"I don't know how to put my thoughts into words," Joe growled as he crumpled yet another piece of paper, "it's not like that Bastard would put an obituary in the paper for someone he took in only for a check every month."
Jen sighed and rubbed Joe's hunched shoulders; she could feel the tension in the muscles as she kneaded at them. "Tell me about Alec," she said gently as her fingers continued their soothing motions.
Joe drew in a breath after a few moments of thought and began to speak. "Alec was the best brother a person could have ever asked for. He was kind and supportive," Joe paused again before continuing, "when we were kids and bouncing from foster home to foster home, he made sure that we stayed together. I don't have any illusions that they didn't want to split us up, but Alec wouldn't allow it. He always threatened to just disappear with me." Joe laughed, and it was a little bitter, "for some reason the government just can't handle that. They can't keep their damn noses out of peoples lives."
Joe swallowed hard and continued, "most of the foster homes we ended up in, the 'Fathers' were abusive drunks, and the 'mothers' were either to scared to do anything or they didn't care what happened. I know that Alec tried to hide it from me, but I always knew that he took the brunt of the beatings. He took my licking so that I didn't have to. He always spared me the pain. And he never complained. He never blamed me, never resented what he went through to keep us together." Joe wiped at a tear that had run down his cheek and went on in a low voice, "Alec always talked about the future with such optimism that at times I could forget everything about where we were and what was happening and live in his dream, a dream of a world where we could just be 'we'. He always said that as soon as he turned eighteen he would petition the state to become my legal guardian and that we would get a small apartment together. He promised that we would have peace at last. No more moving around, no more beatings. He always said that we would go to college together and that we both needed to study hard so that we could get scholarships to a private University."
Jen's hands slowed and came to a stop as she listened to Joe recount the life of his brother; getting lost in the vivid images that Joe painted.
"He was going to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe continued as the tears came faster, "We were going to have a good life, we were going to have some measure of peace." Joe curled tightly into himself, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth, "and now that can never happen now that he's gone. That vision, that dream of peace is gone, faded and buried with his death."
Jen wasn't sure how to comfort him; knew no words to bring peace to a troubled soul, so she settled for simply holding him.
After a few minutes Jen finally said, "I don't think that he needs an obituary," she said gently, "all that he is is not words on a page, but words and memories in your heart and mind. I think that that is all the eulogy that Alec needs."
Joe's mouth twitched in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I wish I could have known Alec," Jen said.
Joe laughed slightly, a genuine, though sad smile playing across his face, "I remember this one time..."
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Two Certain Things
“What’s that?” Jade asked.
Chase slid the paper across the table toward him. “Obituary.”
“For who?”
“JC.”
Jade blinked. “What?”
“Tomorrow at 1100, I’m scheduled for retrieval. I know the press has one prepared - they always do. But I’d appreciate it if they used this one.”
“That’s - morbid,” Jade said.
Chase smiled faintly. “The only two certain things are death and taxes.”
Jade scanned the document, brow furrowed. “Well,” he conceded, “it’s not bad. A touch impersonal, but --”
“It’s everything I put into being him, but it’s not me. Of course, I’m not the one who’s going to die.” Chase stood up. “I have to pack.”
***
Their PR manager was pale when Jade handed her the obituary.
“It’s what he’d want,” Jade said. “Something one of us wrote.”
Helen nodded. The others looked ready to cry.
Jade left the room.
***
The obituary ran in the newspaper the following morning. Jade reflected that, wherever Chase had gone to school, he’d learnt to write well.
JC sang before he could speak, and he could play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ before he could hold a fork. Family and friends will remember a bright-eyed boy whose every breath was a melody and whose single desire was to make the world smile. People might remember wildly shaggy hair, outrageous clothes, and a dreamy smile, but the world will remember his singular voice and his musical vision. Girls the world over screamed his name, but the people he loved most rounded out his life-long five-part-harmony. He is survived by his mother, Karen, and his father, Roy, a sister Heather, and his brothers - Tony, J, Joe, Chris, and Scoop. He lived to show the world its song, and he will live on in the rhythm of every heart touched by his music.
(300 words)
Chase slid the paper across the table toward him. “Obituary.”
“For who?”
“JC.”
Jade blinked. “What?”
“Tomorrow at 1100, I’m scheduled for retrieval. I know the press has one prepared - they always do. But I’d appreciate it if they used this one.”
“That’s - morbid,” Jade said.
Chase smiled faintly. “The only two certain things are death and taxes.”
Jade scanned the document, brow furrowed. “Well,” he conceded, “it’s not bad. A touch impersonal, but --”
“It’s everything I put into being him, but it’s not me. Of course, I’m not the one who’s going to die.” Chase stood up. “I have to pack.”
Their PR manager was pale when Jade handed her the obituary.
“It’s what he’d want,” Jade said. “Something one of us wrote.”
Helen nodded. The others looked ready to cry.
Jade left the room.
The obituary ran in the newspaper the following morning. Jade reflected that, wherever Chase had gone to school, he’d learnt to write well.
JC sang before he could speak, and he could play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ before he could hold a fork. Family and friends will remember a bright-eyed boy whose every breath was a melody and whose single desire was to make the world smile. People might remember wildly shaggy hair, outrageous clothes, and a dreamy smile, but the world will remember his singular voice and his musical vision. Girls the world over screamed his name, but the people he loved most rounded out his life-long five-part-harmony. He is survived by his mother, Karen, and his father, Roy, a sister Heather, and his brothers - Tony, J, Joe, Chris, and Scoop. He lived to show the world its song, and he will live on in the rhythm of every heart touched by his music.
