Well

“Well?” the physician asked.

Christian tested his wrist gingerly. There was no pain when he rotated it. His face lit up. Then he remembered his father was in the room and he schooled his expression into one of noble longsuffering. “Thank you for your services, good doctor.”

“Of course, Sir Christian.” The physician bowed and then backed out of the room.

“Do you feel well enough to fight?” Sir Geoffrey asked.

Christian reached for his sword, but the weight made his wrist twinge. He reached for one of his wooden practice swords instead. He glanced up, but he knew he’d see the disappointment in his father’s face before he really looked. “Not in this tournament, My Lord.”

Sir Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” Then he spun on his heel and swept out of the room, his cape swirling dramatically.

Christian sighed and sank against his bed post. He would never match up to his brother’s memory. For one moment he wanted to hate Ranolfe for being so difficult, for being so perfect all his life, but then he remembered that it was rude to speak - or think - ill of the dead. Besides, he’d more or less healed from the injury. He was supposed to be grateful.

After contemplating the flagstones some more, Christian picked up the wooden sword, his old practice shield, and headed for the tilting yard. He had to be ready for the next tournament, then.

(241 words)

The Deception

“Do you even eat enough?” Joe asked.

Chase paused mid-pump and considered his coworker. “What makes you say that?” He continued for five more reps, then set the weight back on the stand. He rolled off the bench and let Jade take his place, acting as spotter.

Joe looked Chase up and down. “Just - you’re so skinny.”

“It’s all muscle,” Jade said, jumping to his friend’s defense. “Jace’s really strong. Right?”

“Right,” Chase said. He rolled his eyes patiently at Joe. “I eat more than enough. I just have a very fast metabolism is all.”

“I’m pretty sure that if you turned sideways you’d vanish,” Joe said.

Chase shrugged. “Yes, well, it means I can get out of tight spots, doesn’t it?”

Joe snorted. “We sing and dance every night. What kind of tight spots do you get into?”

Chase didn’t tell Joe that every night after the singing and dancing was done, he had to keep up with a parkour runner of a thief to make sure he made his mark, and that escaping snarling doberman was a tight spot indeed.

Joe was probably right, though. Considering how much Chase burned every day, he probably didn’t eat enough.

The illusion of weakness in his slender form just added to the deception.

(213 words)

Sick Day

“Would you stop rattlin’ the table, kid?” Uncle Zach growled.

Tobias cursed under his breath and hunkered down under the mass of threadbare blankets he’d gathered. “’M cold,” he said.

“Well we don’t got no money for heat, so hold still already. ‘M tryin’ t’sleep.” Uncle Zach was still slurring, still drunk.

Tobias resisted the urge to tell the man that his alcoholism was the reason they had no money for heat. He closed his eyes, but the throbbing behind his eyes wasn’t going away. Based on what little knowledge he’d picked up from biology class, headache plus fever plus runny nose meant he had a cold. Thanks to Uncle Zach’s dipsomaniac tendencies, they had no money for medicine, not that Tobias thought he needed a prescription. Just some cough medicine would help.

Sometime around three a.m., Uncle Zach yelled at him for coughing so loudly. Tobias coughed into his pillow for the rest of the night.

His head was swimming and when he woke up the next morning, his world was filled with a heavy fog and his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of his body combined. He managed to dress and fix some sort of breakfast and then his legs carried him to school. During first period he could feel the other students glaring at him as he sniffled, so he just ducked his head down and tried to take notes.

The last thing he remembered was puzzling over a quadratic equation.

Then he woke up in the nurse’s office. Veronica was sitting next to his cot reading a history book. She looked up and smiled at him.

He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore, even though his throat ached, and something about her smile made him feel even better.

“You should have stayed home,” she said. “I think the nurse is trying to call your parents.”

“Don’t have parents,” Tobias croaked.

Veronica frowned. “Oh. Well.” She closed her book and leaned in, pressed her hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sleep more okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and slid into dreams again.


