his mother nag Jonathan plenty of times – if he didn’t pick at it, it wouldn’t scar.
Asrael studied Cody’s reflection some more. “After school, if you like, I can help you practice your piece for your bar mitzvah.”
Cody blinked, surprised. “Really?”
Asrael nodded. “I’m nowhere near as talented as Israfel, but –”
“Thank you,” Cody said. “I’d really like that.”
Jonathan banged on the door. “Cody, stop talking to yourself in there. It’s creepy.”
“I have a zit,” Cody called back.
Jonathan laughed. “Welcome to growing up, little brother. Now hurry up and get out of there – my study group will be here any moment now.”
Cody rolled his eyes. Jonathan just wanted to impress the pretty girls in his college classes.
Asrael started to fade from visibility. “You don’t want to be late for school,” he said.
Cody rolled his eyes again. The angel of death was starting to sound like his most annoying nanny.
(322 words)
Behind him, Asrael spread his wings, and for a moment it looked like Cody had two heads and a pair of massive feathered wings. “How so?”
Cody poked at his jaw. “I have a zit.”
“Aren’t blemishes a common occurrence for all adolescents?” Asrael said. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.
“I’ve never had one before, and school pictures are today,” Cody said. He sighed. It didn’t really matter what he looked like for school pictures since people only really saw Jonathan’s pictures anyway, but he shuddered to think about what Sterling Shepard’s friends would do if they saw.
“As you always say, there’s a first time for everything.” That Asrael could smile and make a joke like that was disturbing, seeing how he was the angel of death. Or maybe he’d just been around Cody for too long.
Cody sighed and reached for his toothbrush. He’d heard his mother nag Jonathan plenty of times – if he didn’t pick at it, it wouldn’t scar.
Asrael studied Cody’s reflection some more. “After school, if you like, I can help you practice your piece for your bar mitzvah.”
Cody blinked, surprised. “Really?”
Asrael nodded. “I’m nowhere near as talented as Israfel, but –”
“Thank you,” Cody said. “I’d really like that.”
Jonathan banged on the door. “Cody, stop talking to yourself in there. It’s creepy.”
“I have a zit,” Cody called back.
Jonathan laughed. “Welcome to growing up, little brother. Now hurry up and get out of there – my study group will be here any moment now.”
Cody rolled his eyes. Jonathan just wanted to impress the pretty girls in his college classes.
Asrael started to fade from visibility. “You don’t want to be late for school,” he said.
Cody rolled his eyes again. The angel of death was starting to sound like his most annoying nanny.
(322 words)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Voice
It was the night after Grandma Bernstein’s funeral that Cody first heard the voice. He was almost seven and Jonathan was supposed to be preparing for his bar mitzvah, so Cody thought Jonathan was practicing what the cantor had given him to sing, but after he opened his eyes and listened, he realized it was neither Hebrew nor Jonathan’s voice.
Except Jonathan was the only one in the house who called him Cody.
Can you hear me, Cody? Will you listen?
Cody said, “I’m listening.”
Will you follow my voice?
Cody kicked the covers aside. It sounded like the voice was whispering over near the door, so he followed it.
Come along, the voice whispered, so softly Cody couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The door creaked open. Cody tip-toed down the hall, tracking the soft whispers. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows moving? He thought he felt something slither against his ankle as he turned into the drawing room.
As he moved across the carpet, he realized the voice was leading him toward Grandma Bernstein’s favorite chair.
Well done, sweet singer, the voice said.
Cody blinked at the empty chair, confused. “I’m not a sweet singer,” he said. “That’s Jonathan. I can’t sing at all.”
The susurration that followed could only have been called laughter. But you will speak for a member of a choir, and through you my sword will sing.
Cody had read about swords in books. They sounded fun, but people usually ended up getting hurt. “I don’t want a sword.”
Worry not, the voice said, for this sword is not of steel and shine but of silence and chaos, and it will show you the edge of the world.
“What’s at the edge of the world?” Cody asked.
Death, the voice said.
“Like where Grandma Bernstein went?”
There was no answer.
Cody peered at the chair. “Hello? Is that where she went?”
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he yelped.
“Nicodemus,” Mr. Cohen said. He looked annoyed and half-awake. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Cody immediately ducked his head. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Go back to bed.”
Cody obeyed. As he tugged the covers up to his chin, the voice whispered, right next to his ear, Good night.
(389 words)
Except Jonathan was the only one in the house who called him Cody.
Can you hear me, Cody? Will you listen?
Cody said, “I’m listening.”
Will you follow my voice?
Cody kicked the covers aside. It sounded like the voice was whispering over near the door, so he followed it.
Come along, the voice whispered, so softly Cody couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The door creaked open. Cody tip-toed down the hall, tracking the soft whispers. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows moving? He thought he felt something slither against his ankle as he turned into the drawing room.
As he moved across the carpet, he realized the voice was leading him toward Grandma Bernstein’s favorite chair.
Well done, sweet singer, the voice said.
Cody blinked at the empty chair, confused. “I’m not a sweet singer,” he said. “That’s Jonathan. I can’t sing at all.”
The susurration that followed could only have been called laughter. But you will speak for a member of a choir, and through you my sword will sing.
Cody had read about swords in books. They sounded fun, but people usually ended up getting hurt. “I don’t want a sword.”
Worry not, the voice said, for this sword is not of steel and shine but of silence and chaos, and it will show you the edge of the world.
“What’s at the edge of the world?” Cody asked.
Death, the voice said.
“Like where Grandma Bernstein went?”
There was no answer.
Cody peered at the chair. “Hello? Is that where she went?”
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he yelped.
“Nicodemus,” Mr. Cohen said. He looked annoyed and half-awake. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Cody immediately ducked his head. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Go back to bed.”
Cody obeyed. As he tugged the covers up to his chin, the voice whispered, right next to his ear, Good night.
(389 words)
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Reading and Writing
“What was that?” Mr. Cohen glanced up briefly from his newspaper.
“Nicodemus,” he said.
“Yes, that’s your name.” Mr. Cohen returned to his perusal of the Wall Street Journal.
“That paper over the fireplace,” Nicodemus said. “It says Nicodemus.”
“Yes it does,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan blinked and paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You can read?”
Nicodemus nodded. “Yes. That paper – it says Nicodemus Matthias Cohen. Nicodemus is a very long word. I don’t like it.”
“It’s your name,” Mr. Cohen said. “Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”
Jonathan goggled at his father, then at his little brother. “Nicodemus, how old are you?”
Nicodemus blinked and looked down at his hand, then held up four fingers.
“Say it,” Jonathan said, because for the first three years of his life, Nicodemus had been reluctant to say anything at all.
“Four,” Nicodemus said.
“How do you spell it?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nicodemus said. “It could be f-o-r, f-o-r-e, or f-o-u-r.”
“Dad,” Jonathan said. “Nicodemus can read.”
“As can you and I and the maid and the miscreant who washes our windows,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan reached into his pocket for a pen and notebook, and he scribbled out four letters. “Can you read this?”
Nicodemus leaned forward in his high chair and peered, nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...does it say yahweh?”
“Where did you learn to read Hebrew?” Jonathan’s eyes were wide with excitement and awe.
“You have a book,” Nicodemus said. “Beginner’s Guide to Hebrew. You left it in the toy room.”
Jonathan twisted around in his chair. “Mama, Nicodemus knows how to read!”
Mrs. Cohen glanced up from her folder full of complicated papers about a party she was planning for some of the other wives in the neighborhood. “Really, Nicodemus?”
Nicodemus said, “I don’t like my name. Too long. I want to be...Cody. It’s short.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Absolutely not. It’s a terribly plebeian name after a charlatan who made a living off of racism and genocide.”
Mrs. Cohen raised and eyebrow at Jonathan and said, “What have I told you about telling tales? Now eat your breakfast. The driver’s already got the car warming. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Jonathan tried to protest, tried to explain that Nicodemus could read, but then Nicodemus got his pen, and his pen met the fine white tablecloth.
(400 words)
“Nicodemus,” he said.
“Yes, that’s your name.” Mr. Cohen returned to his perusal of the Wall Street Journal.
“That paper over the fireplace,” Nicodemus said. “It says Nicodemus.”
“Yes it does,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan blinked and paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You can read?”
Nicodemus nodded. “Yes. That paper – it says Nicodemus Matthias Cohen. Nicodemus is a very long word. I don’t like it.”
“It’s your name,” Mr. Cohen said. “Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”
Jonathan goggled at his father, then at his little brother. “Nicodemus, how old are you?”
Nicodemus blinked and looked down at his hand, then held up four fingers.
“Say it,” Jonathan said, because for the first three years of his life, Nicodemus had been reluctant to say anything at all.
“Four,” Nicodemus said.
“How do you spell it?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nicodemus said. “It could be f-o-r, f-o-r-e, or f-o-u-r.”
“Dad,” Jonathan said. “Nicodemus can read.”
“As can you and I and the maid and the miscreant who washes our windows,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan reached into his pocket for a pen and notebook, and he scribbled out four letters. “Can you read this?”
Nicodemus leaned forward in his high chair and peered, nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...does it say yahweh?”
“Where did you learn to read Hebrew?” Jonathan’s eyes were wide with excitement and awe.
“You have a book,” Nicodemus said. “Beginner’s Guide to Hebrew. You left it in the toy room.”
Jonathan twisted around in his chair. “Mama, Nicodemus knows how to read!”
Mrs. Cohen glanced up from her folder full of complicated papers about a party she was planning for some of the other wives in the neighborhood. “Really, Nicodemus?”
Nicodemus said, “I don’t like my name. Too long. I want to be...Cody. It’s short.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Absolutely not. It’s a terribly plebeian name after a charlatan who made a living off of racism and genocide.”
Mrs. Cohen raised and eyebrow at Jonathan and said, “What have I told you about telling tales? Now eat your breakfast. The driver’s already got the car warming. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Jonathan tried to protest, tried to explain that Nicodemus could read, but then Nicodemus got his pen, and his pen met the fine white tablecloth.
(400 words)
Monday, March 14, 2011
And a Spare
Mr. and Mrs. Cohen stood over the bassinet and gazed down at their son.
“Nicodemus is a noble name,” Mr. Cohen said.
“Compared to Jonathan, you don’t think it’s a bit...austere?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
“He’s a Cohen,” Mr. Cohen said. The baby boy in the bassinet blinked big, dark eyes up at his father and pressed his tiny chubby fist to his mouth. “He will adjust as is necessary. Children are more resilient than we give them credit for.”
Mrs. Cohen eyed the blue romper suit the nanny had chosen; she didn’t like the color, but the baby seemed comfortable. “I really liked David, though. It would be poetic, don’t you think? Jonathan and David.”
Mr. Cohen shot her a withering look. “You know what people today say about Jonathan and David. Besides, Jonathan was prince, but it was David who became king. That’s not how things will be in this house.”
Mrs. Cohen nodded and stepped back from the bassinet. “I know. Heir and a spare. Jonathan already takes after his father.”
Mr. Cohen cast the baby one last look before turning and heading for the door. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t need a spare, but life never gives us the guarantees we want. Now come along – I want to hear from the tutors how Jonathan is doing.”
The door swung shut, and the baby was left staring up at the ceiling and wondering when a pleasant face would come back.
(244 words)
“Nicodemus is a noble name,” Mr. Cohen said.
“Compared to Jonathan, you don’t think it’s a bit...austere?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
“He’s a Cohen,” Mr. Cohen said. The baby boy in the bassinet blinked big, dark eyes up at his father and pressed his tiny chubby fist to his mouth. “He will adjust as is necessary. Children are more resilient than we give them credit for.”
Mrs. Cohen eyed the blue romper suit the nanny had chosen; she didn’t like the color, but the baby seemed comfortable. “I really liked David, though. It would be poetic, don’t you think? Jonathan and David.”
Mr. Cohen shot her a withering look. “You know what people today say about Jonathan and David. Besides, Jonathan was prince, but it was David who became king. That’s not how things will be in this house.”
Mrs. Cohen nodded and stepped back from the bassinet. “I know. Heir and a spare. Jonathan already takes after his father.”
Mr. Cohen cast the baby one last look before turning and heading for the door. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t need a spare, but life never gives us the guarantees we want. Now come along – I want to hear from the tutors how Jonathan is doing.”
The door swung shut, and the baby was left staring up at the ceiling and wondering when a pleasant face would come back.
(244 words)
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Project #83: Raise a character
We've done this before, and we're going it again, but this time with a longer word count and one day less. You have 100-400 words to raise a character, from birth to death (because everyone is born/created, and everyone ends, even vampires and gods). You can choose your moments from societally acknowledged rites of passage, like learning to walk, learning to ride a bike, learning to read, learning to drive, going on a first date, getting married, becoming a parent – whatever you choose. You can choose a character you've been working on or try a brand new one. It's up to you!
Happy writing.
Happy writing.
Overview #82: Books
I started out this week all right, except I totally bailed on feedback, for which I apologize. I was excited about this challenge, because I hadn't really thought about the literariness of my characters. It would be stereotypical to have Cody be really well-read, and obviously Angel and Asia would be incredibly well-read. As DJ is an artist, surely he would read graphic novels. I tried to shake it up a bit, pick books that made sense but were also a twist, and I think I did the best with Angel, but everyone else...yeah. I was pretty proud of what I did with Marsh, because he's the seraph-verse character I know the least, and I liked what happened with him.
In the end, I've been watching too much MI-5 and I picked too many books that I like (although it would be difficult for me to pick books I don't like, as I don't remember them and can't give them to characters as a result), and I welched on feedback, so this week was a posting success but otherwise kind of a bust.
Also, it feels like I still have writer's block.
In the end, I've been watching too much MI-5 and I picked too many books that I like (although it would be difficult for me to pick books I don't like, as I don't remember them and can't give them to characters as a result), and I welched on feedback, so this week was a posting success but otherwise kind of a bust.
Also, it feels like I still have writer's block.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Holy Books
“I don’t know why more people don’t read the Bible,” Angel said. “It’s very comforting, no matter your religion.”
Asia tipped her head back against the coolness of the cement wall. “It’s only comforting if you believe its words. Otherwise it’s just...Early Modern English poetry, and not great poetry, for that matter.”
Angel smiled faintly. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil –”
“Because I am the God of Death, and this is my valley, baby,” Christian said, and he grinned.
Jo Seung peered up at them from the opposite corner. “They’re gonna torture us, aren’t they?”
Asia glanced toward the door. On the other side, they could hear the faint rattlings and mumblings of their captors. “Probably,” she said.
Christian shot her a look.
Asia arched an eyebrow and continued blithely. “Not just them, though. They’ve been paid, so they’ll pass us on to whoever wants us next.”
“You sound remarkably calm,” Jo Seung said.
Angel leaned in to her and said, too low for human ears to hear, “Just because we don’t die doesn’t mean we don’t feel pain.”
“Did you really think this was the first time I’d been captured?” Asia asked.
“I’ve been captured before too, obviously,” Angel said. “Usually I escaped – or died temporarily.”
Asia said flatly, “They don’t treat men and women the same in captivity.”
Angel’s mouth closed so fast his teeth clicked.
Outside the door, someone began to scream. Jo Seung flinched.
Angel said, “Ignore it – it’s just a recording.”
Jo Seung shook his head. “No – it’s Jamal. I know his voice!” His face was pale, his eyes wide.
“It’s a recording,” Angel said again.
Jo Seung began to shake.
Angel slid closer to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, began to murmur softly.
“That’s from the Qu’ran,” Asia said. “He’s Korean. Try something – Buddhist.”
“That’s stereotyping,” Jo Seung. “I’m Christian.”
Christian said, “Forget religion.” He shuffled closer to Jo Seung, nudged the boy’s shoulder with his. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once.”
“I’ve been valiant,” Jo Seung said. “I’ve served The Change. But I’m pretty sure I will die a thousand times before these people are done with me.”
“If you like,” Asia said, “you only need die the one.”
Angel blinked. “What?”
But Jo Seung nodded. “Please.”
Asia turned to Angel and said, “What other holy books have you read?”
Angel began to recite from the Rig Vedas, and Asia closed her hands around Jo Seung’s neck. He was smiling as he listened, and then he closed his eyes, and Asia twisted.
(442 words)
Asia tipped her head back against the coolness of the cement wall. “It’s only comforting if you believe its words. Otherwise it’s just...Early Modern English poetry, and not great poetry, for that matter.”
Angel smiled faintly. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil –”
“Because I am the God of Death, and this is my valley, baby,” Christian said, and he grinned.
Jo Seung peered up at them from the opposite corner. “They’re gonna torture us, aren’t they?”
Asia glanced toward the door. On the other side, they could hear the faint rattlings and mumblings of their captors. “Probably,” she said.