(300 words)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
His Whole World
David had read Ariana's official obituary in the newspaper that day. It was well done, but he felt it wasn't complete. There was no doubt that her family loved her and would miss her, but they didn't know what had happened that night. They didn't know her like he did.
David sat down at his desk and took out a couple sheets of paper and a pen.
On April 19th at 7:45 in the evening the world experienced a great loss. The life of Ariana Kingston was cut short at the age of eighteen. Ariana was full of life and laughter. She had a passion for life that was spread over everything that she did. She loved learning, and had been accepted to a prestigious college on the east coast which she was going to attend in the fall where she was to major in Astrophysics. Ariana was quick to laugh and loved to play the piano...
David continued to write; filling the pages with her accomplishments and merits. He came at last to the end. Ariana is survived by her parents and her brothers and by her long time boyfriend David Cole.
David blotted at the page where his tears had smudged the ink slightly. He added in a few final lines. Ariana was shortly to have been engaged to David. They were to be married before going to college in the fall.
David carefully folded the papers and slipped them between the pages of Ariana's favorite book and slid it onto the shelf next to his bed. It still didn't do her justice, but it was the best he could do to sum up the life of the woman that had become his whole world.
David sat down at his desk and took out a couple sheets of paper and a pen.
On April 19th at 7:45 in the evening the world experienced a great loss. The life of Ariana Kingston was cut short at the age of eighteen. Ariana was full of life and laughter. She had a passion for life that was spread over everything that she did. She loved learning, and had been accepted to a prestigious college on the east coast which she was going to attend in the fall where she was to major in Astrophysics. Ariana was quick to laugh and loved to play the piano...
David continued to write; filling the pages with her accomplishments and merits. He came at last to the end. Ariana is survived by her parents and her brothers and by her long time boyfriend David Cole.
David blotted at the page where his tears had smudged the ink slightly. He added in a few final lines. Ariana was shortly to have been engaged to David. They were to be married before going to college in the fall.
David carefully folded the papers and slipped them between the pages of Ariana's favorite book and slid it onto the shelf next to his bed. It still didn't do her justice, but it was the best he could do to sum up the life of the woman that had become his whole world.
In Action
Major David Cole was killed in action in July of this year. Major Cole was a dedicated member of our armed forces; quickly rising in the ranks to become a Major at the age of twenty-five. Major Cole served with distinction in many combat and special operations. Orphaned at 15 when his father was lost in a plane crash, he lived briefly with his aunt and uncle. He joined the military shortly after graduating high school where he made it his mission to keep the world safe.
Major Cole is survived by his team, First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood, Second Lieutenants Brian and Mark Allard, and Second Lieutenant Joseph Kendrick.
Steve sighed in frustration at how little he actually knew about his commander; how little the world knew about such a great man. Nobody knew how many times he had placed the safety of the country ahead of his own, how many times he had gone without the basic creature comforts so that others could have them. It bothered Steve that no one knew that David even existed; apart from the military and his own team. It didn't seem like enough, a short paragraph to lay to rest the memory of David. He knew that anyone reading the short clip would not know him. No one knew that he could sing or that he liked to look at the stars. No one knew that he liked to dance. No one knew that he had so great a love for one woman that most people would not be able to understand the depth of his passion for her. No one knew that he was a great leader and even better friend.
Steve knew that David didn't have anybody other than the team. Ariana was long gone and so were his parents. Steve didn't know if his aunt and uncle were still alive, but he doubted that they would even know that he was gone. In fact he would be surprised if the cared at all. Not that they were bad people, they just never connected with David.
Steve let his fingers hover over the keyboard, searching for the right words to capture the essence of David. He couldn't put in any specifics about the combat action, it was all classified and the rest seemed to personal for the casual perusal of the world.
Steve shook his head and clicked send on the screen, sending the email to the obituary columns of half a dozen papers. Even if no one else out there cared; the team cared. It was the least that they could do to let the world know that a great man had died.
Major Cole is survived by his team, First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood, Second Lieutenants Brian and Mark Allard, and Second Lieutenant Joseph Kendrick.
Steve sighed in frustration at how little he actually knew about his commander; how little the world knew about such a great man. Nobody knew how many times he had placed the safety of the country ahead of his own, how many times he had gone without the basic creature comforts so that others could have them. It bothered Steve that no one knew that David even existed; apart from the military and his own team. It didn't seem like enough, a short paragraph to lay to rest the memory of David. He knew that anyone reading the short clip would not know him. No one knew that he could sing or that he liked to look at the stars. No one knew that he liked to dance. No one knew that he had so great a love for one woman that most people would not be able to understand the depth of his passion for her. No one knew that he was a great leader and even better friend.
Steve knew that David didn't have anybody other than the team. Ariana was long gone and so were his parents. Steve didn't know if his aunt and uncle were still alive, but he doubted that they would even know that he was gone. In fact he would be surprised if the cared at all. Not that they were bad people, they just never connected with David.
Steve let his fingers hover over the keyboard, searching for the right words to capture the essence of David. He couldn't put in any specifics about the combat action, it was all classified and the rest seemed to personal for the casual perusal of the world.
Steve shook his head and clicked send on the screen, sending the email to the obituary columns of half a dozen papers. Even if no one else out there cared; the team cared. It was the least that they could do to let the world know that a great man had died.