When he woke a second time, he felt much better, but Veronica was gone.

(366 words)

Stubborn Pride

“I wouldn’t--!” Angel began, but it was too late.

DJ heaved himself off the cot, bit back a curse when pain lanced through his shoulder. “You set it?”

“You dislocated it,” Angel said. “You also have three cracked ribs, a black eye, and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. Why the hell are you moving?”

DJ growled, scooted toward the edge of the cot so he could toe on his shoes. “I’m not staying here.” He had to wriggle and squirm several times, trying to bend at the waist so he could reach his shirt to pull it on.

“You’re not going home in the condition either,” Angel said. “If you have a concussion, someone has to watch over you--”

DJ glared with his one good eye. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”

“That’s what they all say,” someone else said, and DJ lifted his head.

Celia swept into the room. She had a tray of hot tea and a dish of something pungent-smelling. “Get back on that bed,” she said firmly.

DJ stared at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Did Angel not tell you?”

DJ slewed a glance at Angel, then turned back to her. “Tell me what?”

“We’re cousins,” Celia said easily. “Now get back on that bed and take your shirt off.”

“What for?” DJ made no move to obey.

“So I can rub some of this ointment on your shoulder - it’ll help with the pain.” Celia set down the tray and poured some tea in a mug. She handed one to Angel, then one to DJ. “It’s medicinal. It’ll help, too.”

It tasted foul.

Celia dipped two fingers into the dish of ointment and gestured. “Take off your shirt already.”

DJ tugged on the hem of his shirt in what he new was a maidenly gesture. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

Celia sighed. “Fine. Do it yourself.” She held out the dish.

“You’ll regret it,” Angel said.

DJ did, but he refused to admit it.

(335 words)

Glassy Eyes

Steve stumbled as he took the last turn in the obstacle course and fell to the ground in a heap. Seconds later he was on his feet again racing towards the finish; breathing labored and ragged.

"Time. Two minutes forty-three seconds," David's voice called out.

Steve bent over his knees, huffing and struggling not to throw up. David approached from where he had been observing the course.

"You feel alright Blackwood?" he asked a trifle gruffly; there were other teams around.

Steve looked up at his commander from glassy feverish eyes and forced himself to stand up straight; his vision blurring and threatening to go black.

"Fine sir."

David took a step closer so that none could overhear them. "How long have you been sick Steve?"

Steve glanced around quickly, "a few days sir. This is the worst that its been."

David brought his hand up with a towel in it. To anyone looking on it would look like he was wiping some sweat from his soldiers brow, but David ran his wrist over his friends forehead.

"You're burning up Steve," David said quietly, and with a little disapproval.

"It's not that bad Boss," Steve said.

David leveled a look at his subordinate officer.

"Steve, I want you to go back to base and wait for me to get there. I will write you a week pass so that you can get well," David said as he pushed Steve's shoulder, steering him back toward the bunker.

It was a testament to how poor he felt that Steve didn't even argue; just turned and walked wearily back to base.

What It Felt Like

“Quit moving,” Holly said.

Keith hissed, impatient, and resisted the urge to bat her hand aside when she mopped his brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m not a bloody child.”

Holly cast a pointed glance over his stuffed tiger hot water bottle, his nest of fuzzy blankets, and the mountain of pillows making him comfortable. He’d pleaded for them bit by bit over the past few hours, blue eyes big and guileless, voice small and suspiciously child-like. Now he was decked out like an Arabic Sheikh and had Holly waiting on him hand and foot.

Duffy, Shannon, and Ste were out at the newsagents securing an army’s worth of tinned chicken noodle soup.

“You could’ve fooled me,” Holly said.

Keith felt his nose begin to run. He sniffled. Holly cast him another pointed look. He sniffled again, mutinously, but when it did no good he used the back of his wrist. Holly sighed and handed him a box of kleenex.

“You really were raised in a barn, weren’t you?” she said.