Christian shot her a look.
Asia arched an eyebrow and continued blithely. “Not just them, though. They’ve been paid, so they’ll pass us on to whoever wants us next.”
“You sound remarkably calm,” Jo Seung said.
Angel leaned in to her and said, too low for human ears to hear, “Just because we don’t die doesn’t mean we don’t feel pain.”
“Did you really think this was the first time I’d been captured?” Asia asked.
“I’ve been captured before too, obviously,” Angel said. “Usually I escaped – or died temporarily.”
Asia said flatly, “They don’t treat men and women the same in captivity.”
Angel’s mouth closed so fast his teeth clicked.
Outside the door, someone began to scream. Jo Seung flinched.
Angel said, “Ignore it – it’s just a recording.”
Jo Seung shook his head. “No – it’s Jamal. I know his voice!” His face was pale, his eyes wide.
“It’s a recording,” Angel said again.
Jo Seung began to shake.
Angel slid closer to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, began to murmur softly.
“That’s from the Qu’ran,” Asia said. “He’s Korean. Try something – Buddhist.”
“That’s stereotyping,” Jo Seung. “I’m Christian.”
Christian said, “Forget religion.” He shuffled closer to Jo Seung, nudged the boy’s shoulder with his. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once.”
“I’ve been valiant,” Jo Seung said. “I’ve served The Change. But I’m pretty sure I will die a thousand times before these people are done with me.”
“If you like,” Asia said, “you only need die the one.”
Angel blinked. “What?”
But Jo Seung nodded. “Please.”
Asia turned to Angel and said, “What other holy books have you read?”
Angel began to recite from the Rig Vedas, and Asia closed her hands around Jo Seung’s neck. He was smiling as he listened, and then he closed his eyes, and Asia twisted.
(442 words)
Friday, March 11, 2011
Any Other Twenty-somethings
“Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly –”
“That’s pretty morbid,” Serena said.
James sighed. “I was trying to read.”
“Yes, aloud,” Katie said, and rolled her eyes.
“It’s actually not that morbid,” Riley said without looking up from his copy of Love in a Time of Cholera. “It’s about the Lady of Shallott.”
“There was a lady of wild garlic?” Serena wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like she’s totally your style, James.”
“She’s from Arthurian legend,” Riley said. “She was in love with Sir Lancelot.”
“I thought that was Queen Guinevere,” Serena said.
“She was in love with Lancelot too, but...well, lots of ladies fancied him,” Riley said. “That’s not the point. Keep reading, James.”
Katie arched an eyebrow. “He was reading for you?”
Serena hummed. “James does have a pleasant speaking voice.”
Riley turned a page in his book. “Read, minion.”
Soon the power would be back on and they could resume shooting. Till then, they were sprawled on the grass in the sun, pretending they were any other twenty-somethings, dressed in medieval gear and sitting in the lee of a fourteenth century castle.
(194 words)
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly –”
“That’s pretty morbid,” Serena said.
James sighed. “I was trying to read.”
“Yes, aloud,” Katie said, and rolled her eyes.
“It’s actually not that morbid,” Riley said without looking up from his copy of Love in a Time of Cholera. “It’s about the Lady of Shallott.”
“There was a lady of wild garlic?” Serena wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like she’s totally your style, James.”
“She’s from Arthurian legend,” Riley said. “She was in love with Sir Lancelot.”
“I thought that was Queen Guinevere,” Serena said.
“She was in love with Lancelot too, but...well, lots of ladies fancied him,” Riley said. “That’s not the point. Keep reading, James.”
Katie arched an eyebrow. “He was reading for you?”
Serena hummed. “James does have a pleasant speaking voice.”
Riley turned a page in his book. “Read, minion.”
Soon the power would be back on and they could resume shooting. Till then, they were sprawled on the grass in the sun, pretending they were any other twenty-somethings, dressed in medieval gear and sitting in the lee of a fourteenth century castle.
(194 words)
Any Good?
"What are you reading?" Hal asked, plopping down beside David. Hal was one of the few people that David would count as a friend in this school. One of the only people who would make the first move to initiate conversation.
David held up the slim novel, "Persuasion, by Jane Austen," he said.
Hal tried, but didn't succeed in suppressing a bubble of laughter. "Why on earth are you reading that?" he asked, merriment dancing in his eyes at the thought of his friend reading such a girly book.
"Just because you would never broaden your horizons doesn't mean the rest of us don't," David sniffed in mock disdain, "besides," he added and smiled a little, "it's one of Ariana's favorites."
"What's it about?" Hal asked, still clearly amused.
"It's about a military man who fell in love with a young girl. The young girl gave up the relationship when pressured by her family. They split up and he went to sea. He came back years later and this is the story of how they both cope with it. It's a story about waiting," David said.
"Is it any good?" Hal asked, his tone low, as if embarrassed to be caught asking.
"It's really good," David said, "I'll let you read it when I'm finished if you want," he continued, casting a sidelong glance at his friend.
Hal looked around quickly, "alright," he said, "if it's as good as you say then I'll check it out."
David smirked a little and returned to the story.
David held up the slim novel, "Persuasion, by Jane Austen," he said.
Hal tried, but didn't succeed in suppressing a bubble of laughter. "Why on earth are you reading that?" he asked, merriment dancing in his eyes at the thought of his friend reading such a girly book.
"Just because you would never broaden your horizons doesn't mean the rest of us don't," David sniffed in mock disdain, "besides," he added and smiled a little, "it's one of Ariana's favorites."
"What's it about?" Hal asked, still clearly amused.
"It's about a military man who fell in love with a young girl. The young girl gave up the relationship when pressured by her family. They split up and he went to sea. He came back years later and this is the story of how they both cope with it. It's a story about waiting," David said.
"Is it any good?" Hal asked, his tone low, as if embarrassed to be caught asking.
"It's really good," David said, "I'll let you read it when I'm finished if you want," he continued, casting a sidelong glance at his friend.
Hal looked around quickly, "alright," he said, "if it's as good as you say then I'll check it out."
David smirked a little and returned to the story.
Moving Memories
"What are you looking for?" Jen asked as she watched Joe rummage through a tattered old moving box.
"Nothing in particular," he said, brushing dust from his cheek.
"What's in the box?" she asked leaning a little closer. She could see old papers, notebooks, and some odds and ends.
"It's just a bunch of stuff from the past," Joe mumbled, his voice muffled from his head being in the box as he dug deeper, "I haven't looking in this box in years."
Jen leaned against the last unpainted wall of the apartment, she was wearing white overalls and a pair of faded old sneakers. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail and the rest was trapped by an old red bandanna. She held a paintbrush in one hand, letting her arms rest atop her knees.
"What made you decide to look in the box now?" Jen asked; she eyed the young man in curiosity.
Joe looked up at her and smiled, "because of the move, silly," he said. It had taken them a while to agree that they should get an apartment together and even longer before they found one that they liked. "Isn't that what people do when they move? They go through old boxes and relive the past, try to decide if they want to keep the stuff, realize the memories it brings back and decide to keep it though they will hardly ever look at it again,"
Joe's searching fingers had grasped a thin glossy book and pulled it from under the pile of papers. He smiled fondly at it as he thumbed through it. "I haven't seen or though of this book in years," he said.
"What book is that?" Jen asked looking over at him.
Joe stood up and crossed the room to sit beside her, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day," Joe said, "Alec used to read it to me when we were young. Whenever I was having a bad day."
Jen glanced sideways to see if Joe was in pain, but was relieved to find only a fond smile tugging at his mouth. "Will you read it to me?" Jen asked.
Joe's smile widened and he flipped open the front cover. "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair..."
"Nothing in particular," he said, brushing dust from his cheek.
"What's in the box?" she asked leaning a little closer. She could see old papers, notebooks, and some odds and ends.
"It's just a bunch of stuff from the past," Joe mumbled, his voice muffled from his head being in the box as he dug deeper, "I haven't looking in this box in years."
Jen leaned against the last unpainted wall of the apartment, she was wearing white overalls and a pair of faded old sneakers. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail and the rest was trapped by an old red bandanna. She held a paintbrush in one hand, letting her arms rest atop her knees.
"What made you decide to look in the box now?" Jen asked; she eyed the young man in curiosity.
Joe looked up at her and smiled, "because of the move, silly," he said. It had taken them a while to agree that they should get an apartment together and even longer before they found one that they liked. "Isn't that what people do when they move? They go through old boxes and relive the past, try to decide if they want to keep the stuff, realize the memories it brings back and decide to keep it though they will hardly ever look at it again,"
Joe's searching fingers had grasped a thin glossy book and pulled it from under the pile of papers. He smiled fondly at it as he thumbed through it. "I haven't seen or though of this book in years," he said.
"What book is that?" Jen asked looking over at him.
Joe stood up and crossed the room to sit beside her, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day," Joe said, "Alec used to read it to me when we were young. Whenever I was having a bad day."
Jen glanced sideways to see if Joe was in pain, but was relieved to find only a fond smile tugging at his mouth. "Will you read it to me?" Jen asked.
Joe's smile widened and he flipped open the front cover. "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair..."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Down to Chance
“I don’t like to read much,” Marsh said.
Elise raised her eyebrows at the stack of books next to his knee and strummed her guitar. “Really?”
“Sometimes reading is necessary, of course,” Marsh said. “But that doesn’t mean I like to do it. I can just do it quickly. And remember loads of it.”
“Those look like textbooks,” Elise said.
“They are, of a sort.” Marsh glanced at the stack of books. They were hardbacks and had lavish fantasy illustrations on the covers. Elise tilted her head to study the titles. Monster Manual, Psionics, Players Handbook, Exalted, Dragonlance.
“What are you studying?” They didn’t look like they would be useful in any subject at school, not even at Cody’s fancy private school.
“Rules. For a game,” Marsh said. “Every game has rules. The best players understand how the rules work – and how to make the rules work for them.”
Elise hummed thoughtfully, a counterpoint to the chords she was playing. “All right – what’s the most important rule in that game?”
Marsh’s smile was so sweet it was frightening. “Everything comes down to chance.”
(183 words)
Elise raised her eyebrows at the stack of books next to his knee and strummed her guitar. “Really?”
“Sometimes reading is necessary, of course,” Marsh said. “But that doesn’t mean I like to do it. I can just do it quickly. And remember loads of it.”
“Those look like textbooks,” Elise said.
“They are, of a sort.” Marsh glanced at the stack of books. They were hardbacks and had lavish fantasy illustrations on the covers. Elise tilted her head to study the titles. Monster Manual, Psionics, Players Handbook, Exalted, Dragonlance.
“What are you studying?” They didn’t look like they would be useful in any subject at school, not even at Cody’s fancy private school.
“Rules. For a game,” Marsh said. “Every game has rules. The best players understand how the rules work – and how to make the rules work for them.”
Elise hummed thoughtfully, a counterpoint to the chords she was playing. “All right – what’s the most important rule in that game?”
Marsh’s smile was so sweet it was frightening. “Everything comes down to chance.”
(183 words)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
In the Beginning
Kyle read in a strange, rolling tongue, “En arché en ò lógos, kai ò lógos en pròs tòn théon –”
Cody glanced up from his worn copy of Lovecraft’s Necronomicon and said, “What are you reading?”
Kyle blinked, startled out of his narration, and looked up at Cody. “Pardon?”
Cody nodded at the antique-looking volume Kyle had propped up on his knees. “What book are you reading? And for the record, what language?” They all spoke Hebrew, to one degree or another, and sometimes Aramaic and Latin came in handy, but that sounded brand new.
“It’s ancient Greek,” Kyle said. “And I’m reading from the Bible.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “The Bible?”
“Yes,” Kyle said, and he began to recite, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God –”
“The New Testament,” Cody said flatly.
Kyle shrugged. “Yes, well, I do have Gabriel.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Well, Gabriel isn’t named till the New Testament, now is he?” Kyle smiled and returned to reading aloud in his rolling ancient Greek, leaving Cody to puzzle over that piece of information.
Cody finally spat on his fingertips and drew some Hebrew letters, and Asrael coalesced from the shadows, blinking and looking like a cat that had been unceremoniously dumped into a frigid swimming pool.
“Yes?” Asrael asked.
“Where in the scriptures are you first named?”
Asrael raised his eyebrows. “Well, they never really named me in the Qu’ran - there they simply call me the Angel of Death. I have many names, of course. But you won’t find my name in any canonized scripture, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Cody’s mouth shaped the word Qu’ran but no words came out.
Asrael smiled and patted his shoulder. “Maybe you need to read something else.”
(297 words)
Cody glanced up from his worn copy of Lovecraft’s Necronomicon and said, “What are you reading?”
Kyle blinked, startled out of his narration, and looked up at Cody. “Pardon?”
Cody nodded at the antique-looking volume Kyle had propped up on his knees. “What book are you reading? And for the record, what language?” They all spoke Hebrew, to one degree or another, and sometimes Aramaic and Latin came in handy, but that sounded brand new.
“It’s ancient Greek,” Kyle said. “And I’m reading from the Bible.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “The Bible?”
“Yes,” Kyle said, and he began to recite, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God –”
“The New Testament,” Cody said flatly.
Kyle shrugged. “Yes, well, I do have Gabriel.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Well, Gabriel isn’t named till the New Testament, now is he?” Kyle smiled and returned to reading aloud in his rolling ancient Greek, leaving Cody to puzzle over that piece of information.
Cody finally spat on his fingertips and drew some Hebrew letters, and Asrael coalesced from the shadows, blinking and looking like a cat that had been unceremoniously dumped into a frigid swimming pool.
“Yes?” Asrael asked.
“Where in the scriptures are you first named?”
Asrael raised his eyebrows. “Well, they never really named me in the Qu’ran - there they simply call me the Angel of Death. I have many names, of course. But you won’t find my name in any canonized scripture, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Cody’s mouth shaped the word Qu’ran but no words came out.
Asrael smiled and patted his shoulder. “Maybe you need to read something else.”
(297 words)
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Spoiled
Mark eagerly began the last chapter of his novel, Warbreaker. He had waited a while to savor this book until he had a little R&R and could take the time to really enjoy it fully. He could almost see it as if it were being played out in front of him. It was one of the reasons he loved to read. He could see it. He could rewind and replay a scene over and over again.
"Hey, I've read that one," Joe exclaimed as he wandered into the living room, "isn't it fantastic? I loved the ending, didn't you? I especially like the part where Vash defeats the bad guy at the end and the God-King is proven to be... Wasn't that a surprise?"
Mark looked up at Joe, his eyes flashing in anger. "It isn't a surprise anymore," Mark said flatly as he snapped the book closed, "do you know how long I've been waiting to read that?"
Joe swallowed hard, suddenly looking like he would rather be anywhere else than where he was. Joe slowly backed out of the room before turning and hurrying down the hall.
Mark growled in frustration and tossed the book aside. He hated a spoiled ending.
"Hey, I've read that one," Joe exclaimed as he wandered into the living room, "isn't it fantastic? I loved the ending, didn't you? I especially like the part where Vash defeats the bad guy at the end and the God-King is proven to be... Wasn't that a surprise?"
Mark looked up at Joe, his eyes flashing in anger. "It isn't a surprise anymore," Mark said flatly as he snapped the book closed, "do you know how long I've been waiting to read that?"
Joe swallowed hard, suddenly looking like he would rather be anywhere else than where he was. Joe slowly backed out of the room before turning and hurrying down the hall.
Mark growled in frustration and tossed the book aside. He hated a spoiled ending.
Cry to Heaven
“Whatcha reading?” Tobias asked.
DJ didn’t even look up. “A book.” He turned the page.
“Goodness gracious me, I’m so unobservant that I didn’t notice.” Tobias rolled his eyes and perched on the arm of the sofa with the uncanny balance of a bird of prey.
“You can read the title.”
“Yes, well, Cry to Heaven doesn’t tell me much. It could be religious or weepy or whatnot,” Tobias said.
DJ said, “It’s none of the above.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“Revenge.”
Tobias blinked. Then he leaned in, peered at the cover, and sure the cover was bright red and all, but that didn’t tell him much. “So...revenge. Who’s getting revenge on who?”
“A boy is getting revenge on his father,” DJ said, “and he has to become a monster to do it.”
“Oh.” Tobias mulled that over for a moment, then said, “But you’ve already done all that. Surely a book pales compared to the real thing.”
The smile that curved DJ’s lips would have sent Jack the Ripper fleeing in terror. “You’d be surprised.”
Later, when Tobias read the book, he was.
(185 words)
DJ didn’t even look up. “A book.” He turned the page.
“Goodness gracious me, I’m so unobservant that I didn’t notice.” Tobias rolled his eyes and perched on the arm of the sofa with the uncanny balance of a bird of prey.