Excellence, Laughter, and Memories
Holly Finnegan, 17, of Ulster, died in the incident on the High Street on March 21. She was caught in the blast of a pipe bomb that killed five other people. Holly, “Hols” to her friends, was orphaned at age four in a car accident and raised by her uncle, Caomhin Finnegan, a mechanic at an independent garage in Ulster. He recalled how Holly, who had “lads callin’ round all hours of the day and night,” pitched in at the garage and “spent an entire Saturday helping [him] rebuild an engine.”
Holly, in her fifth form at St. Stephen’s College, was a prefect and house captain. She competed on the swim team, winning medals in the butterfly, on her house and school field hockey team, and on the cross country team. Her teachers recall that she was hardworking and helpful. Her friends recall that she was spirited.
“Everyone thought she was a good girl, and she was,” Aine said, “but she was wild. She danced, she partied - she lived.” Clusters of girls and boys who knew Holly gathered in the hallways at St. Stephen’s, crying and whispering, laughing and remembering Holly. One friend, Keith O’Connor, remembered solemnly, though with a twinkle in his eye, how he and Holly once switched all the sugar for salt in the teachers’ tea room.
Caomhin Finnegan has opened his house for a wake, to be held on March 25. Caomhin, Aine, Keith, and others at St. Stephen’s ask Holly’s friends to bring merriment, laugher, and memories of Holly before she’s laid to rest at Killare Hill Cemetery on March 26 at 11:00 a.m.
(271 words)
Holly, in her fifth form at St. Stephen’s College, was a prefect and house captain. She competed on the swim team, winning medals in the butterfly, on her house and school field hockey team, and on the cross country team. Her teachers recall that she was hardworking and helpful. Her friends recall that she was spirited.
“Everyone thought she was a good girl, and she was,” Aine said, “but she was wild. She danced, she partied - she lived.” Clusters of girls and boys who knew Holly gathered in the hallways at St. Stephen’s, crying and whispering, laughing and remembering Holly. One friend, Keith O’Connor, remembered solemnly, though with a twinkle in his eye, how he and Holly once switched all the sugar for salt in the teachers’ tea room.
Caomhin Finnegan has opened his house for a wake, to be held on March 25. Caomhin, Aine, Keith, and others at St. Stephen’s ask Holly’s friends to bring merriment, laugher, and memories of Holly before she’s laid to rest at Killare Hill Cemetery on March 26 at 11:00 a.m.
(271 words)
Monday, February 22, 2010
Lady sings the last blues
College students, the hipsters working the coffee house scene, and the staff at the Dunham Center will say goodbye to Amy Reynolds, a staple of open mic night at the Haven. 17-year-old Amy hailed from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and came to New York to receive treatment for a long-term illness. According to staff and friends at the Dunham Center, she fought valiantly against her disease, and she was cheerful and optimistic that a cure was around the corner. She used to say, “Tomorrow we’ll find it. I’m willing to wait.”
Those who frequented the Haven knew Amy for her sultry voice, her folksy guitar skills, and her soulful lyrics; few were aware that she was battling illness. Her parents died in a car crash when Amy was four, and she was raised by foster parents until she went to the Dunham Center.
One of the nurses at the Dunham Center proudly recounted how well Amy did in school, always getting the best grades and helping other students who fell behind. “She was a comfort, a guiding light to the other patients at the Center,” the nurse said. Amy’s fellow patients recall how she took a particularly despondent patient, Sam, under her wing and encouraged him to work hard, be positive about treatment. In the last months of Amy’s life, Sam accompanied her to open mic night, expanding his musical skill alongside her.
A memorial service for Amy will be held in the chapel at the Dunham Center on June 25 at 11:00 a.m. The Haven will be hosting a vigil at 7:00 p.m. at the main stage. Musicians and aficionados of Amy’s music are encouraged to perform.
Sam said, “Amy was a lady. We’ll sing her last blues.”
Those who frequented the Haven knew Amy for her sultry voice, her folksy guitar skills, and her soulful lyrics; few were aware that she was battling illness. Her parents died in a car crash when Amy was four, and she was raised by foster parents until she went to the Dunham Center.
One of the nurses at the Dunham Center proudly recounted how well Amy did in school, always getting the best grades and helping other students who fell behind. “She was a comfort, a guiding light to the other patients at the Center,” the nurse said. Amy’s fellow patients recall how she took a particularly despondent patient, Sam, under her wing and encouraged him to work hard, be positive about treatment. In the last months of Amy’s life, Sam accompanied her to open mic night, expanding his musical skill alongside her.
A memorial service for Amy will be held in the chapel at the Dunham Center on June 25 at 11:00 a.m. The Haven will be hosting a vigil at 7:00 p.m. at the main stage. Musicians and aficionados of Amy’s music are encouraged to perform.
Sam said, “Amy was a lady. We’ll sing her last blues.”
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Project #61: The Departed
So we know our characters inside and out, from birth to death. Here's what I want to see this week: obituaries. Make them funny, make them generic, make them simple but full of implication. How does David's team want him to be remembered? How does Joe want Alec remembered? Would Keith even get an obituary after the fifth time he set himself on fire?
100-300 words. Dearly departed, we love you.
100-300 words. Dearly departed, we love you.