Keith blew his nose, loudly, and glared at her. She ignored his glare and reached out, brushed his hair aside gently to feel his forehead, check his temperature.

“It’s gone down a bit,” she said. “You ought to kick this fever in the next four to six hours.”

“I want to be better.” Keith knew he sounded whiny, but he knew as soon as the others were done dropping off the soup they’d be out on the streets, planning the next big strike. He was supposed to be with them. He was a warrior for the Glorious Cause.

Who couldn’t fight off a common cold.

“I know you do.” Holly kissed him on the cheek. Then she pulled back, tilted her head to listen. “The others are back. I’ll fix up a bowl of soup.”

When she left, Keith sank back on his bed of pillows and sighed. He wondered if this was what it felt like, when a mother watched over her sick child. He was so used to his father just thrusting a box of tissues and a packet of lozenges at him and telling him to get over it.

The lads came in to tell jokes and clown about while Holly cooked. When she returned, they left, and it was just the two of them. Keith fell asleep to Holly reading him Yeats.

(399 words)

Beast

Joe curled tighter into a ball as the nausea reached its peak; groaned at the thought of anything making an appearance, but knowing at the same time that there was nothing in his stomach to come back up. A metal bowl rested on the floor next to his bed, just in case. He had sacrificed the convenience of the bathroom floor for the comfort of his own bed. And he hadn't been able to eat for three days.

Joe poked his head out of the covers when he heard the door to his room open and felt a fresh breath of clean air stir the close stuffy confines of the room and suddenly recoiled in agony as the light snapped on, illuminating it from shadowy to stark brightness. Joe hissed in displeasure and drew the covers over his head again.

"Joe?" Jen's voice drifted to him under the layers of covers where he lay shivering, "Joe. Come out."

"You can't make me," Joe called out in a muffled voice as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.

"You can either come out or I can come in after you," Jen threatened.

Joe cracked the covers just slightly, "what do you want?" he asked petulantly. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care at the moment.

"To make you feel better," Jen said brightly. She waved a plastic sleeve full of saltine crackers in front of him. "I also have chicken noodle soup."

"I don't think I can eat anything," Joe muttered.

"Well, it's either that or I can give you a shot," Jen threatened again, this time brandishing a needle.

Joe hissed again in displeasure. "All right," he wheezed as he reached for the crackers, "but I don't think this is a good idea."

"Just do it," Jen said, "I'll go run you a warm bath while you work your way through those."

As Jen stood to leave the room Joe laid a hand on her wrist, "thank you Jen. I know I'm a beast when I'm sick."

Jen sat back down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. She cracked a smile, "I've dealt with worse," she said and winked at him, standing again to go start the water running.

Overview #58: Non-canon

Okay. Total fail this week. But I have been toxic, and my brain has not been functioning. I did enjoy tweaking Jen and Joe's relationship. Age wise at least.

Project #59: In Sickness and in Health

100-500 words. What are your characters like when they're sick? What do they do to stay healthy? What kinds of weird family or traditional remedies to they have lying around that they recommend to others? Explore your characters some more and see how they'd hold up to the old wedding vow.

Overview #58: Non-canon

I love James as a character a lot, and there are all sorts of things I want to do with him that really won't help the overall Dagaz arc, so this week, trying out some things between him and Asia was a lot of fun. I was sloppy and unrealistic, I realize, because a boy as good-looking as James is would definitely have had his first kiss by fifteen, and even if he hadn't, he'd remember the face of his first kiss forever, so when seventeen, nineteen, and twenty-three rolled around, he'd definitely recognize Asia's face. Still, I thought it might be fun to have Asia watch him growing up.

I think, making James another incarnation of Arcturus might be an injustice to him. Especially if Asia recognizes him. I liked watching the way her relationship played out with James, but the undercurrent of Arcturus angst got tiring pretty quickly, at least for me, and faces fade over time, so maybe it's plausible that Asia, though she remembers her once and future king, doesn't properly remember his face? It's something to think about.

I don't know. This was a good learning experience for the plot and characters, though.