“You can read the title.”
“Yes, well, Cry to Heaven doesn’t tell me much. It could be religious or weepy or whatnot,” Tobias said.
DJ said, “It’s none of the above.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“Revenge.”
Tobias blinked. Then he leaned in, peered at the cover, and sure the cover was bright red and all, but that didn’t tell him much. “So...revenge. Who’s getting revenge on who?”
“A boy is getting revenge on his father,” DJ said, “and he has to become a monster to do it.”
“Oh.” Tobias mulled that over for a moment, then said, “But you’ve already done all that. Surely a book pales compared to the real thing.”
The smile that curved DJ’s lips would have sent Jack the Ripper fleeing in terror. “You’d be surprised.”
Later, when Tobias read the book, he was.
(185 words)
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Mammoth Ego of Merlin
“You are such an egomaniac,” Asia said.
Angel peered over the top of the worn paperback and raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”
Asia nodded at the spine of his book. “The Crystal Cave? And don’t think I didn’t see your copy of Le Morte D’Arthur and The Idylls of the King. Also, let’s not forget The Mammoth Book of Merlin.”
“I’m very interested in Arthurian legend,” Angel said.
Asia rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re just obsessed with how most legends turned you into a cantankerous old man with a massive white beard.”
A mutinous expression crossed Angel’s face, and he looked ready to launch into an age-old tirade, but then he said, “Actually, I’m fascinated at how you manage to not be in any of the legends. To my knowledge, no one ever mentions his page, squire, or personal servant.”
“Do you really want to know?” Asia asked. She plopped down on the other end of the sofa.
Angel closed the book over a bookmark (a tattered thing made of plaited yarn born of one of Keith’s bored days). “You actually know the answer?”
“Yes,” Asia said.
“Go on then. Tell me how history managed to utterly cock up one of our finest moments,” Angel said.
Asia leaned in and lowered her voice. “Well, after Arthur died, we went our separate ways. You became a samurai, but I stayed in the British Isles, and I returned to my ways as a wandering songstress.”
“And?”
“And I might have started telling stories about a wondrous king, a sword in a stone...and his cranky old wizard,” Asia said.
Fury sparked in Angel’s eyes, and his telekinesis laced the air. Pillows launched themselves at Asia from all sides. She laughed and batted them away. Angel lunged at her, and Asia leapt off the sofa, danced out of reach.
“You –!” Angel yelled.
Asia was still laughing. “Yes, me.”
Angel attempted to fling more household furnishings at her, but she just dodged. When they finally settled down, Angel picked up his novel.
“Fine, so maybe I had it coming, what with spawning Mordred,” Angel said. Then he tilted his head and looked at her, curious. “Why did you write yourself out of the legend?”
“Because no one would believe a woman was any good with a sword,” Asia said easily, and both of them knew she was lying.
“Do you think you’ll ever get a second chance with him?” Angel asked.
Asia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Like with all the others – do you think you’ll have a second chance?”
“No.”
“But the prophecy –”
“Those are books, Angel,” Asia said, and she stood up. Maybe one day he would remember that he, too, had been there to witness the burial of the king, and he’d heard her say the words himself. Until then, he could keep reading and imagining.
(479 words)
Angel peered over the top of the worn paperback and raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”
Asia nodded at the spine of his book. “The Crystal Cave? And don’t think I didn’t see your copy of Le Morte D’Arthur and The Idylls of the King. Also, let’s not forget The Mammoth Book of Merlin.”
“I’m very interested in Arthurian legend,” Angel said.
Asia rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re just obsessed with how most legends turned you into a cantankerous old man with a massive white beard.”
A mutinous expression crossed Angel’s face, and he looked ready to launch into an age-old tirade, but then he said, “Actually, I’m fascinated at how you manage to not be in any of the legends. To my knowledge, no one ever mentions his page, squire, or personal servant.”
“Do you really want to know?” Asia asked. She plopped down on the other end of the sofa.
Angel closed the book over a bookmark (a tattered thing made of plaited yarn born of one of Keith’s bored days). “You actually know the answer?”
“Yes,” Asia said.
“Go on then. Tell me how history managed to utterly cock up one of our finest moments,” Angel said.
Asia leaned in and lowered her voice. “Well, after Arthur died, we went our separate ways. You became a samurai, but I stayed in the British Isles, and I returned to my ways as a wandering songstress.”
“And?”
“And I might have started telling stories about a wondrous king, a sword in a stone...and his cranky old wizard,” Asia said.
Fury sparked in Angel’s eyes, and his telekinesis laced the air. Pillows launched themselves at Asia from all sides. She laughed and batted them away. Angel lunged at her, and Asia leapt off the sofa, danced out of reach.
“You –!” Angel yelled.
Asia was still laughing. “Yes, me.”
Angel attempted to fling more household furnishings at her, but she just dodged. When they finally settled down, Angel picked up his novel.
“Fine, so maybe I had it coming, what with spawning Mordred,” Angel said. Then he tilted his head and looked at her, curious. “Why did you write yourself out of the legend?”
“Because no one would believe a woman was any good with a sword,” Asia said easily, and both of them knew she was lying.
“Do you think you’ll ever get a second chance with him?” Angel asked.
Asia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Like with all the others – do you think you’ll have a second chance?”
“No.”
“But the prophecy –”
“Those are books, Angel,” Asia said, and she stood up. Maybe one day he would remember that he, too, had been there to witness the burial of the king, and he’d heard her say the words himself. Until then, he could keep reading and imagining.
(479 words)
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Project Assignment # 82 - Books
What is your characters favorite book? Have the written a book or do they just like to putter around? Why is the book their favorite? Does Tobias like historical fiction? Maybe Bryan likes fantasy books.
500 word limit.
Have fun!!!
500 word limit.
Have fun!!!
Overview # 81 Musical Instruments
I tried to get a feel for what instruments my boys would play. And I think the most difficult was writing Stephens Beat Box piece. How do you render those sounds into writing...?
I have to say I partially failed this week because my sister gave birth and so it kinda didn't happen.
I enjoyed writing Mark and Joe's pieces.
I have to say I partially failed this week because my sister gave birth and so it kinda didn't happen.
I enjoyed writing Mark and Joe's pieces.
Overview #81: Musical Instruments
So...this week was all right. I learned some new things about the boys and girls in Seraph-verse. The cheap thing about the boys in the Dagaz is that they all play instruments (except maybe Angel) and they all play bloody well. I'd given Tobias an instrument from his first life, and I think he's the only one who inherently has two, so I gave Keith another one out of national pride, but...I don't know that I really did anything new with them having musical instruments. In typical me fashion, what started off as an exploration of music itself turned into an exploration of character with music as a sort of foil or entry point.
Who knows. As long as I'm learning new things about my characters, I'm glad, but I'm not entirely sure I grew as a writer this week.
On the other hand...this week Madness wins! Because she wrote her own song lyrics for a piece. That's artistic integrity and dedication, friends. So...fandom of your choice, 1000 words or less!
Who knows. As long as I'm learning new things about my characters, I'm glad, but I'm not entirely sure I grew as a writer this week.
On the other hand...this week Madness wins! Because she wrote her own song lyrics for a piece. That's artistic integrity and dedication, friends. So...fandom of your choice, 1000 words or less!
Saturday, March 5, 2011
For Food Money
Elise was surprised that the person who knew the most pop songs was Kyle. Cody had an ear for classical and ethnic music, most of which wasn’t suited for the western musical scale, and Marsh was a fan of old rock and alternative rock, in that order.
So Elise let Kyle sit beside her on the corner of Harney and 11th while they played for food money. Elise had put a lot of effort into learning weird Indie music and grunge rock – so maybe Cody calling her a Courtney Love cliché had some truth to it – but her taste in music wasn’t going to get them fed.
“Try some Leona Lewis,” Kyle said. “You can sing, right?” And he hummed the melody.
For all that Cody assumed most days Elise was uneducated white trash, she’d had a decent enough musical education, and she could pick out a chord progression for a melody. “I don’t know the words,” she said..
Kyle sighed. “Fine. Just for you, I’ll break out my countertenor skills. You ready?”
Elise tested the chord progression, and then Kyle explained the verse-chorus-bridge layout to her, and they began another performance. A group of girls stopped to listen and coo at Kyle (who looked all of six and was really twelve) and nod along to the song, and they dropped some actual bills into Elise’s case, and maybe at the end of an eight-hour day they’d have enough to buy supper for all of them.
Kyle scanned the streets and spotted a group of retiree tourists.
“How’s your American folk music?” he asked.
Elise could play Spanish guitar with the best of them. “What do you mean?”
“Woody Guthrie,” Kyle said. “I know all the verses.”
So Elise played, and Kyle sang, and they were paid.
(300 words)
So Elise let Kyle sit beside her on the corner of Harney and 11th while they played for food money. Elise had put a lot of effort into learning weird Indie music and grunge rock – so maybe Cody calling her a Courtney Love cliché had some truth to it – but her taste in music wasn’t going to get them fed.
“Try some Leona Lewis,” Kyle said. “You can sing, right?” And he hummed the melody.
For all that Cody assumed most days Elise was uneducated white trash, she’d had a decent enough musical education, and she could pick out a chord progression for a melody. “I don’t know the words,” she said..
Kyle sighed. “Fine. Just for you, I’ll break out my countertenor skills. You ready?”
Elise tested the chord progression, and then Kyle explained the verse-chorus-bridge layout to her, and they began another performance. A group of girls stopped to listen and coo at Kyle (who looked all of six and was really twelve) and nod along to the song, and they dropped some actual bills into Elise’s case, and maybe at the end of an eight-hour day they’d have enough to buy supper for all of them.
Kyle scanned the streets and spotted a group of retiree tourists.
“How’s your American folk music?” he asked.
Elise could play Spanish guitar with the best of them. “What do you mean?”
“Woody Guthrie,” Kyle said. “I know all the verses.”
So Elise played, and Kyle sang, and they were paid.
(300 words)
Friday, March 4, 2011
Dirges and Love Songs
James flung open the door, still enraged at the absolute cock-up that was his afternoon improv exercise. His partner had been utterly unprepared – because, contrary to popular belief, improv required actual preparation – and everything had gone to hell in a handcart.
“Have you ever been stuck with Sanderson for an exercise?” he began, and he stopped short.
Tobias was standing in the middle of the room poised with a violin, eyes closed, making the the strings weep.
James took a deep breath, and then he closed the door quietly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Tobias opened his eyes and smiled. The curve of his mouth was utterly gentle, but his eyes were pitch black, and he looked ready to cry. “Don’t worry, you didn’t disturb me.” He lowered his bow and stretched his neck. “Just thought my instrument needed a little love. School got in the way for a while.”
“I didn’t know you played,” James said. He sat down on the edge of his bed.
“I’ve played since I was a child.” Tobias reached into his pocket for a hanky and used it to clean the strings. “I used to practice every day, but then I decided on drama instead of music.”
“I play the guitar, but not nearly as well as you play the violin,” James said, awed. “I hear it’s one of the most difficult instruments to play.”
“Maybe,” Tobias said. “Do you have a guitar?”
“Sold it to buy books,” James said. “What song were you playing?”
“Old Russian melody,” Tobias said, and his smiled turned brighter. “It was a love song, but they all sound like dirges.”
James laughed. “Can you sing any of them?”
“Do you want to top yourself?”
“Fine. Can you play Flight of the Bumblebee?”
(297 words)
“Have you ever been stuck with Sanderson for an exercise?” he began, and he stopped short.
Tobias was standing in the middle of the room poised with a violin, eyes closed, making the the strings weep.
James took a deep breath, and then he closed the door quietly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Tobias opened his eyes and smiled. The curve of his mouth was utterly gentle, but his eyes were pitch black, and he looked ready to cry. “Don’t worry, you didn’t disturb me.” He lowered his bow and stretched his neck. “Just thought my instrument needed a little love. School got in the way for a while.”
“I didn’t know you played,” James said. He sat down on the edge of his bed.
“I’ve played since I was a child.” Tobias reached into his pocket for a hanky and used it to clean the strings. “I used to practice every day, but then I decided on drama instead of music.”
“I play the guitar, but not nearly as well as you play the violin,” James said, awed. “I hear it’s one of the most difficult instruments to play.”
“Maybe,” Tobias said. “Do you have a guitar?”
“Sold it to buy books,” James said. “What song were you playing?”
“Old Russian melody,” Tobias said, and his smiled turned brighter. “It was a love song, but they all sound like dirges.”
James laughed. “Can you sing any of them?”
“Do you want to top yourself?”
“Fine. Can you play Flight of the Bumblebee?”
(297 words)
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Speak-Easy
Mark couldn't remember how long it had been since he had played the piano. He ran his fingers across the dusty keys and picked out a few chords. The bench creaked as he sat down, his weight settling the ancient wood.
Only one or two keys were slightly out of tune as Mark tested them out, his fingers flowing across the ivory. Music flooded the room and it sounded like an entire jazz band era orchestra was coming from the old piano. A vision seemed to materialize from the notes that shimmered in the air.
One could picture a 1920s speak-easy, fedoras tilted at rakish angles and the air hazy with cigarette smoke. Low conversation punctuated by the soft clink of ice in glasses of illegally obtained booze. Smooth men in suits with smartly oiled hair played cards and transacted business deals. Women were resplendent in tight cocktail dresses, hair perfectly coiffed, faces painted up to look like perfect china dolls.
Servers in tuxedos ghosted through the room, collecting glasses and lighting cigars. A piano sat in the far corner of the lounge, a smartly dressed man in slacks and suspenders sat on the bench, coaxing popular tunes from the instrument.
With a final flourish, Mark raised his fingers from the keys and the vision of the speak-easy faded slowly into the dusty darkness.
Only one or two keys were slightly out of tune as Mark tested them out, his fingers flowing across the ivory. Music flooded the room and it sounded like an entire jazz band era orchestra was coming from the old piano. A vision seemed to materialize from the notes that shimmered in the air.
One could picture a 1920s speak-easy, fedoras tilted at rakish angles and the air hazy with cigarette smoke. Low conversation punctuated by the soft clink of ice in glasses of illegally obtained booze. Smooth men in suits with smartly oiled hair played cards and transacted business deals. Women were resplendent in tight cocktail dresses, hair perfectly coiffed, faces painted up to look like perfect china dolls.
Servers in tuxedos ghosted through the room, collecting glasses and lighting cigars. A piano sat in the far corner of the lounge, a smartly dressed man in slacks and suspenders sat on the bench, coaxing popular tunes from the instrument.
With a final flourish, Mark raised his fingers from the keys and the vision of the speak-easy faded slowly into the dusty darkness.
Guitar and Drums
“So I hear you play the drums,” Will said.
Anna blinked. “You heard correctly. Why?”
“Are you busy?”
Answering a question with a question – a law student should know better. Anna said, “No.”
“Is it true you have a set of drums in your apartment?” Will asked.
“Yes.” Where was he going with this?
“Great. Can I come over?”
Anna glanced longingly at the next season of Spooks, waiting for her in all its Richard Armitage goodness and said, “Yes.”
Seven minutes later, Anna opened her door and saw Will standing on the doorstep, guitar slung across his back, amp in one hand.
“Where are your drums?” he asked.
Anna gaped. Will – proper, buttoned-up, Victorian Will – played the guitar? A gleaming red electric fender, no less. Will craned his neck and peered past her.
“Oh, they’re in your room,” he said. “Is there a plug in there for me to set up?”
Anna said, “Yes,” because it seemed that was all she was capable of saying, and she led Will into her bedroom. He spotted a power outlet and set up immediately while she stared, confused.
“Sit down and play a beat, any beat,” he said, so Anna, still dazed, obeyed. She grabbed her sticks, adjusted the hi-hat, and picked a beat from a song she’d been working on for a while. It was a beat for a Moffatts song, but then Will began picking a series of notes, a Chili Peppers song, and somehow it worked.
Will played the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
In Anna’s room. While she played the drums.
Wonders would never cease. Anna kicked into a filler and slid into a new beat, and Will followed her, this time with some Pink Floyd.
To top it off, he began to sing.
(297 words)
Anna blinked. “You heard correctly. Why?”
“Are you busy?”
Answering a question with a question – a law student should know better. Anna said, “No.”
“Is it true you have a set of drums in your apartment?” Will asked.
“Yes.” Where was he going with this?
“Great. Can I come over?”
Anna glanced longingly at the next season of Spooks, waiting for her in all its Richard Armitage goodness and said, “Yes.”
Seven minutes later, Anna opened her door and saw Will standing on the doorstep, guitar slung across his back, amp in one hand.
“Where are your drums?” he asked.
Anna gaped. Will – proper, buttoned-up, Victorian Will – played the guitar? A gleaming red electric fender, no less. Will craned his neck and peered past her.