Overview #60: Relaxation
At first I thought this would be a Dagaz run, but then I realized that other universes exist on this website wherein characters remained undeveloped. I know the boys in Sector Five pretty much inside and out, so it was good times working with them, but I figured other people needed some love, so I resurrected the Wordsmith and the Choirboys from the urban fantasy I will probably never properly write. Still, it was interesting, to see who did what, to see what makes people relax. Another decent week of characterization.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Whatever
“What’s he doing?” Keith asked. “It looks...poncy and kinky at the same time.”
“It’s called Yoga,” Christian said absently. “A form of physical meditation. It’s been practiced in India for thousands of years. Yoga masters are called Yogi.”
DJ and Tobias watched with solemn eyes as Angel tied himself into knots on a blue workout mat.
“Like Yogi Bear?” Gabriel asked, after a long moment.
Christian set down the tray of tea and distributed the mugs with easy hands. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. It’s very relaxing.”
“I don’t think I’m that flexible,” Keith said, expression dubious.
“You’d be surprised,” Christian said. “You’re immortal now. Your body’s better than it’s ever been or ever would have been, had you remained Dormant.”
“I still don’t think you should try that,” Tobias said. “You might hurt yourself.”
Gabriel closed his eyes, considered. “I suppose it is relaxing. His mind is...humming. Blank. Pleasant, actually, compared to the rabble that’s the rest of you combined.”
“As long as he’s all right with it, I guess,” Keith said. He sipped his tea and continued to watch his commander worship the sun or whatever.
“Whatever,” DJ agreed.
(195 words)
“It’s called Yoga,” Christian said absently. “A form of physical meditation. It’s been practiced in India for thousands of years. Yoga masters are called Yogi.”
DJ and Tobias watched with solemn eyes as Angel tied himself into knots on a blue workout mat.
“Like Yogi Bear?” Gabriel asked, after a long moment.
Christian set down the tray of tea and distributed the mugs with easy hands. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. It’s very relaxing.”
“I don’t think I’m that flexible,” Keith said, expression dubious.
“You’d be surprised,” Christian said. “You’re immortal now. Your body’s better than it’s ever been or ever would have been, had you remained Dormant.”
“I still don’t think you should try that,” Tobias said. “You might hurt yourself.”
Gabriel closed his eyes, considered. “I suppose it is relaxing. His mind is...humming. Blank. Pleasant, actually, compared to the rabble that’s the rest of you combined.”
“As long as he’s all right with it, I guess,” Keith said. He sipped his tea and continued to watch his commander worship the sun or whatever.
“Whatever,” DJ agreed.
(195 words)
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Problem of Kyle
“Do you ever relax?” Gabriel asked.
Kyle sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, weaving rings with determined hands. “This is relaxing.”
“No, that’s working.” Gabriel settled beside him, folded Kyle in the warmth of one of his massive wings.
“It’s mindless repetitive hand motions, which I find relaxing.”
“You never find anything relaxing.” Gabriel nudged Kyle with his shoulder. “You never even really sleep. You just...doze in this terrible state of half-drowsy half-wakefulness. One would think you were a great war soldier in a fox hole expecting the call to go over the top at any moment.”
“Should you be talking so much?” Kyle asked. “There could be Listeners outside.”
“Listeners are human and can’t hear through walls.” Gabriel sighed. “Look - just get some sleep. It’ll do both of us good if you don’t pass out on me in the middle of our next battle, whenever that may be.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Sleep is not an option?”
“No. The Fallen could come at any time.”
Gabriel rose to his feet, gestured at the crumbling walls glittering with the Alphabet. “No they can’t - nothing can get past your wards and you know it.”
“I’m not taking that risk.”
Gabriel knelt down in front of Kyle and shook him once, forcefully. “Look at me!”
Kyle lifted his head, startled, blue eyes wide. Gabriel shoved him toward one of the pews. “Sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
“I can’t --”
“Relax enough to fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” Kyle tugged his knees up to his chest.
“How did you fall asleep when you were a child?” Gabriel asked.
“My mother read me stories.”
“Oh. Well.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “I know a few stories.”
Kyle stared at him. Gabriel gestured for Kyle to lay down, so he did, curled up on one of the hard, uncomfortable pews.
“Once, in the Silver City,” Gabriel began.
Kyle closed his eyes and let Gabriel’s voice wash over him. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself begin to relax, lost in the cadence of words and syllables.
Kyle sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, weaving rings with determined hands. “This is relaxing.”
“No, that’s working.” Gabriel settled beside him, folded Kyle in the warmth of one of his massive wings.
“It’s mindless repetitive hand motions, which I find relaxing.”
“You never find anything relaxing.” Gabriel nudged Kyle with his shoulder. “You never even really sleep. You just...doze in this terrible state of half-drowsy half-wakefulness. One would think you were a great war soldier in a fox hole expecting the call to go over the top at any moment.”
“Should you be talking so much?” Kyle asked. “There could be Listeners outside.”
“Listeners are human and can’t hear through walls.” Gabriel sighed. “Look - just get some sleep. It’ll do both of us good if you don’t pass out on me in the middle of our next battle, whenever that may be.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Sleep is not an option?”
“No. The Fallen could come at any time.”
Gabriel rose to his feet, gestured at the crumbling walls glittering with the Alphabet. “No they can’t - nothing can get past your wards and you know it.”
“I’m not taking that risk.”
Gabriel knelt down in front of Kyle and shook him once, forcefully. “Look at me!”
Kyle lifted his head, startled, blue eyes wide. Gabriel shoved him toward one of the pews. “Sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
“I can’t --”
“Relax enough to fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” Kyle tugged his knees up to his chest.