Page Mallory (Reprise)

Two weeks before shooting was supposed to begin, James turned up at the studio for training. He paused outside the door and watched, awed, at two knights in full armor jousting in the distance. On closer examination, one knight was much smaller than the other, but both were riding full tilt.

A groan and a cheer rose up when the smaller knight’s lance knocked the other knight off his horse, and then a whole cadre of horse wranglers were in the middle of the jousting grounds, soothing the horses.

“Well?” one of the producers - Simon - asked.

The smaller knight hopped off the horse, tugged off the bucket-like helmet - and shook out long, dark, curly hair.

“It’s sturdy enough,” she said. “You’ve chosen a good smith. Now you just have to make it period, hm?”

James could only stare. The victorious knight was a girl? Sure, James had read his fair share of historical fiction novels with their anachronistic heroines, but that was fiction. To actually see a girl win a jousting bout was unreal. James narrowed his eyes, shaded his gaze to see better. Something about the girl was oddly familiar.

Simon spotted him. “James! There you are. Just in time - come meet our combat coordinator.”

James trotted over, curious. As he drew closer, his memory stirred, and he realized that he recognized the girl. “Asia Kash,” he said.

Simon raised his eyebrows. “You know each other?”

A smile blossomed on Asia’s face. “James Mallory! I’d heard a DC boy had been cast as a principal, but I never thought it’d be you.”

“I thought if I saw anyone from my DC days around here it’d be your brother, not you.” James grinned back at her, feeling something warm bloom in his chest.

“Tobias has a gig teaching drama to wayward youth,” Asia said. “The one who made it in the business is me.”

James clapped her on the shoulder. He said to Simon, “Her brother was my roommate at drama school. We know each other well.”

“Good,” Simon said. “She’s going to be teaching you how to wield a sword.”

Asia grinned up at him. “Prince you may play, but under my tutelage, you are Page Mallory until further notice.”

James cast her an appraising look. “That’s not the first time someone’s called me that,” he said.

(389 words)

One of Those Faces

“...Put the computer by the window?”

“No - the glare from the sunshine will be obnoxious,” Tobias said.

Asia paused by his door, puzzled at how the other voice in the room - presumably his roommate - could sound familiar. Then she hefted the box of books she was carrying and nudged the door open with her foot.

“When you’re doing being Martha Stewart, how about you help me move your junk?” She edged into the room and dumped the box onto his bed. Which she’d made earlier and now was already rumpled.

“Nice, Asia.” Tobias rolled his eyes. “This is my sister, Asia. Asia, this is my roommate, James.”

Asia’s head came up sharply. There, standing across the room, was none other than James Mallory, Arcturus Dux reborn. He flashed her a wide, easy grin, and that was when she noticed the faint line of a scar running down the left side of his face. Easy for a talented make-up artist to cover, then.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. Then his brow furrowed. “You don’t look like his sister.”

“The milkman liked our house a good deal,” Asia said easily, and Tobias let out an indignant yelp.

“Hey! Don’t listen to her. We’re not blood-related; we were all foster kids in the same house growing up, but I think of her as my sister is all,” he said.

James nodded. “I see. I was afraid I’d stumbled into the middle of an awkward family drama.”

“Well, you’re in drama school, so it should come second nature to you.” Asia grinned, then pinched Tobias on the arm. “Come help me move boxes already.”

“I thought Angel was helping you.”

“He’s charming the dorm matron,” Asia said.

“I’ll help,” James offered.

Together, the three of them headed for the stairs.

“So,” James said, “Asia. Have we met before?”

“We haven’t even been roommates for a day and you’re already making a move on my sister?”

James shook his head quickly. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Then he looked at Asia. “Not that, er, I wouldn’t ever mean it like that.” Then he looked at Tobias. “It’s just - you look familiar.”


Tobias shot her a look; would she be a liability while he was undercover?