“Oh, they’re in your room,” he said. “Is there a plug in there for me to set up?”
Anna said, “Yes,” because it seemed that was all she was capable of saying, and she led Will into her bedroom. He spotted a power outlet and set up immediately while she stared, confused.
“Sit down and play a beat, any beat,” he said, so Anna, still dazed, obeyed. She grabbed her sticks, adjusted the hi-hat, and picked a beat from a song she’d been working on for a while. It was a beat for a Moffatts song, but then Will began picking a series of notes, a Chili Peppers song, and somehow it worked.
Will played the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
In Anna’s room. While she played the drums.
Wonders would never cease. Anna kicked into a filler and slid into a new beat, and Will followed her, this time with some Pink Floyd.
To top it off, he began to sing.
(297 words)
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Paying the Piper
“What d’you suppose this is?” the professor asked. The slide changed to an image of a series of shapes, faintly tubular, encrusted with dirt and obviously fragile with age, bound together in a series of staggered lengths.
The students in the dimly-lit classroom made no move to answer.
The professor sighed. “Come on, put your thinking caps on! Look at it from an artist’s perspective. Why was it given this shape? What was it for – was it practical or ornamental or both?”
Tobias raised his eyebrow at the notion of thinking caps, because they were in Art History 101, not second grade. He glanced up at the slide, and then he felt something in his chest tighten. He knew that image instinctively, from some place buried deep inside of him. He raised his hand.
“Yes, Andrew,” the professor said, and the name ricocheted down to the soles of Tobias’s feet.
“It’s a set of pipes,” he said, “carved from the antlers of the deer driven on the steppes by the people who roamed Russia back in those days. It was tied with a strip of deer hide and used both to play music and also as a signaling device for hunters to communicate across long distances.”
The professor blinked at the eloquent answer. “Yes...that’s a very real possibility.”
Tobias knew it wasn’t a possibility – he knew it was the truth, because he’d played those pipes himself. He could close his eyes and see Asia – no, Kana dancing to his songs. If he had those pipes in his hands, he could breathe life and magic into them, he was sure of it.
But then the lights came on, and the lecture was over.
Tobias wondered what other skills were sleeping just beneath the surface.
(295 words)
The students in the dimly-lit classroom made no move to answer.
The professor sighed. “Come on, put your thinking caps on! Look at it from an artist’s perspective. Why was it given this shape? What was it for – was it practical or ornamental or both?”
Tobias raised his eyebrow at the notion of thinking caps, because they were in Art History 101, not second grade. He glanced up at the slide, and then he felt something in his chest tighten. He knew that image instinctively, from some place buried deep inside of him. He raised his hand.
“Yes, Andrew,” the professor said, and the name ricocheted down to the soles of Tobias’s feet.
“It’s a set of pipes,” he said, “carved from the antlers of the deer driven on the steppes by the people who roamed Russia back in those days. It was tied with a strip of deer hide and used both to play music and also as a signaling device for hunters to communicate across long distances.”
The professor blinked at the eloquent answer. “Yes...that’s a very real possibility.”
Tobias knew it wasn’t a possibility – he knew it was the truth, because he’d played those pipes himself. He could close his eyes and see Asia – no, Kana dancing to his songs. If he had those pipes in his hands, he could breathe life and magic into them, he was sure of it.
But then the lights came on, and the lecture was over.
Tobias wondered what other skills were sleeping just beneath the surface.
(295 words)
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Brother My Brother
Joe let his fingers lightly caress the strings as he hummed a wordless melody, his pitch perfectly harmonic to the chords he strummed. A ripple of sound rolled off six strings and echoed through the wooden body of the old guitar that Alec had left behind.
"I didn't know you played the guitar," David said as he poked his head into the den of their little apartment, his thoughts had been sidetracked when he had heard the quiet music.
"I don't really," Joe replied, "Just the chords that someone once taught me. I shuffle them around into different patterns, though it never comes out quite right."
David stepped out of the room, his mind returning to his paperwork when he was arrested in his thoughts again as Joe softly began to sing, his voice a rich tenor.
"Brother my brother
our time, it was so brief.
We laughed until our days were gone
And now we come to grief.
Time and again I remember when
We laughed until we cried.
And even though the memory is strong
It feels like I'm dying inside.
Your spirit whispers softly
urging me to carry on.
Still you keep me from falling,
Even now, when you are gone."
David hadn't noticed when tears had begun rolling down his cheeks.
(I am proud to say that I wrote those lyrics myself just for this piece.)
"I didn't know you played the guitar," David said as he poked his head into the den of their little apartment, his thoughts had been sidetracked when he had heard the quiet music.
"I don't really," Joe replied, "Just the chords that someone once taught me. I shuffle them around into different patterns, though it never comes out quite right."
David stepped out of the room, his mind returning to his paperwork when he was arrested in his thoughts again as Joe softly began to sing, his voice a rich tenor.
"Brother my brother
our time, it was so brief.
We laughed until our days were gone
And now we come to grief.
Time and again I remember when
We laughed until we cried.
And even though the memory is strong
It feels like I'm dying inside.
Your spirit whispers softly
urging me to carry on.
Still you keep me from falling,
Even now, when you are gone."
David hadn't noticed when tears had begun rolling down his cheeks.
(I am proud to say that I wrote those lyrics myself just for this piece.)
Uilleann Pipes
“I might play the uillean pipes.” Keith slanted a glance sideways at Tobias, who was making a fine point of tuning his violin.
“I thought you played the bass,” James said.
“I do play the bass,” Keith said. “But I also play the uillean pipes.”
Asia raised an eyebrow. “I don’t ever remember you –”
“I might have picked them up in a moment of national consciousness,” Keith said.
“What are uillean pipes?” James looked slightly cornered with all of Asia’s brothers crowded into the tiny kitchen in his flat.
“The Irish equivalent of bagpipes,” Tobias said without looking up from his violin.
“Irish equivalent my foot.” Riley stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, grinning. “Uillean pipes sound far better than those Scottish honking geese.”
Keith broke into a grin. “A man after my own taste. Do I detect a hint of Armagh in you, m’lad?”
Riley grinned back at him. “Aye. And I hear some Ulster in you, I dare say.”
“Indeed.”
James cleared his throat. “So...how long have you been playing the uillean pipes?”
Keith started to say something, but Asia dug an elbow into his ribs, and he wheezed out, “Five years.”
“I have a set, you know,” Riley said. He reached toward the crowded table and poured himself a cup of hot cocoa. “Serenade us, why don’t you?”
Keith immediately turned a fantastic shade of red. “I, er, I’ve never performed before.”
“Why do you have a set of uillean pipes?” James asked.
Riley shrugged. “National pride. And my granddad played, too.”
“Tell you what,” Asia said, “sometime you play for us, and I will play for you.”
Tobias lifted his head sharply. “Since when do you play an instrument?”
“Didn’t you know?” James said. “Asia plays the piano. Hammers and strings.”
(299 words)
“I thought you played the bass,” James said.
“I do play the bass,” Keith said. “But I also play the uillean pipes.”
Asia raised an eyebrow. “I don’t ever remember you –”
“I might have picked them up in a moment of national consciousness,” Keith said.
“What are uillean pipes?” James looked slightly cornered with all of Asia’s brothers crowded into the tiny kitchen in his flat.
“The Irish equivalent of bagpipes,” Tobias said without looking up from his violin.
“Irish equivalent my foot.” Riley stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, grinning. “Uillean pipes sound far better than those Scottish honking geese.”
Keith broke into a grin. “A man after my own taste. Do I detect a hint of Armagh in you, m’lad?”
Riley grinned back at him. “Aye. And I hear some Ulster in you, I dare say.”
“Indeed.”
James cleared his throat. “So...how long have you been playing the uillean pipes?”
Keith started to say something, but Asia dug an elbow into his ribs, and he wheezed out, “Five years.”
“I have a set, you know,” Riley said. He reached toward the crowded table and poured himself a cup of hot cocoa. “Serenade us, why don’t you?”
Keith immediately turned a fantastic shade of red. “I, er, I’ve never performed before.”
“Why do you have a set of uillean pipes?” James asked.
Riley shrugged. “National pride. And my granddad played, too.”
“Tell you what,” Asia said, “sometime you play for us, and I will play for you.”
Tobias lifted his head sharply. “Since when do you play an instrument?”
“Didn’t you know?” James said. “Asia plays the piano. Hammers and strings.”
(299 words)
Beatbox
Steve sauntered down the hall towards his math class, headless of the looks that he got as he passed. He tapped rhythmicly on his thigh as his lips contorted, his voice forming the strangest sounds. For a moment it sounded like a snare drum to be followed by a base drum, a kick, some base, and various synth sounds, all of it tumbling from his lips in the most compelling patterns.
Steve leaned against the wall outside his class room as he continued to Beat box, his eyes closed and his fingers keeping time on the wall; increasing in tempo and complexity. He finished with a flourish of sounds and stepped into the room just as the bell rang, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Steve leaned against the wall outside his class room as he continued to Beat box, his eyes closed and his fingers keeping time on the wall; increasing in tempo and complexity. He finished with a flourish of sounds and stepped into the room just as the bell rang, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Harp
“You play an instrument?” Elise asked.
Marsh thought her eyebrows were going to fly right off her face.
“It’s not uncommon,” Cody said, hunching his massive shoulders defensively. “Reading music helps children read better when they’re younger, and practicing an instrument instills discipline –”
“Yeah whatever,” Elise said, waving a hand dismissively.
Cody hunched his shoulders further. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?” Elise asked. “It’s not something embarrassing like the tuba or triangle, is it?”
Cody cast a shifty glance in Marsh’s direction.
Glee lit in Elise’s eyes. “It is the tuba, isn’t it?”
“It’s the harp,” Cody said flatly.
“The harp? Like...angels on a cloud harp?” Elise’s glee turned to puzzlement.
“It makes sense,” Kyle said, and Marsh blinked; he’d almost forgotten Kyle was there. Kyle was prone to long bouts of silence while he set wards on a safehouse.
“I guess...since Cody’s so big he can carry one around,” Elise said, but she was eyeing Cody with a newfound skepticism.
“King David played the harp,” Kyle explained.
“Like David and Goliath David?” Elise asked.
Marsh hummed tonelessly and attempted to sing, “I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord –”
“I always figured it was a piano,” Elise said.
“They didn’t have pianos back then,” Cody said. He cast Israfel a look. “Don’t you teach her anything?”
Israfel shrugged and sketched quavers in the air. “She sings, and I answer.”
“Play us a song,” Elise said.
Cody cast her a withering look. “I don’t have a harp with me.”
Elise snapped her fingers. “Israfel. A harp for the boy.”
“He’s an angel, not a genie in a bottle,” Cody said.
Elise shimmied her hips and sang an old pop song. Cody sighed. Marsh laughed. Kyle finished the wards.
(300 words)
Marsh thought her eyebrows were going to fly right off her face.
“It’s not uncommon,” Cody said, hunching his massive shoulders defensively. “Reading music helps children read better when they’re younger, and practicing an instrument instills discipline –”
“Yeah whatever,” Elise said, waving a hand dismissively.
Cody hunched his shoulders further. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?” Elise asked. “It’s not something embarrassing like the tuba or triangle, is it?”
Cody cast a shifty glance in Marsh’s direction.
Glee lit in Elise’s eyes. “It is the tuba, isn’t it?”
“It’s the harp,” Cody said flatly.
“The harp? Like...angels on a cloud harp?” Elise’s glee turned to puzzlement.
“It makes sense,” Kyle said, and Marsh blinked; he’d almost forgotten Kyle was there. Kyle was prone to long bouts of silence while he set wards on a safehouse.
“I guess...since Cody’s so big he can carry one around,” Elise said, but she was eyeing Cody with a newfound skepticism.
“King David played the harp,” Kyle explained.
“Like David and Goliath David?” Elise asked.
Marsh hummed tonelessly and attempted to sing, “I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord –”
“I always figured it was a piano,” Elise said.
“They didn’t have pianos back then,” Cody said. He cast Israfel a look. “Don’t you teach her anything?”
Israfel shrugged and sketched quavers in the air. “She sings, and I answer.”
“Play us a song,” Elise said.
Cody cast her a withering look. “I don’t have a harp with me.”
Elise snapped her fingers. “Israfel. A harp for the boy.”
“He’s an angel, not a genie in a bottle,” Cody said.
Elise shimmied her hips and sang an old pop song. Cody sighed. Marsh laughed. Kyle finished the wards.
(300 words)
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Overview # 80 - Poetry
Okay. So I turned out a few this week that I was proud of, but I got sick with a terrible cold so my posting slacked off. I did have several more ideas, most of them were of the fever induced variety and they didn't stick around for very long. Plus my internet connection has been driving me up the wall this week! It will randomly stop working. So I hope to be forgiven.
Most of my work this week didn't rhyme; which is kind of a departure for me, but I rather liked it.
Most of my work this week didn't rhyme; which is kind of a departure for me, but I rather liked it.
Project #81: Musical Instruments
I realize we have a list of challenges we'd like to do, and I know we did songfics recently, but I'd like to see how your characters deal with musical instruments. Can they play? What instrument can they play? Were they classically trained or self-taught? What kind of music do they play? Are their instruments expensive or cheap, rented or owned, family heirlooms or bought on a whim? Do they refuse to play? Is there an instrument they like listening to best? 100-300 words. Musical instruments...go!
Overview #80: Open-form poetry
.....And I wrote poetry for the first time in almost a year. Most of it was whimsical and centered around a single image, a metaphor, and was really prose with line breaks, the kind of prose you can't get away with in the middle of a fictional narrative but that works okay with line breaks. Only one poem had even a vaguest notion of a story. The rest of it was emotional.
I noticed there was a lot of emotional poetry this week. I'm my imagistic self, sticking to concrete images and trying to avoid abstractions (not that they didn't tumble off of my fingertips all over the place). I need to learn a new trick or angle, I think, and maybe my poetry will be better.
I noticed there was a lot of emotional poetry this week. I'm my imagistic self, sticking to concrete images and trying to avoid abstractions (not that they didn't tumble off of my fingertips all over the place). I need to learn a new trick or angle, I think, and maybe my poetry will be better.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Tension
Making lace,
Like cross-examination
And well-paced drama,
Is all about one thing:
Carefully-balanced tension.
The strings and wires,
Fingers and wrists,
Must be positioned just so,
Tug here,
Give slack there,
And if coordination
Is met
– Gears in a watch
Turning and ticking
To the eternal circadian rhythm –
Then two hitches
Become one stitch
And there’s just
That little bit
More lace
To adorn her wrist.
Like cross-examination
And well-paced drama,
Is all about one thing:
Carefully-balanced tension.
The strings and wires,
Fingers and wrists,
Must be positioned just so,
Tug here,
Give slack there,
And if coordination
Is met
– Gears in a watch
Turning and ticking
To the eternal circadian rhythm –
Then two hitches
Become one stitch
And there’s just
That little bit
More lace
To adorn her wrist.
Friday, February 25, 2011
A Strange and Beautiful Thing
Flickering cursors,
Green and red,
Dancing across the screen,
Up and down,
Left and right,
Comment and question,
Comma and em-dash,
Connection and correction.
Friday nights on
Googledocs
Can be a strange
And beautiful
Thing.
Green and red,
Dancing across the screen,
Up and down,
Left and right,
Comment and question,
Comma and em-dash,
Connection and correction.
Friday nights on
Googledocs
Can be a strange
And beautiful
Thing.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Another Brick
I’m sorry
Is worn around the edges
From timeless repetition.
I don’t know what to do
Is a little sharper,
Newer,
Clean lines and stark corners.
I love you
Is razor-sharp
And blood-stained.
Each is
Another brick
In a newly-rebuilt
Wall.
Is worn around the edges
From timeless repetition.
I don’t know what to do
Is a little sharper,
Newer,
Clean lines and stark corners.
I love you
Is razor-sharp
And blood-stained.
Each is
Another brick
In a newly-rebuilt
Wall.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Anymore
Each tear is a searing needle
Digging deep into the soul
Every memory a traitorous
Tether, binding free will.
Lightest brush of the fingers,
Tingles remembered. Dancing.
Dancing across the skin.
Simple embrace,
seeking comfort.
Fitting together
Just like before.
A stolen kiss
Quiet whispers.
I can't do this anymore.
Digging deep into the soul
Every memory a traitorous
Tether, binding free will.
Lightest brush of the fingers,
Tingles remembered. Dancing.
Dancing across the skin.
Simple embrace,
seeking comfort.
Fitting together
Just like before.
A stolen kiss
Quiet whispers.
I can't do this anymore.