“How did you fall asleep when you were a child?” Gabriel asked.
“My mother read me stories.”
“Oh. Well.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “I know a few stories.”
Kyle stared at him. Gabriel gestured for Kyle to lay down, so he did, curled up on one of the hard, uncomfortable pews.
“Once, in the Silver City,” Gabriel began.
Kyle closed his eyes and let Gabriel’s voice wash over him. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself begin to relax, lost in the cadence of words and syllables.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Practical Relaxation
David stretched to limber up his slightly stiff muscles; pulling one arm and then the other, rotating, bending and shaking out his ling arms and legs.
David centered within himself. He drew a deep breath and flashed into motion; spinning, kicking and punching in ancient forms, flowing from one to the next with perfect precision. Dragon Claw to Eagle, Cobra Strike to Scorpion. Sweat began to trickle down his brow and soak the collar of his shirt. He let his eyes fall closed; concealing the dark blue irises and the lurking memories.
David increased the pace, darting from one form to the next with almost reckless abandon, pushing himself to the limit. With a final sweep of his leg and a yell David dew himself up to his full height. He inhaled slowly and released the breath just as slowly.
David lay down on the mats and let all the tension flow out of his body. After ten minutes he stood up; centered and focused again, the perfect soldier.
David centered within himself. He drew a deep breath and flashed into motion; spinning, kicking and punching in ancient forms, flowing from one to the next with perfect precision. Dragon Claw to Eagle, Cobra Strike to Scorpion. Sweat began to trickle down his brow and soak the collar of his shirt. He let his eyes fall closed; concealing the dark blue irises and the lurking memories.
David increased the pace, darting from one form to the next with almost reckless abandon, pushing himself to the limit. With a final sweep of his leg and a yell David dew himself up to his full height. He inhaled slowly and released the breath just as slowly.
David lay down on the mats and let all the tension flow out of his body. After ten minutes he stood up; centered and focused again, the perfect soldier.
Better than the Old Days
Elise was a proud iconoclast. Cody called her a “Courtney Love” stereotype, and they squabbled half-heartedly, but she knew he was wrong. In the years since the Government had unleashed The Fallen, seeing other choirboys was few and far between and a dangerous risk at that. Elise knew that if the other boys could see her now, their eyes would fall out of their heads.
It was fairly common knowledge that repetitive hand-wrist movements could be...relaxing. Or straining. Elise was a guitarist, and she’d had to actively work to avoid coming down with carpal tunnel syndrome. The best thing about tatting and crocheting was that, even though she did both right-handed, the primary hands switched off, so if she did one for a spell, and then another, both of her hands got equal work.
Tatting looked about ten times as ornate as crocheting, and Elise loved the little dainty gothic accessories she could create with her skill, but the fact was, tatting was the same two knots over and over and over again. A bit of math, a bit of planning, but all one knot. Almost mindless in its repetition. Once she fell into a rhythm, she could muse over the banality of her day, be grateful for another day she’d lived on. The rhythm was almost like playing music again, but too many people remembered the punk guitarist who could level cities with a single note.
At the end of a long day, she could curl up on her sofa with her laptop streaming some inane movie in the background and just...create.
It was better than the old days, when she’d just destroy.
(279 words)
It was fairly common knowledge that repetitive hand-wrist movements could be...relaxing. Or straining. Elise was a guitarist, and she’d had to actively work to avoid coming down with carpal tunnel syndrome. The best thing about tatting and crocheting was that, even though she did both right-handed, the primary hands switched off, so if she did one for a spell, and then another, both of her hands got equal work.
Tatting looked about ten times as ornate as crocheting, and Elise loved the little dainty gothic accessories she could create with her skill, but the fact was, tatting was the same two knots over and over and over again. A bit of math, a bit of planning, but all one knot. Almost mindless in its repetition. Once she fell into a rhythm, she could muse over the banality of her day, be grateful for another day she’d lived on. The rhythm was almost like playing music again, but too many people remembered the punk guitarist who could level cities with a single note.
At the end of a long day, she could curl up on her sofa with her laptop streaming some inane movie in the background and just...create.
It was better than the old days, when she’d just destroy.
(279 words)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Auto-Pilot
The air was still ringing from the door being slammed open as Ariana left her work in a rage. Nothing had seemed to go right that day. Paperwork missing, accounts misfiled, and a continuous stream of people pestering her.
Ariana glanced back at the building with wrathful eyes and felt her hands curl involuntarily into fists. She muttered darkly to herself as she got into her car and gunned the engine. Peeling out of the parking lot, she almost dared anyone to get in her way.
Ariana flipped rapidly through the radio stations but snapped it off in irritation after a moment. She rolled down the window, hoping that a cool breeze would calm her down, but only found her thought returning to work. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as she ground her teeth in frustration; she drove on auto-pilot, not really caring where she was going.
Her car made it eventually to a small wooded area that she knew well. Dense packed trees hid a small clearing a few hundred yards from the road. Ariana jumped out of her car and practically ran to the clearing, dodging in and out of trees and around shrubs. As she entered the clearing she could hear the trickling of a small stream that ran through the trees nearby.
The grass was knee high and bright green from the spring rains. It had not yet had time to whither in the summer heat, though the sun was beating down; obscured now and then by a passing cloud.
Ariana took off her shoes and stood for a moment in the cold water of the stream, but that didn't seem to be helping. She shook the water off her feet and walked back to the center of the clearing.