She shook her head and shrugged. “I guess I just have one of those faces,” she said. They made it into the parking lot where Angel was, indeed, chatting up the dorm matron.

“That’s our foster father, Angel,” Tobias said.

“He doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s father,” James said. He was refreshingly blunt.

“Don’t tell him that - his ego doesn’t need it,” Asia said lightly, and then called out, “old man, come help your spawn!”

Angel spun around, ready with a glare, and then he went still. Awe, confusion, then something akin to fear crossed his face.

So he saw the resemblance, too.

(481 words)

And Their Pride

Asia was used to the repeated betrayal of looking at a familiar face and finding instead of a long-lost friend an alien, distant stranger. She hadn’t thought it would hurt so much more to glimpse an unfamiliar face and see a long-lost love.

He was seventeen and now average height for his age. Asia knew there was no accounting for taste, but she would always think him the most beautiful man she had never known.

Only he wasn’t that man.

He was a boy surrounded by a pack of angry bullies.

One had a knife.

“Poofter!” he shouted, jabbed.

It was the way James stood firm, chin held high, that made Asia miss Arcturus.

“Go on, Kaz, cut the freak!” one boy yelled.

“He’s not one of us anymore,” another added. “He’s fair game!”

James spoke smoothly, elegantly. His was the voice that would lead a thousand men willingly into battle. “If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?”

Asia blinked, surprised. Since when did he know Shakespeare? Kaz lunged. James brought his arms up, ready to defend himself, but Kaz was faster, stronger. James went down, and Asia smelled the sharp copper of blood in the air.

No. She was in the fray in seconds, dispatching the stupid teenagers with swift, accurate strikes. After the first four went down, the last of them went running.


“Stay the hell away!” Asia shouted after them, and then she was on her knees beside James.

He had pushed himself up onto his haunches and had one hand pressed to his face. Blood streamed from between his fingers.

“Are you all right?” Asia asked.

“’M fine,” he muttered. “They’re just - bitter I quit playing football to do drama. They’re ignorant. They’ll grow out of it eventually.”

Asia tugged on his wrist. “Let me see.”

“He didn’t get my eye. I don’t need the hospital or anything.”

Asia tugged harder, and he yielded to her. Blood dripped from a gash that ran from brow to jaw. Asia shrugged off her jacket and balled it up, handed it to him.

“No,” he said, “blood stains.”

“You’ll probably need stitches,” Asia said. “Put pressure on it.”

“It’s not that deep - I can feel it,” James said.

Asia fished her mobile out of her pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

James sighed. “Please --”

“It’s going to scar,” Asia said. “He’s ruined your career.”

“Yes, well, I’d prefer it if people hired me because I’m a good actor instead of how pretty I am.” James tried to smile, winced. “They can’t call me pretty anymore.”

“Boys and their pride,” Asia muttered. She dialed, spoke to the operator.

Then James said, “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“I just have one of those faces,” Asia said. “I’ll wait with you.”

James looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Thanks.”

(500 words - quote from Merchant of Venice)

Pay

He was fifteen and tall for his age, broad in the shoulders, and completely and utterly grass-stained. His mother might have despaired of the state of his football uniform, only it was a football uniform and that’s what it was for. Asia suspected, after the last time she’d seen him, any hope he would look different from Arcturus was futile. He even moved the same, which she found uncanny.

She wondered how she could still find things uncanny when she lived with a quislai, a genie, a fire elemental, and a dragon.

He was fast, skilled from practice, and she felt something tug in her chest when she saw the rest of his teammates stand in a circle around him for a pep talk. Arcturus had been fifteen when he’d pulled the sword from the stone, and he was king soon thereafter, leading his men into battle. She remembered how much Emrys had fretted that the only table he could find on such short notice was circular.

The players spread themselves across the field once more, and James began shouting orders. Asia watched the teenagers move with ragged synchronicity. Even in practice, James ran his team like they were in competition. Then one of the boys made wild, flying kick, and the ball came right at Asia’s head.


She reached up and plucked it out of the air.