Betrayer
Raindrops fall like cat’s paws
Across the slate roof,
Felines circling the house
And waiting for prey to emerge.
Children,
Small as mice,
Grey and hunkering down,
Noses twitching
For the faintest hint
Scent
Taste of the enemy
Linger at the windows and doors.
Officers in black –
Armbands in black, white, red,
North and south,
East and west –
Clutch guns and stamp
In the cold,
Breath misting the air,
Impatient racehorses
Waiting for the firing
Of the gun.
The cat’s meow
Is a smile and a nod,
An affirmation and a sign,
Six points of gold
And the end of a child’s smile.
“Yudas,” says the child.
Betrayer, his mother screams.
Across the slate roof,
Felines circling the house
And waiting for prey to emerge.
Children,
Small as mice,
Grey and hunkering down,
Noses twitching
For the faintest hint
Scent
Taste of the enemy
Linger at the windows and doors.
Officers in black –
Armbands in black, white, red,
North and south,
East and west –
Clutch guns and stamp
In the cold,
Breath misting the air,
Impatient racehorses
Waiting for the firing
Of the gun.
The cat’s meow
Is a smile and a nod,
An affirmation and a sign,
Six points of gold
And the end of a child’s smile.
“Yudas,” says the child.
Betrayer, his mother screams.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Gifts of Life
Give me life and give me hope,
New beginnings and
Springtime joys.
Give me air and light,
Bright days and
Starry nights
Give me freshening winds,
Dancing waves and
Soaring birds.
Give me majestic pines
Wooded hills and
Rocky slopes
Give me vast deserts,
Shifting sands and
Scorching earth.
Give me frozen ponds,
Drifting snow and
Misting breath.
Give me a world of wonder.
Each day a gift and
Each night a dream.
New beginnings and
Springtime joys.
Give me air and light,
Bright days and
Starry nights
Give me freshening winds,
Dancing waves and
Soaring birds.
Give me majestic pines
Wooded hills and
Rocky slopes
Give me vast deserts,
Shifting sands and
Scorching earth.
Give me frozen ponds,
Drifting snow and
Misting breath.
Give me a world of wonder.
Each day a gift and
Each night a dream.
One on One
Ivory on ivory,
Ten fingers on forty-eight keys,
And more songs
Than one man
Can imagine.
White on white,
Ten fingers and two hands,
Two fists against a gi top
And his best friend’s
Skin.
Peach on peach,
Fingers and vials,
Acid spilled onto the gap
Between lab-coat
And gloves.
Red on white,
Blisters and blood,
An entire wood floor
Laid out end to end,
A new home.
Ten fingers on forty-eight keys,
And more songs
Than one man
Can imagine.
White on white,
Ten fingers and two hands,
Two fists against a gi top
And his best friend’s
Skin.
Peach on peach,
Fingers and vials,
Acid spilled onto the gap
Between lab-coat
And gloves.
Red on white,
Blisters and blood,
An entire wood floor
Laid out end to end,
A new home.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Don't Remember
Don't remember how once
You thought to fly,
Buoyed up on the warmest drafts,
Circling higher than you dared imagine.
Don't remember the giddy dreams,
The impossible visions,
Of what might have been.
Don't Remember.
Forget the gentle touch.
Forget the whispered word.
Forget the shadowed gaze.
And forget the sweetest kiss.
Forget.
Forget it all.
For the sake of sanity
And self preservation.
Forget what you had.
File it all into the past
Neatly ordered.
Every thought and wish and dream.
Keep it safely forgotten,
Labeled carefully in your mind.
Let it collect the dust of time.
Become yellowed with age.
Until you forget it was ever there.
You thought to fly,
Buoyed up on the warmest drafts,
Circling higher than you dared imagine.
Don't remember the giddy dreams,
The impossible visions,
Of what might have been.
Don't Remember.
Forget the gentle touch.
Forget the whispered word.
Forget the shadowed gaze.
And forget the sweetest kiss.
Forget.
Forget it all.
For the sake of sanity
And self preservation.
Forget what you had.
File it all into the past
Neatly ordered.
Every thought and wish and dream.
Keep it safely forgotten,
Labeled carefully in your mind.
Let it collect the dust of time.
Become yellowed with age.
Until you forget it was ever there.
To the Ground
A hundred steady pairs of feet
Marching left-right one-two
To the beat of synchronized drums,
Banners whirling behind them
Wielded by practice hands,
Horns and trumpets blazing abroad
A victorious army marching onward.
All it took
Was one pair of feet
Marching right-left
Two one
To send the whole thing
Crashing to the ground.
Marching left-right one-two
To the beat of synchronized drums,
Banners whirling behind them
Wielded by practice hands,
Horns and trumpets blazing abroad
A victorious army marching onward.
All it took
Was one pair of feet
Marching right-left
Two one
To send the whole thing
Crashing to the ground.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Project # - 80 Poetry
I know you probably expected it from me sooner or later, but poetry is the challenge this week. Open write or closed form. It's up to you.
Have fun and hope (for my sake) that the posting is better from me this week.
Have fun and hope (for my sake) that the posting is better from me this week.
Overview #79: Travel
Okay ready for my epic fail to be over with! I only got out one piece and it was rather pathetic. So I will scrub this week and do better next week. The winner was Nagi so you can pick your prize!
Overview #79: Travel
So I didn't make it every day this week. I've decided that rather than backdate posts I miss, I'll take the days I get and lose the days I don't. I tried to stick with the Seraph-verse and Dagaz as much as possible, because the choirboys and girls deserve love, and the Dagaz will likely be around until I die. I spent most of my focus on trying out the characters in different modes of travel, partially to see what those were like, but in the end it all came back to how traveling affected the characters, how they interacted, whether they liked traveling in a given fashion at all. It was enlightening, about the choirboys and girls. I even got a bit songfic at the end. Not a perfect week, but a decent one all the same.
And...since I was the only one who played steadily this week (I know Xylas is having internet woes in Afghanistan) there's no good reason to pick a winner. Let there be competition next week!
And...since I was the only one who played steadily this week (I know Xylas is having internet woes in Afghanistan) there's no good reason to pick a winner. Let there be competition next week!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Walked and Walked
“I learned this song when I was a kid,” Cody said.
Elise arched an eyebrow. “Can you even sing?”
Cody cast her a withering look. “Hello. Jewish? Have to sing at your bar mitzvah. Private lessons with the cantor and everything.”
Elise shrugged her shoulders defensively, tugged her backpack higher. Overhead, the sun was scorching and white-hot, and waves of heat drifted up from the tarmac. Once or twice Elise had stuck her thumb out, struck a sexy pose, but Cody and Kyle had tugged her back into line. Marsh was bringing up the rear, huffing and puffing under the weight of his pack.
After hacking off Elise’s hair, they all looked like bedraggled boy scouts who’d long lost the rest of their troop. So far no one had stopped yet, which was what Kyle wanted. As soon as they could find more idiots to mug for clothes, they’d be that much safer. People wanted to help lost boy scouts, after all.
People were afraid of the seraph-voiced.
“What was the song?” Kyle asked politely.
“It was long and repetitive, and I think it was supposed to make me feel better about having to walk long distances –”
“When the driver and the Rolls were occupied,” Elise said dryly, and rolled her eyes.
Cody ignored her. “But it had a pleasant tune, and it worked. For the most part.”
“Sing it,” Kyle suggested.
Elise groaned.
“You sing all the time,” Marsh said. “Give Cody a shot. If I have to listen to one more Veruca Salt –”
“Fine, sing,” Elise snapped.
Cody took a deep breath, straightened up. And he sang.
“Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked.
Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked.
They washed at streams and worked and played.
Sundays they camped and read and prayed.
Week after week, they sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked and walked.”
“That’s not a very Jewish song,” Elise said.
“It was pleasant.” Kyle smiled.
At the back of the line, Marsh picked up the melody, stumbled over the lyrics. Elise corrected him automatically. Kyle started singing along, helping Marsh with the lyrics. Cody started singing again, and then Elise sighed, joining in.
Together, the four of them sang as they walked, and walked, and walked...and walked.
(394 words)
Elise arched an eyebrow. “Can you even sing?”
Cody cast her a withering look. “Hello. Jewish? Have to sing at your bar mitzvah. Private lessons with the cantor and everything.”
Elise shrugged her shoulders defensively, tugged her backpack higher. Overhead, the sun was scorching and white-hot, and waves of heat drifted up from the tarmac. Once or twice Elise had stuck her thumb out, struck a sexy pose, but Cody and Kyle had tugged her back into line. Marsh was bringing up the rear, huffing and puffing under the weight of his pack.
After hacking off Elise’s hair, they all looked like bedraggled boy scouts who’d long lost the rest of their troop. So far no one had stopped yet, which was what Kyle wanted. As soon as they could find more idiots to mug for clothes, they’d be that much safer. People wanted to help lost boy scouts, after all.
People were afraid of the seraph-voiced.
“What was the song?” Kyle asked politely.
“It was long and repetitive, and I think it was supposed to make me feel better about having to walk long distances –”
“When the driver and the Rolls were occupied,” Elise said dryly, and rolled her eyes.
Cody ignored her. “But it had a pleasant tune, and it worked. For the most part.”
“Sing it,” Kyle suggested.
Elise groaned.
“You sing all the time,” Marsh said. “Give Cody a shot. If I have to listen to one more Veruca Salt –”
“Fine, sing,” Elise snapped.
Cody took a deep breath, straightened up. And he sang.
“Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked.
Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked.
They washed at streams and worked and played.
Sundays they camped and read and prayed.
Week after week, they sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked and walked.”
“That’s not a very Jewish song,” Elise said.
“It was pleasant.” Kyle smiled.
At the back of the line, Marsh picked up the melody, stumbled over the lyrics. Elise corrected him automatically. Kyle started singing along, helping Marsh with the lyrics. Cody started singing again, and then Elise sighed, joining in.
Together, the four of them sang as they walked, and walked, and walked...and walked.
(394 words)
Friday, February 18, 2011
Learn to Fly
“If men were meant to fly, they’d have been born with wings,” Christian said. He stood on the edge of the tarmac and eyed the gleaming DC-5 with distrust.
Angel arched one eyebrow and levitated a coin briefly above his palm. “Or fairy dust.”
Even after six centuries (during which Christian had mostly been asleep, but the principle still applied) a poke at his inhumanity never failed to make him blush.
“We’re called Quislai,” Christian said huffily.
“But you can fly,” Angel said.
“No I can’t. Not really.”
“Well, Quislai can fly.”
“I stand by my statement,” Christian said.
“Then maybe you’re right, but...then that means you’re not really a man, are you?” Angel grinned.
“I am too a man. Just not a human one,” Christian said stiffly. He curled his hand around the handle of his suitcase.
“Well then, man up and let’s get this show on the road. Come on – your first commercial passenger flight. There’s nothing to worry about. If the plane starts to fall out of the sky, you and I are guaranteed to survive.” Angel clapped Christian on the shoulder and started toward the airplane. An attractive young woman in a smart uniform - they called them stewardesses - stood at the top of the metal stairs, waiting to greet him.
Christian took a deep breath, then followed. He really didn’t have a choice. And maybe he would learn something in this place called Egypt where Angel had once lived before. Maybe he would learn more about Angel...and her.
(261 words)
Angel arched one eyebrow and levitated a coin briefly above his palm. “Or fairy dust.”
Even after six centuries (during which Christian had mostly been asleep, but the principle still applied) a poke at his inhumanity never failed to make him blush.
“We’re called Quislai,” Christian said huffily.
“But you can fly,” Angel said.
“No I can’t. Not really.”
“Well, Quislai can fly.”
“I stand by my statement,” Christian said.
“Then maybe you’re right, but...then that means you’re not really a man, are you?” Angel grinned.
“I am too a man. Just not a human one,” Christian said stiffly. He curled his hand around the handle of his suitcase.
“Well then, man up and let’s get this show on the road. Come on – your first commercial passenger flight. There’s nothing to worry about. If the plane starts to fall out of the sky, you and I are guaranteed to survive.” Angel clapped Christian on the shoulder and started toward the airplane. An attractive young woman in a smart uniform - they called them stewardesses - stood at the top of the metal stairs, waiting to greet him.
Christian took a deep breath, then followed. He really didn’t have a choice. And maybe he would learn something in this place called Egypt where Angel had once lived before. Maybe he would learn more about Angel...and her.
(261 words)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Heading for the Northern Lights
“I think I could get used to traveling like this,” Angel said. He tugged his parka tighter around him, nuzzled the furry lining of his hood.
That’s only because you aren’t pulling the stupid sled, Tobias said. He was at the head of the team, all gleaming dark fur and feral black eyes. He didn’t know that Asia was one of the other wild half-breeds that had been loping along in the endless white, tugging the sled through the Alaskan expanse.
“Yes, well, I give the Esquimaux points for style and fun. The land out here is –”
Barren? Tobias suggested. The dog behind him snarled, leapt at him. Tobias turned and snarled right back. There was a tussle, and Angel sighed, using his telekinesis to untangle the harnesses, and at the end the other dog bared its throat. Halfway through the fight it realized that Tobias was no dog at all but a full-blooded wolf, and it slunk back into place with its tail tucked between its legs.
Angel patted the top of the tarp, pleased. This cargo was very precious, and he’d had orders to store it somewhere no one would find it, not the locals, not nosy government surveyors, not intrepid explorers. Asia said she didn’t know when the package would have to be retrieved, but then she always said that when she’d seen things in the future that gave Angel a headache when he tried to explain them.
He hoisted himself up onto the back of the sled and whistled, and as one the dogs – and Tobias – sprang to attention. Angel cracked the whip, cried, “Mush!” and the sled lurched forward. Soon they would be able to see the northern lights.
(286 words)
That’s only because you aren’t pulling the stupid sled, Tobias said. He was at the head of the team, all gleaming dark fur and feral black eyes. He didn’t know that Asia was one of the other wild half-breeds that had been loping along in the endless white, tugging the sled through the Alaskan expanse.
“Yes, well, I give the Esquimaux points for style and fun. The land out here is –”
Barren? Tobias suggested. The dog behind him snarled, leapt at him. Tobias turned and snarled right back. There was a tussle, and Angel sighed, using his telekinesis to untangle the harnesses, and at the end the other dog bared its throat. Halfway through the fight it realized that Tobias was no dog at all but a full-blooded wolf, and it slunk back into place with its tail tucked between its legs.
Angel patted the top of the tarp, pleased. This cargo was very precious, and he’d had orders to store it somewhere no one would find it, not the locals, not nosy government surveyors, not intrepid explorers. Asia said she didn’t know when the package would have to be retrieved, but then she always said that when she’d seen things in the future that gave Angel a headache when he tried to explain them.
He hoisted himself up onto the back of the sled and whistled, and as one the dogs – and Tobias – sprang to attention. Angel cracked the whip, cried, “Mush!” and the sled lurched forward. Soon they would be able to see the northern lights.
(286 words)
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Let's Ride
“I’m not a frickin’ gladiator. I can’t just...run. And catch that thing,” Marsh said. He had his hands on his knees and was panting heavily.
“We’re not asking you to step into an arena and fight for your life,” Cody said. He was staring out at the railway up on the ridge, to the spot where golden light filtered from a dusty hanging lamp. “We’re asking you to run.”
Marsh rolled his eyes. “Do you have to take everything so literally?”
Kyle smiled. “You can do it. It’s not a big deal. It’s all cargo, so it’s not going very fast. We can hop cars till we find somewhere soft to sleep.”
Marsh arched an eyebrow. “You do this often?”
“I’ve been around the block,” Kyle said easily.
Elise made a low noise of disbelief. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t.”
Kyle turned his easy smile on her. “There’s more than one block in a city.”
Cody took a deep breath. “Come on. We can do this. Let’s just...run.”
Marsh ran his gaze up and down Cody’s husky form. “Can you even run, tubby?”
Cody glared. “I can run just fine.”
“Yeah. From bullies,” Elise said.
Cody glared at her too. “Let’s go, Kyle. If these two want to go back with Agent Samuels, they can.” And he loped up the hill. Kyle followed.
“I thought runaways only did this in movies,” Marsh complained, but he started up the hill after them.
“We’re not runaways,” Elise said. “We’re enemy soldiers. Let’s ride!” And she charged up the hill, blowing past Kyle and Cody easily, her coltish legs carrying her swiftly than Marsh had thought possible. She ran alongside the train, matching its pace, and then she sprang, caught the ledge of an open car and rolled. When Cody and Kyle caught up to her, she helped them in.
“Fine,” Marsh muttered, picking up the pace. “Gladiator it is. Let’s ride!”
(321 words)
“We’re not asking you to step into an arena and fight for your life,” Cody said. He was staring out at the railway up on the ridge, to the spot where golden light filtered from a dusty hanging lamp. “We’re asking you to run.”