Ariana sat down the the grass and it came up to her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled as she consciously unclenched her hands. She let her eyes fall shut and listened to the sounds of the stream, the whisper of the wind. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the top of her head.
Ariana reclined in the grass, letting the heat of the sun burn away the unpleasant memories of the day. She knew that she couldn't be seen anymore; she felt safe and protected as she drifted off to sleep.
Ariana glanced back at the building with wrathful eyes and felt her hands curl involuntarily into fists. She muttered darkly to herself as she got into her car and gunned the engine. Peeling out of the parking lot, she almost dared anyone to get in her way.
Ariana flipped rapidly through the radio stations but snapped it off in irritation after a moment. She rolled down the window, hoping that a cool breeze would calm her down, but only found her thought returning to work. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as she ground her teeth in frustration; she drove on auto-pilot, not really caring where she was going.
Her car made it eventually to a small wooded area that she knew well. Dense packed trees hid a small clearing a few hundred yards from the road. Ariana jumped out of her car and practically ran to the clearing, dodging in and out of trees and around shrubs. As she entered the clearing she could hear the trickling of a small stream that ran through the trees nearby.
The grass was knee high and bright green from the spring rains. It had not yet had time to whither in the summer heat, though the sun was beating down; obscured now and then by a passing cloud.
Ariana took off her shoes and stood for a moment in the cold water of the stream, but that didn't seem to be helping. She shook the water off her feet and walked back to the center of the clearing.
Ariana sat down the the grass and it came up to her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled as she consciously unclenched her hands. She let her eyes fall shut and listened to the sounds of the stream, the whisper of the wind. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the top of her head.
Ariana reclined in the grass, letting the heat of the sun burn away the unpleasant memories of the day. She knew that she couldn't be seen anymore; she felt safe and protected as she drifted off to sleep.
In the Meantime
The quickness of human hands was a marvel of a thing. After the initial blast, when Kyle had let Gabriel loose in a crowded church, Marsh had survived the best way he knew how - hustling. Three card monty, shell games, poker tables, pool - he’d done it all. Almost got his hands broken for his trouble, and then Tabris came up with a solution.
Go straight.
Odds were, Tabris said, no one would think to look for Marsh in a real job.
Tabris always knew the best odds, and it had always been in Marsh’s favor to go with them. At first the notion of physical labor repulsed him, but eventually Marsh realized that there was something...soothing. In painting. The repetitive motion - long, smooth strokes of the brush - gave him time to think.
Plot. Hate.
It was a sheer stroke of luck - and Marsh didn’t use the word lightly - that Marsh had stumbled across the art section of a paint shop one day. He’d been hoarding his money for important things like weapons and food, most of it carried in covert wads of cash, but - but there hadn’t been word from any of the other choirboys in a while, and maybe - maybe it was safe to settle down.
So on his day off, Marsh purchased a supply of watercolors, brushes, and set up at a local park to learn to paint trees. The first few came out looking more like green lollipops, but between some self-help books at the library, Tabris’s blunt, honest critiques, and time, Marsh became a fairly competent artist.
Sitting in the sun, paying attention to nothing but color and shape and line - it was almost heaven.
Marsh had glimpsed heaven, and he wasn’t ready for it yet.
In the meantime, he had a landscape to paint.
(301 words)
Go straight.
Odds were, Tabris said, no one would think to look for Marsh in a real job.
Tabris always knew the best odds, and it had always been in Marsh’s favor to go with them. At first the notion of physical labor repulsed him, but eventually Marsh realized that there was something...soothing. In painting. The repetitive motion - long, smooth strokes of the brush - gave him time to think.
Plot. Hate.
It was a sheer stroke of luck - and Marsh didn’t use the word lightly - that Marsh had stumbled across the art section of a paint shop one day. He’d been hoarding his money for important things like weapons and food, most of it carried in covert wads of cash, but - but there hadn’t been word from any of the other choirboys in a while, and maybe - maybe it was safe to settle down.
So on his day off, Marsh purchased a supply of watercolors, brushes, and set up at a local park to learn to paint trees. The first few came out looking more like green lollipops, but between some self-help books at the library, Tabris’s blunt, honest critiques, and time, Marsh became a fairly competent artist.
Sitting in the sun, paying attention to nothing but color and shape and line - it was almost heaven.
Marsh had glimpsed heaven, and he wasn’t ready for it yet.
In the meantime, he had a landscape to paint.
(301 words)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Flames and Adventures
Harsh driving winds slung the snow into the windows creating a hiss as a counterpoint to the pop and crackle of the fire. Bare, snow laden tree branches scraped across the window pane; creaking and tapping out and odd rhythm.
Mark released the curtains, letting them fall back into place to cover the dark and chill night. He could feel the cold from the storm seeping through the glass of the window if he held his hand close enough. He heard the clock strike eleven and turned from the darkness.
Mark stepped back whisper quiet on stockinged feet and moved closer to the fire. There was a nest of blankets and pillows set up a few feet back from the dancing flames. Mark settled his long and agile frame into the swirling mass of fabric and pulled a blanket around his shoulders just before reaching for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He inhaled the rich aroma of the carefully concocted brew and took a careful sip; allowing the warmth to creep across his tongue and trickle down his throat, warming him all the way down.
He sighed in contentment and reclined into the thick pile of pillows, his mug in one hand and a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in the other.