“Sorry about that!” James trotted toward her, waved his arms. “Give us a throw-in, would you?”

Asia abandoned her books and hurried down the bleachers toward the sidelines. She hefted the ball a few times, then looked at him, considering.

“What will you give me if I give this back?”

The confusion on his face was priceless. Apparently he’d never been challenged like this before.

“We’re in the middle of practice.”

Asia spun the ball on her index finger and looked up at him, amused. “Indeed you are, but as soon as this left the pitch it was no longer in your possession, and now it is in mine. So...what are you willing to pay?”

“Pay?” James echoed. “That ball belongs to the school --”

Asia remembered, wildly, baiting Arcturus when he was king, just to see the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes burned bright.

“Pay,” she said. “What will you give me?”

James patted down his pockets reflexively. “I don’t have any money, but -- this is madness. Can we have the ball back, please?”

Asia saw his players were getting restless and raised her voice. “What say you, lads? How much for your football? Is it worth a kiss? Maybe two?”

The boys gaped at her. One of them laughed, another let out an indecorous whoop and holler. James turned bright red.

“Go on, James, kiss her!” one of them called out.

James prowled toward the sidelines, wary and still blushing. He was muttering under his breath, and any other mortal wouldn’t have heard it, but Asia could.

She was pleased with herself, for taking his first kiss.

(500 words)

The Prettiest Star

When she saw him next, he was twelve years old, huddled in precisely the spot she’d wanted to use as a surveillance point. He had a guitar across his knees and was strumming it with more enthusiasm than skill, though after a few bars she realized she recognized the riff. Oasis. Of course.

She wondered if his face had changed since childhood, sharpened toward the angles of manhood so that when he lifted his head to look at her she wouldn’t overlay the image with twelve-year-old Arcturus dressed in hunting leathers, Cully perched on one arm.

When he lifted his head to look at her, his face was pale and streaked with tears and his eyes were puffy, red. He scrubbed a hand over his face with an angry huff and resumed playing his guitar.

“Are you all right?” Asia asked.

“’M fine,” he muttered. “Wish people would stop asking.”

“Why would people keep asking?”

He peered at her through damp, spiky lashes. “Oh. You don’t know.”

Asia eased down onto the grass beside him. “What don’t I know?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” He studied the frets intently.

Asia smiled easily and shrugged. “All right.”

He peered at her again, suspicious of her acquiescence, but she just hummed along to the song he was playing.

“You like Oasis?” he asked.

“On occasion,” she said. “How long have you been playing?”

“Couple of years,” he said. “Dad always says - he always said I need to practice more.” He swiped his hand over his face again.

Asia caught the verb tense, understood the tears. “Practice makes perfect,” she said. She held out one hand. “Would you like me to tune it for you?” She was nowhere near as good as DJ, Gabriel, or Christian, but she was competent.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“You look familiar is all.”

“People say that to me all the time. I have one of those faces,” Asia said.

He studied her for a long moment, then handed her his guitar. She tuned it with practiced hands, and he smiled at the clear notes she played.

“Can you play very well?” he asked.

“Not very well, but well enough,” Asia said. “What would you like to hear?”

“Can you play any David Bowie?”

Asia played The Prettiest Star, and he sang along.

Years later, when she found the song on a playlist someone else had put on her iPod, she couldn’t help but smile.

(418 words)

Ages

"How old are you Jen?" Joe asked absentmindedly as they walked along the beach.

Jen laughed, "don't you know it's not polite to ask a woman her age?"

"You can't be much older than me," Joe said as he pulled her to a stop at the edge of the water.

"Well, I did graduate early from high school, and I jumped right into the local nursing program. I always knew that that was what I wanted to do with my life. I always wanted to help people. And look what it brought me," Jen said as she held up their intertwined hands.

"You're evading the question," Joe accused as he began to walk again.

"No I'm not, I just haven't answered you yet."

"Are you going to answer me?"

"Would it make a difference how old I was?"