Marsh rolled his eyes. “Do you have to take everything so literally?”
Kyle smiled. “You can do it. It’s not a big deal. It’s all cargo, so it’s not going very fast. We can hop cars till we find somewhere soft to sleep.”
Marsh arched an eyebrow. “You do this often?”
“I’ve been around the block,” Kyle said easily.
Elise made a low noise of disbelief. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t.”
Kyle turned his easy smile on her. “There’s more than one block in a city.”
Cody took a deep breath. “Come on. We can do this. Let’s just...run.”
Marsh ran his gaze up and down Cody’s husky form. “Can you even run, tubby?”
Cody glared. “I can run just fine.”
“Yeah. From bullies,” Elise said.
Cody glared at her too. “Let’s go, Kyle. If these two want to go back with Agent Samuels, they can.” And he loped up the hill. Kyle followed.
“I thought runaways only did this in movies,” Marsh complained, but he started up the hill after them.
“We’re not runaways,” Elise said. “We’re enemy soldiers. Let’s ride!” And she charged up the hill, blowing past Kyle and Cody easily, her coltish legs carrying her swiftly than Marsh had thought possible. She ran alongside the train, matching its pace, and then she sprang, caught the ledge of an open car and rolled. When Cody and Kyle caught up to her, she helped them in.
“Fine,” Marsh muttered, picking up the pace. “Gladiator it is. Let’s ride!”
(321 words)
Shut Up
"We're lost."
"No We're not. We are exactly where we are supposed to be."
"Oh really? Since when did Utah have a great river running thorough it?"
"The Colorado River runs through Utah."
"That isn't the Colorado. It's to big. I told you we should have taken exit 251. But you didn't want to listen to me."
"Then what do you suggest genius?"
"Pull off at the next exit and turn us around. Duh."
"Fine. There's a sign coming up. It says.... Wyoming 120 Miles."
"I told you."
"Shut up..."
"No We're not. We are exactly where we are supposed to be."
"Oh really? Since when did Utah have a great river running thorough it?"
"The Colorado River runs through Utah."
"That isn't the Colorado. It's to big. I told you we should have taken exit 251. But you didn't want to listen to me."
"Then what do you suggest genius?"
"Pull off at the next exit and turn us around. Duh."
"Fine. There's a sign coming up. It says.... Wyoming 120 Miles."
"I told you."
"Shut up..."
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
There Yet?
Even though it was Elise’s car, she knew she was only the driver. Kyle was riding shotgun, crammed into the front seat, all elbows and knees, leaning against the door with his face turned toward the sunlight streaming through the open window. Marsh and Cody were crammed into the back seat, studiously ignoring each other.
Technically, Elise was the road trip DJ. After all, it was her car, her stereo - that she’d paid for with her own gig money - and her iPod.
“Let Kyle choose the next song,” Cody said. The way he deferred to Kyle just because of who Kyle sang for was downright pathetic, but Elise sometimes found herself deferring to Kyle as well. It had more to do with his own presence than with Gabriel hanging over him, but still, deference to Kyle was a natural reaction in almost anyone.
Almost.
Because Marsh was rolling a pair of dice in one hand and grinning wickedly in the rearview mirror, and by some not-magical but certainly supernatural coincidence Elise’s iPod shuffle kept turning up songs that Marsh liked – songs that no one else liked.
Elise had a rule about long car rides – driver’s iPod was the source of music, but prior to the journey every passenger could contribute a playlist, and whoever was riding shotgun had the ultimate veto power. That Marsh was using Tabris to play the odds in his favor, knowing Kyle’s indifference to most music, was downright annoying.
It didn’t help that all of the green highway signs seemed to be saying the same thing: they were no closer to their destination than they had been an hour ago. Elise knew it wasn’t true, but the mileage numbers on the signs were downright intimidating. Add to the fact that Cody and Marsh were glaring daggers at each other in the back seat while Kyle sunned himself like a gangly puppy and Elise was being aurally assaulted by the likes of Lady Gaga, and Elise found herself saying,
“Are we there yet?”
Pink flooded the speakers, and Marsh bobbed his head, smirking victoriously. Cody groaned and closed his eyes. Kyle turned away from the sun, and he said,
“This is interesting. Who’s singing?”
Elise had to resist the urge to bang her head against the steering wheel. “Next stop, Cody’s driving and I’m shotgun,” she said.
“But I don’t have a license.”
“I don’t care!”
(400 words)
Technically, Elise was the road trip DJ. After all, it was her car, her stereo - that she’d paid for with her own gig money - and her iPod.
“Let Kyle choose the next song,” Cody said. The way he deferred to Kyle just because of who Kyle sang for was downright pathetic, but Elise sometimes found herself deferring to Kyle as well. It had more to do with his own presence than with Gabriel hanging over him, but still, deference to Kyle was a natural reaction in almost anyone.
Almost.
Because Marsh was rolling a pair of dice in one hand and grinning wickedly in the rearview mirror, and by some not-magical but certainly supernatural coincidence Elise’s iPod shuffle kept turning up songs that Marsh liked – songs that no one else liked.
Elise had a rule about long car rides – driver’s iPod was the source of music, but prior to the journey every passenger could contribute a playlist, and whoever was riding shotgun had the ultimate veto power. That Marsh was using Tabris to play the odds in his favor, knowing Kyle’s indifference to most music, was downright annoying.
It didn’t help that all of the green highway signs seemed to be saying the same thing: they were no closer to their destination than they had been an hour ago. Elise knew it wasn’t true, but the mileage numbers on the signs were downright intimidating. Add to the fact that Cody and Marsh were glaring daggers at each other in the back seat while Kyle sunned himself like a gangly puppy and Elise was being aurally assaulted by the likes of Lady Gaga, and Elise found herself saying,
“Are we there yet?”
Pink flooded the speakers, and Marsh bobbed his head, smirking victoriously. Cody groaned and closed his eyes. Kyle turned away from the sun, and he said,
“This is interesting. Who’s singing?”
Elise had to resist the urge to bang her head against the steering wheel. “Next stop, Cody’s driving and I’m shotgun,” she said.
“But I don’t have a license.”
“I don’t care!”
(400 words)
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Project #79: Travel
Almost forgot it was my turn this week. So...this week, write about travel. Where will your characters go? How will they get there? Are they frequent fliers or do they get seasick? Why are they going, and will they stay? You have 400 words to take your characters on a journey. Maybe give your newly-created characters a spin.
Overview #78: Songfics
So it's official, I kinda slacked off this week. In my defense, I was out of town and my access to internet was spotty at best, so I did what I could when I could. I love Songfics, and I guess I'm kind of a traditionalist when it comes to them - I like to weave the lyrics of a song into a piece. At least, that's what I like with The Script because I love the lyrics of their songs. If I'd chosen a band for the music instead of the lyrics, it would be a whole different story (which means I have to try some Eternal Melody stuff when this challenge comes around again), but this week I think I did all right, turning the lyrics into dialogue. I think my first entry was my favorite, because I love that song and I've been meaning to write that story (or one like it) to that song for a while. I think my last entry was the best as far as weaving in the lyrics more subtly. Still, I could have done better, and I felt like a cheat for defaulting to the boys of The Dagaz, but this was a pretty awesome exercise. Better luck next week.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Best Part of Me
“He still alive?” Gabriel asked quietly.
Keith pressed two fingers to Chase’s throat. Chase didn’t even flinch, and Gabriel was worried he’d gone catatonic.
“He’s barely breathing,” Keith said.
“What happened?” Gabriel leaned down, tried to meet Chase’s gaze. It was impolite to go prowling into someone else’s mind uninvited, and besides, Chase was mundane.
“She’s gone,” Chase said faintly.
“She who?” Keith fished in his pocket, ostensibly for a penlight to shine in Chase’s eyes, but Gabriel batted his hand aside.
“Asia,” Chase said.
Gabriel blinked. “Where did she go?” He glanced at Keith, and he knew they were both thinking the impossible had somehow become possible. Hagalaz had them on the run, scrambling like rats for the nearest holes to the sewer. There’d been fire and crossfire and Asia had ordered it, every man for himself.
“I woke up and all of her things were gone,” Chase said. “Everything. Her keys, the receipts and change from when we ordered take-out last night. It’s all gone. It’s like she wasn’t even here.”
Gabriel felt something tighten in his chest. He hadn’t known about Asia and Chase. None of them had. That it still hurt, after all these years, to find out that she’d given her affection to someone else, was pretty pathetic, but it hurt all the same. Keith looked equally grim at the notion. That Asia had come to Chase in the aftermath of all that happened had to mean something. Didn’t it?
Gabriel shot straight across the Web to speak to Keith. I wonder which hurts more, thinking that she died or knowing that she walked away voluntarily.
In our case, we got hit with both – first one, then t’other, Keith said.
“Chase,” he said aloud, “pack up your essentials and run. We come bearing orders from Tops. Deep cover.”
“How long?”
“Till he says otherwise,” Gabriel said.
Chase blinked and shook his head, stood up, but he still looked dazed. “Fine. Where are you going?”
“Deep cover,” Keith said. “Unless we run into each other by accident, it’ll be as if you never knew us.”
“Fine. Just let me get my –”
A knock at the door startled them. Chase reached for his gun before he answered. His sharp intake of breath was all Gabriel needed to know about who was on the doorstep.
“You came back.” Chase’s voice choked on the last word.
“Not permanently.” Asia sounded perfectly calm. “I’m here for my team, actually.”
“But we’re splitting up,” Keith said, and he sounded angry.
“Not us. Just him,” Asia said, and Gabriel felt the viciousness of her smooth words like a punch to the gut.
“Me alone? Why? What am I supposed to do...?”
When the best part of me was always you, Gabriel thought, and Keith nodded his assent. Asia had a way of taking the best of a man turning into the worst – the best of the worst.
From each of them she had taken love and turned it into murder.
(499 words)
(Break Even by The Script)
Keith pressed two fingers to Chase’s throat. Chase didn’t even flinch, and Gabriel was worried he’d gone catatonic.
“He’s barely breathing,” Keith said.
“What happened?” Gabriel leaned down, tried to meet Chase’s gaze. It was impolite to go prowling into someone else’s mind uninvited, and besides, Chase was mundane.
“She’s gone,” Chase said faintly.
“She who?” Keith fished in his pocket, ostensibly for a penlight to shine in Chase’s eyes, but Gabriel batted his hand aside.
“Asia,” Chase said.
Gabriel blinked. “Where did she go?” He glanced at Keith, and he knew they were both thinking the impossible had somehow become possible. Hagalaz had them on the run, scrambling like rats for the nearest holes to the sewer. There’d been fire and crossfire and Asia had ordered it, every man for himself.
“I woke up and all of her things were gone,” Chase said. “Everything. Her keys, the receipts and change from when we ordered take-out last night. It’s all gone. It’s like she wasn’t even here.”
Gabriel felt something tighten in his chest. He hadn’t known about Asia and Chase. None of them had. That it still hurt, after all these years, to find out that she’d given her affection to someone else, was pretty pathetic, but it hurt all the same. Keith looked equally grim at the notion. That Asia had come to Chase in the aftermath of all that happened had to mean something. Didn’t it?
Gabriel shot straight across the Web to speak to Keith. I wonder which hurts more, thinking that she died or knowing that she walked away voluntarily.
In our case, we got hit with both – first one, then t’other, Keith said.
“Chase,” he said aloud, “pack up your essentials and run. We come bearing orders from Tops. Deep cover.”
“How long?”
“Till he says otherwise,” Gabriel said.
Chase blinked and shook his head, stood up, but he still looked dazed. “Fine. Where are you going?”
“Deep cover,” Keith said. “Unless we run into each other by accident, it’ll be as if you never knew us.”
“Fine. Just let me get my –”
A knock at the door startled them. Chase reached for his gun before he answered. His sharp intake of breath was all Gabriel needed to know about who was on the doorstep.
“You came back.” Chase’s voice choked on the last word.
“Not permanently.” Asia sounded perfectly calm. “I’m here for my team, actually.”
“But we’re splitting up,” Keith said, and he sounded angry.
“Not us. Just him,” Asia said, and Gabriel felt the viciousness of her smooth words like a punch to the gut.
“Me alone? Why? What am I supposed to do...?”
When the best part of me was always you, Gabriel thought, and Keith nodded his assent. Asia had a way of taking the best of a man turning into the worst – the best of the worst.
From each of them she had taken love and turned it into murder.
(499 words)
(Break Even by The Script)
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Mama
"Hi mama," I said quietly as I knelt down in the cool grass of the late afternoon. I reached out and brushed a little bit of dirt from the smooth granite of the headstone; it was still a little warm from the sun.
"There are so many things I wanted to say to you," I began to talk to my mom, as if she were there, as if she could hear me. "Things that I never had a chance to say. Things that I didn't understand or couldn't express," my voice trailed off as memories came to the surface. Memories of good times, memories of how she had shaped my young life. Many of my memories flitted like insubstantial wisps, and others stood out in sharp detail.
"I know I probably never said it enough, but I love you. And I wanted to thank you," I paused, again assaulted by memories. "Mama thank you for who I am," I began, "thank you for all the things I'm not." I knew that because of her my job had a purpose. I was not like many of the others in the units who had little to no soul, who didn't care who they hurt and why.
"Mama remember all my life, you showed me love, You sacrificed. I think of those young and early days and how I've changed along the way," I continued to ramble on, just pouring my heart out. I felt tears begin to form, this day had been long in coming and now that it was here I found it hard to go on.
"I know you believed in me and I know you had dreams. And I'm sorry it took all this time for me to see; That I am where I am because of your truth. I miss you," I choked out, "I miss you."
I stood up on unsteady feet, "Everything that I am I owe to you, mama," I whispered and turned away.
"There are so many things I wanted to say to you," I began to talk to my mom, as if she were there, as if she could hear me. "Things that I never had a chance to say. Things that I didn't understand or couldn't express," my voice trailed off as memories came to the surface. Memories of good times, memories of how she had shaped my young life. Many of my memories flitted like insubstantial wisps, and others stood out in sharp detail.
"I know I probably never said it enough, but I love you. And I wanted to thank you," I paused, again assaulted by memories. "Mama thank you for who I am," I began, "thank you for all the things I'm not." I knew that because of her my job had a purpose. I was not like many of the others in the units who had little to no soul, who didn't care who they hurt and why.
"Mama remember all my life, you showed me love, You sacrificed. I think of those young and early days and how I've changed along the way," I continued to ramble on, just pouring my heart out. I felt tears begin to form, this day had been long in coming and now that it was here I found it hard to go on.
"I know you believed in me and I know you had dreams. And I'm sorry it took all this time for me to see; That I am where I am because of your truth. I miss you," I choked out, "I miss you."
I stood up on unsteady feet, "Everything that I am I owe to you, mama," I whispered and turned away.
Science and Faith - The Script
Christian wasn't the smartest on his team by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd hung around Tobias and Keith long enough to learn a thing or two about science. Whenever an emergency evacuation order came down, most men drew their guns and laid down cover. Unfortunately for Christian, he had no gun - just his wits and his smile.
"Phenylethylamine, dopamine, and oxytocin," he said.
Leighanne blinked. "What?"
"Love," Christian said. "It's three chemicals that your body produces in reaction to another person - or eating chocolate or skydiving, depending on your preferences."
"Are you saying you don't believe in love?" Leighanne looked both surprised and hurt by his declaration, but He saw the subtle slump of her shoulders, her disconsolate sigh. So she'd sensed he was distant, and she was right about the distance if not the cause. She thought he didn't love her anymore. He'd never loved her at all.
"I realize I come with a country drawl and I like Jim Carrey movies, but when push comes to shove, I'm a rational person. I understand science, and I know that science, unlike emotions, produces quantifiable results." Christian hated Brian's country drawl, but if he played his cards right he would never have to use it again. "I prefer to make decisions based on quantifiable results rather than the whims of emotions, which are chemical projections anyway."
Leighanne stared down at her hands for a long moment, then up at him. "What are you saying?"
"After four years the body becomes accustomed to the chemicals that flood the brain and attraction wanes. There's no way to counteract the body's acclimation," Christian said. Tobias would have been proud.
"We've been married for four years," Leighanne said.
Christian nodded.
"And you want to throw it away on the whims of chemistry?" There was anger in her voice. Good. When Christian was done breaking her heart, she would never speak to him again, and he could work without fear of reprisal. Christian wondered if this was how Asia had done it all those times, framed the breaking of a human heart in terms of priority and mission efficiency. He wondered if she was pleased at her success. He knew he would succeed, and already he disliked the situation immensely.
Disliked the situation immensely. He'd been around Asia for far too long.