Mark released the curtains, letting them fall back into place to cover the dark and chill night. He could feel the cold from the storm seeping through the glass of the window if he held his hand close enough. He heard the clock strike eleven and turned from the darkness.
Mark stepped back whisper quiet on stockinged feet and moved closer to the fire. There was a nest of blankets and pillows set up a few feet back from the dancing flames. Mark settled his long and agile frame into the swirling mass of fabric and pulled a blanket around his shoulders just before reaching for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He inhaled the rich aroma of the carefully concocted brew and took a careful sip; allowing the warmth to creep across his tongue and trickle down his throat, warming him all the way down.
He sighed in contentment and reclined into the thick pile of pillows, his mug in one hand and a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in the other.
Puppy Therapy
The problem with being one of the Seraph-voiced was that people knew who they were. The infamy, after what had happened in Omaha in the middle of the instatement of the new archbishop, was impossible to escape. People expected Cody the Singer of the Angel of Death to wander morgues or church yards discussing tombstones and recently dead with his companion. Someone had jumped a poor ME a few weeks back because the fellow worked the graveyard shift and had a tendency to talk to himself, and his coworkers had suspected him of being Asrael’s singer.
Cody was a big fan of killing two birds with one stone - though less literally than Asrael - and so he solved the problem of staying incognito and finding something to do between facility raids with something Elise had once referenced: puppy therapy.
He volunteered four days a week at the animal shelter under cover of being a vet tech student - and he was certainly well-read enough to play the part - and had started the shelter’s outreach program. Two days a week he traveled the city to various retirement homes with a collection of stray puppies for the express purposes of cheering up the residents. It was perfect - he got to spend all day being nice to old people and cuddling puppies, and Asrael got to wander the halls and speak to the dying and the dead.
One day, Cody spotted a Listener - one who’d chased him from his school back he was still a teenager - in a nursing home. She wasn’t there on business, though - she was visiting her grandmother. She actually smiled at him when he walked by with a puppy in his arms and told him he was a nice young man and a dutiful citizen, tending to the elderly in his free time. Cody smiled back and ignored the way Asrael loomed over her, ready to strike her down with a flaming sword. Under cover of hoisting the puppy up higher, he gestured for Asrael to cut it out, and they headed out to the van the shelter lent to him on visit days.
“Humans are unnaturally fond of baby animals,” Asrael commented while Cody put the fussy puppy into a crate on the floor of the van.
“It’s the only way other species would survive - otherwise we’d kill them all.” Cody closed the van door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Asrael slid into the passenger seat. Cody sighed. “Don’t you have a war to go hover over or something?”
“No,” Asrael said. “Drive.”
Cody did.
(428 words)
Cody was a big fan of killing two birds with one stone - though less literally than Asrael - and so he solved the problem of staying incognito and finding something to do between facility raids with something Elise had once referenced: puppy therapy.
He volunteered four days a week at the animal shelter under cover of being a vet tech student - and he was certainly well-read enough to play the part - and had started the shelter’s outreach program. Two days a week he traveled the city to various retirement homes with a collection of stray puppies for the express purposes of cheering up the residents. It was perfect - he got to spend all day being nice to old people and cuddling puppies, and Asrael got to wander the halls and speak to the dying and the dead.
One day, Cody spotted a Listener - one who’d chased him from his school back he was still a teenager - in a nursing home. She wasn’t there on business, though - she was visiting her grandmother. She actually smiled at him when he walked by with a puppy in his arms and told him he was a nice young man and a dutiful citizen, tending to the elderly in his free time. Cody smiled back and ignored the way Asrael loomed over her, ready to strike her down with a flaming sword. Under cover of hoisting the puppy up higher, he gestured for Asrael to cut it out, and they headed out to the van the shelter lent to him on visit days.
“Humans are unnaturally fond of baby animals,” Asrael commented while Cody put the fussy puppy into a crate on the floor of the van.
“It’s the only way other species would survive - otherwise we’d kill them all.” Cody closed the van door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Asrael slid into the passenger seat. Cody sighed. “Don’t you have a war to go hover over or something?”
“No,” Asrael said. “Drive.”
Cody did.
(428 words)
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Permanence of Stories
“Whatcha doin’, kid?” Austin leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.
The Wordsmith was curled up on one of the uncomfortable office chairs, hands cupped around some small black device. He looked up and blinked at her blearily, and for one moment his eyes were ink-black, and he looked dazed, as if he’d just absorbed some long, dry tome - like the federal tax code.
Kory was a lazy prat, that he’d had The Wordsmith absorb that.
“I’m watching cartoons,” The Wordsmith said. He held up the device - an iPhone. “Old-fashioned cell animation. Do you know how they did it? They would make the drawings first, and then transfer the drawings onto cellulose, hence ‘cel’ animation --”
He sounded like he was reciting from a book. Austin could see ink swirling across his collarbones - he was shirtless, poor creature, and the heater in the bunker was broken. For one moment, Austin considered triggering him, asking for a touch of poetry - in the wake of Valentine’s Day, after all - but she didn’t want to get on Garrow’s bad side.
Austin smirked. “Did Garrow give you that toy?”
“He said it was a birthday present,” The Wordsmith said.
“Wasn’t your birthday two days ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been watching cartoons on that thing since then?”
“I’ve slept a little, ate a little. Called up some maps for Garrow. Why?”
Austin knew how little The Wordsmith ate and slept; he must have been glued to that thing for hours. “Didn’t your mother tell you that too much TV will rot your brain?”