"Not really," Joe said, "I'm just curious."

Jen looked out at the setting sun and then back to the handsome young man by her side. "I'll be twenty one in six weeks."

"And I'll be eighteen in a month," Joe said.

Page Mallory

It was the flash of golden hair and the song of a wooden sword cutting through the air that caught Asia’s attention. She was wandering along the boardwalk, idly browsing the bright wares at the stalls and considering buying a stick of Brighton Rock for a pre-mission sugar rush when she saw him.

He was no more than eight, but then Arcturus had been the same age when he’d first met Emrys and his nameless, faceless Prentiss. He stood on the sand, swinging the sword with more enthusiasm and skill, and Asia recognized the determination in his expression.

She paused, leaned on the railing, and watched him battle an invisible foe. Over the years she had seen many faces repeated, knew that it was the way of DNA and biology, but she’d never hoped to see his face again. Asia closed her eyes and remembered her king as she’d seen him last, face peaceful in magic-woven sleep.

“Take that!” the boy cried, lunging and jabbing with the sword.

Asia opened her eyes and saw him trip over his own shoelaces, land in the sand.

“Ow,” he muttered, and heaved himself up, dusted himself off.

“If you slide your back foot forward and push off with it a little bit before you lunge, you won’t over-extend yourself and lose your balance,” Asia said.

The boy tilted his head to look at her. “You know how to fight with a sword?”

She nodded. “I do.”

The boy clambered to his feet, picked up his sword. “Will you teach me?”

Asia glanced at her watch. She still had forty minutes until she had to meet her contact. “I don’t have much time, but why not?” She hopped over the railing and landed in the sand, neatly like a cat.

The boy’s eyes went wide. “Wow. Are you a ninja or something?”

“Or something,” Asia said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the boy began.

“Yes, well, considering what I can do with a sword, if I’d wanted to hurt you, you’d already be hurt,” Asia said. She winced when she realized just how aggressive that sounded.

“That’s not true,” the boy said. “You might have been paid to kidnap me and bring me undamaged.” He brandished his sword at her.

Asia knew enough about children that she didn’t laugh. She kept her expression solemn. “Yes, well, you have my word I’m not going to kidnap you.”

The boy gazed at her for a moment, and Asia reflected that children had an uncanny ability to sense deception that at times rivaled Gabriel’s gift. “My name is James,” he said finally. “James Mallory.”

“Well, Page Mallory, let’s see your sword,” Asia said.

He handed it to her.

“Why am I Page Mallory? Shouldn’t I be Sir Mallory?”

“Before a man becomes a knight, he must first serve as a page, then as a squire,” Asia said easily. “Now come on - this is how you hold a sword.”

(499 words)

Overview #57: Weather Poetry

So in my shame, weather poetry became more like seasonal poetry (Halloween and Summer, anyone at all?) and I think, surrounded by terrible cold and dirty snow made me want to write mostly about how horrible winter is, and that would have been boring. I think I went a long way in sticking to concrete imagery, but in doing so I lost out on emotion and themes. By the end of the week, all my poems were starting to sound the same to me. I'm not a poet, and I know it, but it was fun, ignoring things like definite and indefinite articles and not having to worry about plot or characters.

It was a growing exercise for me, but I'm not sure how much I genuinely improved at the art of poetry.

Still, another week is here, and I shall write on.

Project Assignment # 58 - Non-Canon

Okay. This is a week to switch it up. Write something that your characters would never do under normal circumstances, or just some good old things that have been kicking around in your brain, but would not work in the story.

Maybe a change to tweak something, to experiment with it before it becomes part of your story.

A chance to explore a relationship that could never happen, or what might have happened if things had turned out differently.

Have fun and happy writing.

500 words max.

Overview # 57

So I totally failed this week at posting. And when I did post, it was not so great. I don't know where my mind has been, but obviously not on writing. *Bows head in shame*

Nagi totally owned this week in writing. Her work was fantastic!

This next week will be better.