"I think you're lying, that something else is going on here," Leighanne said. "But if you're telling the truth, there's something I have to say before you go."
Christian reached for the bag he'd packed. "Speak your piece."
"You can break everything down to chemicals, but you can't explain a love like ours. You love me, and I love you, and even if it defies rationality or explanation, it's true, and it always will be."
Christian nodded. He wouldn't tell her that their love never was, and it could all be explained by a slip of paper that landed on his desk one day titled "orders".
(497 words)
"Phenylethylamine, dopamine, and oxytocin," he said.
Leighanne blinked. "What?"
"Love," Christian said. "It's three chemicals that your body produces in reaction to another person - or eating chocolate or skydiving, depending on your preferences."
"Are you saying you don't believe in love?" Leighanne looked both surprised and hurt by his declaration, but He saw the subtle slump of her shoulders, her disconsolate sigh. So she'd sensed he was distant, and she was right about the distance if not the cause. She thought he didn't love her anymore. He'd never loved her at all.
"I realize I come with a country drawl and I like Jim Carrey movies, but when push comes to shove, I'm a rational person. I understand science, and I know that science, unlike emotions, produces quantifiable results." Christian hated Brian's country drawl, but if he played his cards right he would never have to use it again. "I prefer to make decisions based on quantifiable results rather than the whims of emotions, which are chemical projections anyway."
Leighanne stared down at her hands for a long moment, then up at him. "What are you saying?"
"After four years the body becomes accustomed to the chemicals that flood the brain and attraction wanes. There's no way to counteract the body's acclimation," Christian said. Tobias would have been proud.
"We've been married for four years," Leighanne said.
Christian nodded.
"And you want to throw it away on the whims of chemistry?" There was anger in her voice. Good. When Christian was done breaking her heart, she would never speak to him again, and he could work without fear of reprisal. Christian wondered if this was how Asia had done it all those times, framed the breaking of a human heart in terms of priority and mission efficiency. He wondered if she was pleased at her success. He knew he would succeed, and already he disliked the situation immensely.
Disliked the situation immensely. He'd been around Asia for far too long.
"I think you're lying, that something else is going on here," Leighanne said. "But if you're telling the truth, there's something I have to say before you go."
Christian reached for the bag he'd packed. "Speak your piece."
"You can break everything down to chemicals, but you can't explain a love like ours. You love me, and I love you, and even if it defies rationality or explanation, it's true, and it always will be."
Christian nodded. He wouldn't tell her that their love never was, and it could all be explained by a slip of paper that landed on his desk one day titled "orders".
(497 words)
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Encounter
That morning, the salty ocean fog was split by quilted patches of steel and iron. Massive metal towers rose from the docked naval fleet like naked trees in winter with branches made of salt-rusted turrets and cannon barrels. The sun began to warm the wharf with the faintest blue light. The horizon was clear, and none of the sailors stumbling back towards the dock could have expected such a storm coming their way.
The rising sun was higher now than it was then. Its golden rays were muffled under rows of black smoke and streaks of orange anti-air fire ripping from the crippled fleet. Cloudy columns of soot boiled up into the air from sinking ships as a dragons and gryphons dueled above.
Gadget’s leather-clad body hugged the rusted frame of her Skyraider. The open wind rushed over her back while steam bursted from the carrier’s pulley system. It vaulted her flying machine up and away from the flight deck. Her hips rode low in the saddle, and the famous 401st Air Cavalry Feathers painted onto the weathered Skyraider’s hull flanked her flexing thighs. Below the tail art - in fresh white paint - was a name: “Grace”.
Zzzcheew-zchew-zchew! A string of three super-heated lead slugs zipped by. Gadget’s eyes searched desperately beyond the blur of her forward-slung propellers for a open route as the whistles of another burst of enemy rounds whizzed by her wind-whipped orange hair yet again.
“He’s on you, Gadget! Break left, break left!”, Jim’s panicked voice commanded over the radio. Gadget’s heart was pulled into her stomach as the aircraft dipped its left wing and shuddered away from a yet another fiery line of lead. The Skyraider’s engine roared in protest like a warhorse whose own bit had sliced open its mouth. The pilot’s lungs rattled in her chest as she rode the whining machine into an inverted bank. Gadget’s hands were white-knuckled at the reins of her flying iron steed as she careened for the water. A white froth of water was cast into the air as she kicked out the end of the Skyraider and pointed the curved ‘beak’ of it’s nose inland at the last moment. The fleet was already lost, but this was no retreat from battle. It was a rushing charge to catch the Imperial airships headed toward the city.
A sleek black machine followed - it’s twin rearward propellers hissing as it sliced through one of the thick smoke columns slithering up from a dying ship. Seeing those short forward-swept wings and the wide, but razorlike front blade of the machine’s hammerhead-nose slicing through the sky was akin to seeing a shark fin in bloody water. This was no ordinary Imperial airman piloting a Ryu. The furious dragon made of speed, sheet metal, and rivets chasing her down was being ‘wielded’ by a Kurokaze Samurai.
“Get him off me, Jim.” She said, through gritted teeth. “Get me home to Grace.”
(497)
The rising sun was higher now than it was then. Its golden rays were muffled under rows of black smoke and streaks of orange anti-air fire ripping from the crippled fleet. Cloudy columns of soot boiled up into the air from sinking ships as a dragons and gryphons dueled above.
Gadget’s leather-clad body hugged the rusted frame of her Skyraider. The open wind rushed over her back while steam bursted from the carrier’s pulley system. It vaulted her flying machine up and away from the flight deck. Her hips rode low in the saddle, and the famous 401st Air Cavalry Feathers painted onto the weathered Skyraider’s hull flanked her flexing thighs. Below the tail art - in fresh white paint - was a name: “Grace”.
Zzzcheew-zchew-zchew! A string of three super-heated lead slugs zipped by. Gadget’s eyes searched desperately beyond the blur of her forward-slung propellers for a open route as the whistles of another burst of enemy rounds whizzed by her wind-whipped orange hair yet again.
“He’s on you, Gadget! Break left, break left!”, Jim’s panicked voice commanded over the radio. Gadget’s heart was pulled into her stomach as the aircraft dipped its left wing and shuddered away from a yet another fiery line of lead. The Skyraider’s engine roared in protest like a warhorse whose own bit had sliced open its mouth. The pilot’s lungs rattled in her chest as she rode the whining machine into an inverted bank. Gadget’s hands were white-knuckled at the reins of her flying iron steed as she careened for the water. A white froth of water was cast into the air as she kicked out the end of the Skyraider and pointed the curved ‘beak’ of it’s nose inland at the last moment. The fleet was already lost, but this was no retreat from battle. It was a rushing charge to catch the Imperial airships headed toward the city.
A sleek black machine followed - it’s twin rearward propellers hissing as it sliced through one of the thick smoke columns slithering up from a dying ship. Seeing those short forward-swept wings and the wide, but razorlike front blade of the machine’s hammerhead-nose slicing through the sky was akin to seeing a shark fin in bloody water. This was no ordinary Imperial airman piloting a Ryu. The furious dragon made of speed, sheet metal, and rivets chasing her down was being ‘wielded’ by a Kurokaze Samurai.
“Get him off me, Jim.” She said, through gritted teeth. “Get me home to Grace.”
(497)
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Exit Wounds
DJ’s hands were cold, his body numb. He was in shock. “What have you done?”
The gun fell from Torin’s hands, clattered against the pavement. “I didn’t mean –”
“For what, for anyone to get hurt?” Casey snarled.
DJ’s heart was pounding, his vision blurred. Søren’s mouth was moving, but DJ couldn’t hear a word. He fell to his knees beside Celia, gathered her into his arms. Her shirt was soaked with blood, and her eyes were wide, surprised. DJ pawed aside her jacket, shoved her t-shirt up, searching for the entry point where the bullet went in.
“I don’t know how much blood you’ve lost,” he said.
Celia made a low choking noise. “I don’t know how much love my heart can lose.”
“Not love - blood,” DJ said. “You’re bleeding.” He lifted his head. “Someone call an ambulance!”
Celia lifted a hand, curved it against his jaw. “I love you. Remember that, okay?”
“Why will I have to remember it? You’ll tell me every day,” DJ said. “You hear me? Every day.”
Celia shook her head. “I’m blacking out, baby. Shutting down.”
DJ threw a desperate look upward. “Did anyone call an ambulance?”
Casey, Søren, Torin, Tiger and the others - they were all shouting at each other, and any moment they would start swinging at each other again.
DJ scooped Celia up into his arms and staggered to his feet, stumbled toward the mouth of the alley. An eternity, an instant later, he fell through the doors of the emergency room.
“She needs help!” he shouted. “Somebody help her.”
Several nurses shot him irritated looks, and a baby started to cry. One man cleared his throat.
“Sonny, everyone here needs help –”
“She’s been shot,” DJ said. “Please. Somebody!”
Nurses and doctors swarmed over him, and someone plucked Celia from his arms, placed her on a gurney. There were frantic shouts in angry Chinese mixed in with English, but DJ couldn’t understand any of it. As he knelt on the cold linoleum and watched them take Celia away, he felt himself shatter into a million pieces.
(346)
The gun fell from Torin’s hands, clattered against the pavement. “I didn’t mean –”
“For what, for anyone to get hurt?” Casey snarled.
DJ’s heart was pounding, his vision blurred. Søren’s mouth was moving, but DJ couldn’t hear a word. He fell to his knees beside Celia, gathered her into his arms. Her shirt was soaked with blood, and her eyes were wide, surprised. DJ pawed aside her jacket, shoved her t-shirt up, searching for the entry point where the bullet went in.
“I don’t know how much blood you’ve lost,” he said.
Celia made a low choking noise. “I don’t know how much love my heart can lose.”
“Not love - blood,” DJ said. “You’re bleeding.” He lifted his head. “Someone call an ambulance!”
Celia lifted a hand, curved it against his jaw. “I love you. Remember that, okay?”
“Why will I have to remember it? You’ll tell me every day,” DJ said. “You hear me? Every day.”
Celia shook her head. “I’m blacking out, baby. Shutting down.”
DJ threw a desperate look upward. “Did anyone call an ambulance?”
Casey, Søren, Torin, Tiger and the others - they were all shouting at each other, and any moment they would start swinging at each other again.
DJ scooped Celia up into his arms and staggered to his feet, stumbled toward the mouth of the alley. An eternity, an instant later, he fell through the doors of the emergency room.
“She needs help!” he shouted. “Somebody help her.”
Several nurses shot him irritated looks, and a baby started to cry. One man cleared his throat.
“Sonny, everyone here needs help –”
“She’s been shot,” DJ said. “Please. Somebody!”
Nurses and doctors swarmed over him, and someone plucked Celia from his arms, placed her on a gurney. There were frantic shouts in angry Chinese mixed in with English, but DJ couldn’t understand any of it. As he knelt on the cold linoleum and watched them take Celia away, he felt himself shatter into a million pieces.
(346)
Monday, February 7, 2011
No Second Chances
"Just a minute," I called towards the door when I heard the knock. I could feel my brow crinkle with confusion. Nobody that I knew would be coming around in the afternoon; they all had regular jobs that kept them busy. 'It's probably some door to door sales person,' I thought absently as I quickly finished typing out the last paragraph that I was working on and closed the lid to my laptop. I pulled a sweater on over my thin shirt as I stood up; the weather had gotten chilly recently and I didn't want to get sick. I was way too busy for that.
The knock sounded again on the pale oak of the front door.
"Yes? How can I..." My words died on my lips as my eyes fell on the man standing on my doorstep. A man I hadn't seen in four years.
"John," I whispered in shock.
"Hello Chris," he said, his mouth pulling into a crooked smile. A smile that I knew as well as if it were my own.
I was too stunned to even respond. A thousand memories and feelings connected to that smile stampeded across my mind.
"Chris?"
It was almost as if I heard him from a distance, his voice faint, an undercurrent to the rush of blood in my ears. "Chris? Are you alright?" he asked when I didn't move.
I jumped like I had been electrocuted when I felt his fingers brush my arm in concern.
My eyes once again focused on what was in front of me, "What are you doing here John?" I took a step back so that I was firmly out of reach. I didn't know how he had found me or even why he was here.
"I wanted to talk to you," he said as he folded his arms across his body, as if to keep his hands to himself.
"So talk."
"Chris, I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry," he began.
"It's Christina," I interrupted him, "please don't call me Chris. Nobody calls me Chris anymore."
'Nobody since you,' I thought to myself.
"Okay, Christina," he almost stumbled over my full name, "I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, that I was completely in the wrong..."
His voice faded into the background again as the memories of that night so many years ago played across my mind.
********
Most of the memories of that day were fuzzy, distorted, and even missing, but what I did remember was that it had been raining that day, the moisture was thick in the cool September air and the sun was playing peek-a-boo in the clouds. I remembered waiting for him. He had promised to meet me, that he had something to tell me. I remember sitting on our bench in the park, my coat pulled tight around me, and waiting.
I was still waiting when the sun went down, and when the rain began to pound harder. I remember being puzzled, and then worried, and then angry. And I remember realizing that he wasn't coming. So I went home.
I expected him to call. He never did. And I never saw him again. Until today.
"Can you forgive me Christina?"
I focused on him again. "I'm sorry John, but it doesn't work like that. You don't get to destroy someones life and then get to waltz back in as if nothing had ever happened."
"Chris..."
"It's Christina!" I almost shouted. "Chris stopped existing a long time ago. She stopped existing the day you left," I finished quietly, barely more than a whisper. I could feel the tears beginning to pool, but I would never let him see them.
"I'm sorry John, but there are no second chances," I said as I slowly closed the door on my past.
(sorry this one ran a little long, but I rather liked the way that it was turning out.)
The knock sounded again on the pale oak of the front door.
"Yes? How can I..." My words died on my lips as my eyes fell on the man standing on my doorstep. A man I hadn't seen in four years.
"John," I whispered in shock.
"Hello Chris," he said, his mouth pulling into a crooked smile. A smile that I knew as well as if it were my own.
I was too stunned to even respond. A thousand memories and feelings connected to that smile stampeded across my mind.
"Chris?"
It was almost as if I heard him from a distance, his voice faint, an undercurrent to the rush of blood in my ears. "Chris? Are you alright?" he asked when I didn't move.
I jumped like I had been electrocuted when I felt his fingers brush my arm in concern.
My eyes once again focused on what was in front of me, "What are you doing here John?" I took a step back so that I was firmly out of reach. I didn't know how he had found me or even why he was here.
"I wanted to talk to you," he said as he folded his arms across his body, as if to keep his hands to himself.
"So talk."
"Chris, I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry," he began.
"It's Christina," I interrupted him, "please don't call me Chris. Nobody calls me Chris anymore."
'Nobody since you,' I thought to myself.
"Okay, Christina," he almost stumbled over my full name, "I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, that I was completely in the wrong..."
His voice faded into the background again as the memories of that night so many years ago played across my mind.
********
Most of the memories of that day were fuzzy, distorted, and even missing, but what I did remember was that it had been raining that day, the moisture was thick in the cool September air and the sun was playing peek-a-boo in the clouds. I remembered waiting for him. He had promised to meet me, that he had something to tell me. I remember sitting on our bench in the park, my coat pulled tight around me, and waiting.
I was still waiting when the sun went down, and when the rain began to pound harder. I remember being puzzled, and then worried, and then angry. And I remember realizing that he wasn't coming. So I went home.
I expected him to call. He never did. And I never saw him again. Until today.
"Can you forgive me Christina?"
I focused on him again. "I'm sorry John, but it doesn't work like that. You don't get to destroy someones life and then get to waltz back in as if nothing had ever happened."
"Chris..."
"It's Christina!" I almost shouted. "Chris stopped existing a long time ago. She stopped existing the day you left," I finished quietly, barely more than a whisper. I could feel the tears beginning to pool, but I would never let him see them.
"I'm sorry John, but there are no second chances," I said as I slowly closed the door on my past.
(sorry this one ran a little long, but I rather liked the way that it was turning out.)
If You Ever Come Back - The Script
Tobias opened the door at the top of the stairwell and paused. The hallway light over James’s door was on, a bright beacon to welcome a weary traveler home. At three a.m., Tobias had it on good authority that James wasn’t expecting anyone home. Unannounced visits were usually the best way to assess James’s condition, and Tobias was without peer when it came to dropping by unannounced. He prowled down the hallway toward the door, footsteps silent. The door to James’s flat was ajar, and - there, Tobias could see a gleam of metal. The door had been left on the latch.
Tobias nudged the welcome mat aside with the toe of his sneaker and glimpsed more metal - the spare key.
James was asking for a home invasion.