“I don’t have a mother - and if I did, she never told me anything,” The Wordsmith said easily. Anyone else would have shown a moment of remorse, of loss at not having a mother, but The Wordsmith was weird and unemotional like that.
“Too much TV is bad for you,” Austin said.
The Wordsmith smoothed a hand over his forearm where a line from a novel flickered. “Maybe. Too many books can be bad for you too. Besides, with cartoons - I can enjoy the story and forget it when it’s done. It’s not - stuck in me. Forever.”
“I never thought of that,” Austin said, after a long moment.
The Wordsmith shrugged. “I can remember everything I’ve ever read, but not everything I’ve ever seen.”
Austin hummed thoughtfully. “What cartoons did Garrow give you?”
“Disney,” The Wordsmith said. “They’re curious permutations of traditional tales --”
Austin cut him off. “Have you ever seen anything by Hayao Miyazaki?”
(416 words)
The Wordsmith was curled up on one of the uncomfortable office chairs, hands cupped around some small black device. He looked up and blinked at her blearily, and for one moment his eyes were ink-black, and he looked dazed, as if he’d just absorbed some long, dry tome - like the federal tax code.
Kory was a lazy prat, that he’d had The Wordsmith absorb that.
“I’m watching cartoons,” The Wordsmith said. He held up the device - an iPhone. “Old-fashioned cell animation. Do you know how they did it? They would make the drawings first, and then transfer the drawings onto cellulose, hence ‘cel’ animation --”
He sounded like he was reciting from a book. Austin could see ink swirling across his collarbones - he was shirtless, poor creature, and the heater in the bunker was broken. For one moment, Austin considered triggering him, asking for a touch of poetry - in the wake of Valentine’s Day, after all - but she didn’t want to get on Garrow’s bad side.
Austin smirked. “Did Garrow give you that toy?”
“He said it was a birthday present,” The Wordsmith said.
“Wasn’t your birthday two days ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been watching cartoons on that thing since then?”
“I’ve slept a little, ate a little. Called up some maps for Garrow. Why?”
Austin knew how little The Wordsmith ate and slept; he must have been glued to that thing for hours. “Didn’t your mother tell you that too much TV will rot your brain?”
“I don’t have a mother - and if I did, she never told me anything,” The Wordsmith said easily. Anyone else would have shown a moment of remorse, of loss at not having a mother, but The Wordsmith was weird and unemotional like that.
“Too much TV is bad for you,” Austin said.
The Wordsmith smoothed a hand over his forearm where a line from a novel flickered. “Maybe. Too many books can be bad for you too. Besides, with cartoons - I can enjoy the story and forget it when it’s done. It’s not - stuck in me. Forever.”
“I never thought of that,” Austin said, after a long moment.
The Wordsmith shrugged. “I can remember everything I’ve ever read, but not everything I’ve ever seen.”
Austin hummed thoughtfully. “What cartoons did Garrow give you?”
“Disney,” The Wordsmith said. “They’re curious permutations of traditional tales --”
Austin cut him off. “Have you ever seen anything by Hayao Miyazaki?”
(416 words)
Warbreaker
"Whatcha doing Steve?" Bryan asked as he leaned over his teammates shoulder.
Steve's shoulders tensed slightly at the interruption, "I'm trying to relax," he said as he placed one finger between the pages of the rather thick book in his hands.
"Oh. What are you reading?" Bryan asked as he leaned forward to get a look at the title of the book.
"Warbreaker," Steve said in a clipped tone of voice. He flipped the book back open again to where he had left off.
"What's it about?"
Steve sighed in resignation and closed the book again. "It's about a man named Vash, a bunch of 'Gods', a sentient sword and a God king."
Bryan quirked an eyebrow. "So it's fantasy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You enjoy that type of stuff?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be reading it."
Bryan shrugged and walked away.
Steve shook his head and opened the book again; quickly loosing himself in the story.
Steve's shoulders tensed slightly at the interruption, "I'm trying to relax," he said as he placed one finger between the pages of the rather thick book in his hands.
"Oh. What are you reading?" Bryan asked as he leaned forward to get a look at the title of the book.
"Warbreaker," Steve said in a clipped tone of voice. He flipped the book back open again to where he had left off.
"What's it about?"
Steve sighed in resignation and closed the book again. "It's about a man named Vash, a bunch of 'Gods', a sentient sword and a God king."
Bryan quirked an eyebrow. "So it's fantasy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You enjoy that type of stuff?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be reading it."
Bryan shrugged and walked away.
Steve shook his head and opened the book again; quickly loosing himself in the story.
Project Assignment # 60 - Relaxation
I just realized that it was my turn to issue challenge!
Okay. This week we are going to explore how our characters relax. Do they read a book, soak in a hot tub, or lay out in the sun? Do they go swimming, or do they sleep?
Max word is 500
Okay. This week we are going to explore how our characters relax. Do they read a book, soak in a hot tub, or lay out in the sun? Do they go swimming, or do they sleep?
Max word is 500
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Overview #59: In Sickness and in Health
So this week was another chance for character studies. At first I got too caught up in the sickness portion, and I realized that wouldn't be nearly as fun, as most of the boys in the Dagaz are just that - boys. And they tend to have variations on a theme when it comes to illness, so I tried some different angles - health, recovery, and also lives that don't get explored nearly enough. (Dael, Gabriel, and Keith's first life that I cannot remember don't get nearly as much attention as they should, which is my own fault.) Still, character development and experimentation progresses, and that's what counts.
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