Tobias palmed the knife from the small of his back and eased the door open. The bedroom and bathroom were dark, but there was light from the kitchen. Tobias headed for the kitchen, still moving silently, ready for whatever criminal disaster James had got himself into. Tobias pressed himself against the wall next to the kitchen door, ready to kick it down and dispatch with any would-be kidnappers or murderers. He slid a hand toward the doorknob and –
“Asia, is that you?”
Tobias flinched at her name.
James tugged open the kitchen door. “Asia?”
“No, it’s me.” Tobias slid his knife back into its sheath and straightened up.
James’s bright smile dimmed, but only for a moment. “Oh, hey Tobias. What brings you to London?”
“DJ had a runway show.” Tobias smiled cautiously. “I thought I’d stop by and say hello. I didn’t think you’d be awake, but the front door was open –”
“I’ve been a night owl as of late.” James beckoned. “Come on in – I have the kettle on.”
Tobias followed James into the kitchen and saw that it was just as quirky as Asia had kept it, with jars of herbs and spices lining the window sills and ledges in perfect alphabetical order. There were two places set at the bar, but it looked like only one had been used for a meal.
“Were you expecting someone?” Tobias asked. “If I’m interrupting, I can go.”
James shook his head, shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, exactly.”
Tobias heard hesitation in James’s voice. “But...?” he prompted.
“In case Asia ever comes back,” James said. “Thought I’d leave things how she likes them.”
Tobias opened his mouth to tell James, for the thousandth time, that Asia was dead (and she wasn’t, not really, but she was dead for James, and he had to face that reality sooner or later). But Tobias remembered waking up and realizing he’d never look into her eyes again, and he smiled at James, more brightly this time, and said,
“How about a cuppa, then?”
(467 Words)
(click on the title to hear the song)
Tobias nudged the welcome mat aside with the toe of his sneaker and glimpsed more metal - the spare key.
James was asking for a home invasion.
Tobias palmed the knife from the small of his back and eased the door open. The bedroom and bathroom were dark, but there was light from the kitchen. Tobias headed for the kitchen, still moving silently, ready for whatever criminal disaster James had got himself into. Tobias pressed himself against the wall next to the kitchen door, ready to kick it down and dispatch with any would-be kidnappers or murderers. He slid a hand toward the doorknob and –
“Asia, is that you?”
Tobias flinched at her name.
James tugged open the kitchen door. “Asia?”
“No, it’s me.” Tobias slid his knife back into its sheath and straightened up.
James’s bright smile dimmed, but only for a moment. “Oh, hey Tobias. What brings you to London?”
“DJ had a runway show.” Tobias smiled cautiously. “I thought I’d stop by and say hello. I didn’t think you’d be awake, but the front door was open –”
“I’ve been a night owl as of late.” James beckoned. “Come on in – I have the kettle on.”
Tobias followed James into the kitchen and saw that it was just as quirky as Asia had kept it, with jars of herbs and spices lining the window sills and ledges in perfect alphabetical order. There were two places set at the bar, but it looked like only one had been used for a meal.
“Were you expecting someone?” Tobias asked. “If I’m interrupting, I can go.”
James shook his head, shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, exactly.”
Tobias heard hesitation in James’s voice. “But...?” he prompted.
“In case Asia ever comes back,” James said. “Thought I’d leave things how she likes them.”
Tobias opened his mouth to tell James, for the thousandth time, that Asia was dead (and she wasn’t, not really, but she was dead for James, and he had to face that reality sooner or later). But Tobias remembered waking up and realizing he’d never look into her eyes again, and he smiled at James, more brightly this time, and said,
“How about a cuppa, then?”
(467 Words)
(click on the title to hear the song)
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Project # - 78 Song Fic
I love this challenge since there are so many things that can be inspired from a song.
So your task my fellow writers is to use one song every day to write your piece. It can be part of your writing or it can just inspire it. Either way post a link if you would to the song so that we can all get a feel for where the piece is coming from.
Lets set a 500 word limit
So your task my fellow writers is to use one song every day to write your piece. It can be part of your writing or it can just inspire it. Either way post a link if you would to the song so that we can all get a feel for where the piece is coming from.
Lets set a 500 word limit
Overview #77 - New Character
This week I fell a little behind, but I created a few characters that I'm a little proud of and who might be fun to play with in the future.
Many thanks to my fellow writers for the constructive feedback and suggestions for improvement. AS always Nagi thank you for being my grammar police. It really does help me. I think the long time in between writing really made me rusty again and the things that I was starting to get a grasp on sort of slipped away.
Many thanks to my fellow writers for the constructive feedback and suggestions for improvement. AS always Nagi thank you for being my grammar police. It really does help me. I think the long time in between writing really made me rusty again and the things that I was starting to get a grasp on sort of slipped away.
Overview #77: New Characters in 100 (redux)
First of all...\o/ Yay! We're back! We've made it through a full week of the game, we have new players, and it looks like we're getting back on our feet. This makes me decidedly excited, and I'm hoping we stay in the loop and pick up the pace so that by the end of this year we will all be noticeably better writers.
So...this week I kind of cheated. A little. Instead of cooking up all new characters I went back and resurrected characters from a 'verse I worked in briefly and gave them some more depth, studied them some more. I've always wanted to give urban fantasy a genuine shot, and I think this might be my chance. I got to know the characters better, fleshed them out some more, and then at the end I introduced two genuinely new characters to throw into the universe for good measure. I learned lots from my fellow writers as well, about how to balance physical description with temporal existence, personality, and small details. 100 words isn't a lot, but I learned that a good writer will make every word count.
Since I issued last week's challenge, it's my honor and privilege to pick the winner, and this week it is...
XYLAS!
That's right. You won. Because you wrote well, and best of all, you left really great constructive feedback. So...request your prize!
For a refresher on how prizes work, check here.
So...this week I kind of cheated. A little. Instead of cooking up all new characters I went back and resurrected characters from a 'verse I worked in briefly and gave them some more depth, studied them some more. I've always wanted to give urban fantasy a genuine shot, and I think this might be my chance. I got to know the characters better, fleshed them out some more, and then at the end I introduced two genuinely new characters to throw into the universe for good measure. I learned lots from my fellow writers as well, about how to balance physical description with temporal existence, personality, and small details. 100 words isn't a lot, but I learned that a good writer will make every word count.
Since I issued last week's challenge, it's my honor and privilege to pick the winner, and this week it is...
XYLAS!
That's right. You won. Because you wrote well, and best of all, you left really great constructive feedback. So...request your prize!
For a refresher on how prizes work, check here.
Pill
The pills were sitting all in one row, giggling behind their hands whenever he stumbled over a word, which was more frequent the more they giggled. If they thought being a teacher was easy, they could stand up and do it themselves, but chances were they would just twirl their hair around their fingers and everyone would eat it up.
So he pushed his glasses higher up on his nose, took a deep breath, and started in on quantum mechanics again. Later, he would remember they were only ten, and he would headdesk in the teacher’s lounge.
So he pushed his glasses higher up on his nose, took a deep breath, and started in on quantum mechanics again. Later, he would remember they were only ten, and he would headdesk in the teacher’s lounge.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Agent Samantha Samuels
Sam was small but steel-muscled, ice-eyed, and men nearly twice her size gave her space when she walked into a room. She was quick with a gun, quicker with her fists, and quickest of all at catching Choirboys.
Most chalked up her success to coming from a long line of cops, from proving herself on the streets of Chicago, from an uncanny knowledge of Hebrew. None guessed she was part Listener, that she’d heard a voice calling to her in the night when she was young, but instead of answering, she rolled over and went back to sleep.
Most chalked up her success to coming from a long line of cops, from proving herself on the streets of Chicago, from an uncanny knowledge of Hebrew. None guessed she was part Listener, that she’d heard a voice calling to her in the night when she was young, but instead of answering, she rolled over and went back to sleep.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Nancy Hodgins
Nancy grew up thinking she was crazy, that the voices in her head were a result of the schizophrenia that ran rampant in her family. She learned to keep her head down, hide behind her mousy brown hair and pretend she didn’t hear anything at all.
When the sky turned red, the voices told her when to run, where to hide, and she survived. After the danger ended, men with golden badges found her. They asked her if she heard voices, and for once it was all right when she said yes.
And they told her she was a Listener.
When the sky turned red, the voices told her when to run, where to hide, and she survived. After the danger ended, men with golden badges found her. They asked her if she heard voices, and for once it was all right when she said yes.
And they told her she was a Listener.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Kyle Messenger
Kyle was his parents’ pride and joy, a dark-haired, blue-eyed ball of energy. From chess to go, from coloring books to blueprints of gothic cathedrals, he was always desperate to learn something new. His teachers called him precocious, gifted. He knew the truth of what he was: afraid. Of the voices in his head, singing softly to him at night. Of the Hebrew letters that glimmered on the walls and doors everywhere he went. Of the chords he played on his harp that made the statue of the Holy Mother weep tears of blood when Asrael came calling.
Higo
The air was cool and crisp upon the flight deck. Even as the subtle, sweet taste of ozone numbed Higo’s lips - his form held true. The heavy, military-issue cargo hakama billowed under the steady breeze, but popped and snapped loudly as he moved surgically through his kata. The large pockets muffled the sound of loose, brass-jacketed shells within. Higo’s black long-rifle moved seamlessly with his body. While the old rifle was a relic in this age of airships and magnetic rail cannons, it was tradition that all Kurokaze pilots understand the intricacies to wielding one.
(98 words)
(98 words)
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Marshall Harris
Marsh Harris was a miniature mobster, all pinstripes and fedoras, black-and-white wingtips and packs of cards, rolling dice. He was light blue eyes and glossy, floppy brown hair, quick slender hands and an even quicker smile. On the edge of the school-yard, he ran three-card monty and craps, twenty-one and poker. In the back of the classroom, he murmured quietly to himself about chances, odds, and fates, cross-roads and choices. When other students tapped with their pencils or doodled in the margins of notebooks, he sketched Hebrew letters on his desk with his fingertips.
Henry
Henry was all angles. From his bony elbows and knees to the sharp angle of his chin. Tall, was what people called him when they were being polite. Fire red hair stood up all over his head in cowlicks and swirls, his bangs falling into his bright blue eyes. His deep quiet voice seemed to rumble up from the earth, or from the general vicinity of his size 18 shoes.
His movements were always slow and studied, as if he were afraid he would break something. And he felt awkward, as if he never quite fit.
Always out of place.
His movements were always slow and studied, as if he were afraid he would break something. And he felt awkward, as if he never quite fit.
Always out of place.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Dale
Screams echoed in his head. Screams from battles past, and not so past. Screams of the innocent as well as the guilty, of those he had killed and of those that he had simply stood aside and let die. Voices that lingered, reverberating inside his head, rising and falling with the rush of blood through his veins. They were as much a part of him as his own heart beat.
Dale pressed one slender hand to the side of his head, as if willing the voices to silence by sheer force alone. And when he opened his eyes, they were fathomless black.
Dale pressed one slender hand to the side of his head, as if willing the voices to silence by sheer force alone. And when he opened his eyes, they were fathomless black.
Elise Chantrell
Elise was a shadow in the corner of the café, pale face hidden by white-blonde hair that was baby-fine. She smelled of cigarettes and had tobacco stains and guitar calluses on her fingers. When she peered out from behind her hair she had wide, bottle-green eyes that made her look like a little girl. Her knuckles were bruised from when she punched like a man, and the soles of her sneakers were worn thin from shimmying atop a bar in a miniskirt and a Rammstein t-shirt. On underground radio, they called her the fallen angel of music.
(100)
(100)
Lean
(Since I spent most of my night trying to figure out how to make Google stop displaying greek, I'll just post my oneword from the 30th and leave it at that for now.)
Word of the Day: “Lean”
"Lean forward," he said. The kitchen froze under the cold, wintery tone of his authoritative voice. The hiss of aerated water streaming from the faucet and into the stainless sink roared louder than Niagra Falls in that moment of final, quiet defiance. Her hand slowly withdrew from the cookie jar and the porcelain vessel clinked like a victorious, yappy dog. She flattened her hands upon the granite countertop, fingers tainted with the scent of chocolate chip and oatmeal.
She was caught, and red-handed.
Word of the Day: “Lean”
"Lean forward," he said. The kitchen froze under the cold, wintery tone of his authoritative voice. The hiss of aerated water streaming from the faucet and into the stainless sink roared louder than Niagra Falls in that moment of final, quiet defiance. Her hand slowly withdrew from the cookie jar and the porcelain vessel clinked like a victorious, yappy dog. She flattened her hands upon the granite countertop, fingers tainted with the scent of chocolate chip and oatmeal.
She was caught, and red-handed.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Beth
Her skin was almost translucently pale; her hands thin and spidery, and she shivered in the stiff January wind that blew off of the ocean. 'Time's getting short,' she thought, and it wasn't just the sinking sun that crossed her mind. Eyes, the same color as the waves stared off into the distance; watching waves merge into horizon.
Beth wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her stocking cap closer about her bare head, the wind seemed to cut right through her as if she wasn't even there. Pretty soon she wouldn't be.
Soon enough, only the wind would remain.
(100)
Beth wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her stocking cap closer about her bare head, the wind seemed to cut right through her as if she wasn't even there. Pretty soon she wouldn't be.
Soon enough, only the wind would remain.
(100)
Jelly
'How cliche,' she thought and rolled her eyes in self derision; but it was true never the less, that every time he looked at her she felt her legs turn to jelly. It was hard to focus and stand up straight. She hated to think of her reaction if he ever actually touched her. She was certain it would be more like water than jelly.
Jelly
The jelly was cool against her belly, but more important was the sound of a heart beating, faster than she’d ever heard before.
A child. A new life.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor said.
It’s a life, she thought. And she had a choice. Would she tell the father? Would she keep the girl? Or would she give the girl away?
A child. A new life.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor said.
It’s a life, she thought. And she had a choice. Would she tell the father? Would she keep the girl? Or would she give the girl away?
Cody Cohen
Cody looked teddy-bear soft and was ox-strong, but years of holing up with books forced him to forsake athleticism for thick glasses and an impressive command of Hebrew. Cody was starched white Oxford shirts and shiny leather loafers, a tailored wool blazer and rumpled dark hair. He was acerbic sarcasm and hunched shoulders, second son in a family with too much money and not enough affection.
On good days, Cody sat on the front steps of the school with the Torah open on his knees, contemplating life, the universe, everything, the number 42, and the Angel of Death.
(100)
On good days, Cody sat on the front steps of the school with the Torah open on his knees, contemplating life, the universe, everything, the number 42, and the Angel of Death.
(100)
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Impassive
Masses of shaggy blond hair obscured bright blue eyes; set in a face that seemed to be cut from stone. Intensely focused on a computer screen, his fingers flew like lightning as rows upon rows of coding filled the monitor, bypassing all of the buildings security. A grim smile flitted across his otherwise impassive face as he initiated his program.
Sirens began wailing as all security protocols were negated and doors began opening. Standing slowly, he calmly packed up his equipment and walked out of the building and into the night; as others more accustomed to confrontation, flooded the building.
Sirens began wailing as all security protocols were negated and doors began opening. Standing slowly, he calmly packed up his equipment and walked out of the building and into the night; as others more accustomed to confrontation, flooded the building.
Lean
He was lean and tall, almost delicate around the edges, but the shadows in his eyes bespoke something stronger, fiercer. Maybe it was the way he was casually opening and closing a butterfly knife, twirling it the way some girls twirled a lock of hair around their fingers. Maybe it was the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Maybe it was the corpse shattered at his feet.
Skinny didn’t have to mean weak – sometimes, it meant too fast.
Skinny didn’t have to mean weak – sometimes, it meant too fast.
Project #77: New Characters in 100
Dearest Players, the girls are back in town! And we're going to kick off our writing reboot by getting into the heart of things - or people. We encourage our players to use M&M as a playground/training ground/test site for larger projects developed beyond the game as well as a place just to improve our skills. Since it's a new year, I looked at our list of suggested projects and decided to re-up an old one: new characters in 100 words. You have 100 words to give us the heart and soul of a new character...or maybe try to flesh out a character you've toyed with before. Maybe that handful of characters sitting around on the back burner are getting ready to take their place on the main stage, and you need to polish them up before you set them in front of the audience.
If you're new to the game, feel free to check out the original round of this challenge to get a feel for how it's done.
Ready, set...write!
P.S. I will get to pick this week's winner. Remember, the winner isn't just the best writer - it may be the person who gives the best feedback (and "nice" feedback ≠ best feedback).
If you're new to the game, feel free to check out the original round of this challenge to get a feel for how it's done.
Ready, set...write!
P.S. I will get to pick this week's winner. Remember, the winner isn't just the best writer - it may be the person who gives the best feedback (and "nice" feedback ≠ best feedback).
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