The new biology teacher, Mr. Basanov, was hopeless. Amelia sat at the front of the classroom and watched him duck his head, avoiding students' gazes while he pretended to rifle through his stack of notes. Amelia was by no means a queen bee, but she was popular for a reason. She was good at reading people. And she heard, loud and clear, the tale told by every twitch of his hands, bunch of his shoulders.
After the bell rang and the door was closed, the students settled down. There were several new teachers this year. Amelia had heard that Mr. O'Neill, the new teacher, was smokin' hot.
Mr. Basanov lifted his head, cleared his throat. "Good morning. This is ninth grade biology." He paused. "Since none of you have bolted from the room, I presume you are all in the right place."
"Don't you mean assume?" That was Trevor Conley. He walked the fine like between class clown and class bully. "You know what they say about assuming."
Mr. Basanov blinked, taken aback, then averted his gaze. "Let's start with roll call."
He was tentative with the pronunciations but did better than some teachers, accepted nicknames a little too passively. Then he scooped up the stack of syllabi. It was the first of many for Amelia.
They were blue and photocopied and stapled neatly. Mr. Basanov had worried the edges of the first one with his nervous fidgeting and the sides were curled and creased.
He thrust the stack at Trevor, who grinned and leaned back, didn't take it.
"Take one and pass it on, please," Mr. Basanov said. He held the papers out again.
Trevor reached out. Mr. Basanov tried to hand the papers to him, but Trevor closed his hand into a fist at the last second and the papers hit the floor. Mr. Basanov flinched and knelt, started scooping them up.
Trevor kicked some papers out of his reach. "You know our names, but we don't know yours. That's not fair."
"I'm Tobias - I mean. You probably shouldn't call me that. I'm Mr. Basanov." He scooped up some more papers. He might have been cute, if Amelia were into skinny, pale men with sharp features, vulpine dark eyes and fluffy, disheveled dark hair. He looked too young to be a teacher. That was probably because he was the same age as actors who played teenagers on TV.
"Tobias," Trevor said, emphasizing the sibilance of the last syllable. "You were a nerdy, unpopular kid in high school, weren't you?"
Mr. Basanov's response was muffled from below desk level. "I was."
"How did that work out for you?"
"Well --" Mr. Basanov popped up onto his feet, mess of papers in hand. He began straightening them with long, graceful fingers. "One day after school a group of football players attacked me with a baseball bat. Terribly cliché. Put me in the hospital. And then one day after school they were torn apart by a pack of wolves and now here I am, your biology teacher." He handed the stack of syllabi to Trevor, whose mouth was hanging open. "Take one, pass them on."
Trevor obeyed.
Amelia watched Mr. Basanov for the rest of class, the don't-look-at-me hunch to his shoulders, the don't-notice-me dart of his gaze, the don't-hit-me of his posture, and wondered if there wasn't something else beneath.
At lunch, she saw him with Mr. O'Neill, supervising the chaos of the cafeteria. Amelia and her friends had staked out the table closest to the teachers' regular post so she could get her fill of looking at Mr. O'Neill. Tall, lean, ice-blond, blue-eyed, with a face Pygmalion would have died to carve and died again to animate, the new art teacher was stunning.
He was, also, apparently friends with Mr. Basanov.
"You actually told them that?"
"I told you, I was never meant to be a teacher, or any other authority figure."
"What did they say?"
"Nothing."
"Man, if you get reported on the first day --"
"I won't get reported. It's not like I told them I can turn into a wolf and I took the first chunk out of the running back."
"Good point."
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Verdi
The most disconcerting thing about humans was the way they consumed nutrients. Opening their gaping mouths and shoveling in food, sucking noisily at water, their throats constricting - it was quite appalling to witness.
Verdi knew she was in the minority about her opinion, given that she was one of only a handful non-humans in her high school, but she found lunch time disturbing and would rather spend it outside.
She liked to sit behind the school on the bleachers, head tipped back and leaves unfurled to capture as much sun as possible, and revel in the quiet. She also had a basin full of water into which to dip her feet, and she could relax, free of others' staring.
The one human whose company she could bear for extended periods of time was Asa. He was blind, dark-haired, and golden-eyed, like a flower himself.
Verdi reached up and ran her fingers through her leaves experimentally. With summer coming on she'd start getting petals in. She'd have to ask Asa for his advice as to colors. He knew the names of many colors.
"Hey, you're the alien chick, right?"
Verdi opened her eyes. A girl stood at the bottom of the bleachers where Asa usually sat. The girl was broad and stocky, dressed head-to-toe in black. Black was most efficient for absorbing sunlight. Verdi's leaves were black in winter.
"If by 'alien chick' you mean extra-terrestrial, yes. Otherwise, no."
"Your name is Verdi, right? Even though you're not green at all."
"Verdi wrote very pleasing music," Verdi said of her human namesake. "You are incapable of expressing my personal identifier."
"What kind of language do plants even speak?"
"You cannot pronounce or hear colors, I am told." Verdi shrugged. "What is your name, human chick?"
"Austin," she said. "My name is Austin."
"Hello, Austin."
"I see you sitting out here every day. Don't you get lonely?"
"I am obtaining nutrients, the same as the rest of you. And I am not always alone."
"I've never seen you eat." Austin shifted from foot to foot. "I thought you might need someone to talk to. About your problem."
"Problem?"
"With not eating."
Verdi sighed. "I find eating repulsive, if you must know. It does not mean I find all humans repulsive. But that one act is quite unpleasant to observe."
"But you need to have some food, right?"
"Why, when I have sunlight and water?" Verdi lifted one foot and wiggled her toes to demonstrate.
Bright red spread across Austin's face. "Oh! Um. I didn't realize -- I was really bad at biology. I'll leave you to your, um, absorbing."
"Thank you for speaking to me, Austin," Verdi said. "Perhaps we shall speak again." She watched Austin hurry back into the school building and, as an afterthought, turned one of her petals the same color as Austin's face had been. It was a pleasing shade. Humans were more like flowers than they knew.
Verdi knew she was in the minority about her opinion, given that she was one of only a handful non-humans in her high school, but she found lunch time disturbing and would rather spend it outside.
She liked to sit behind the school on the bleachers, head tipped back and leaves unfurled to capture as much sun as possible, and revel in the quiet. She also had a basin full of water into which to dip her feet, and she could relax, free of others' staring.
The one human whose company she could bear for extended periods of time was Asa. He was blind, dark-haired, and golden-eyed, like a flower himself.
Verdi reached up and ran her fingers through her leaves experimentally. With summer coming on she'd start getting petals in. She'd have to ask Asa for his advice as to colors. He knew the names of many colors.
"Hey, you're the alien chick, right?"
Verdi opened her eyes. A girl stood at the bottom of the bleachers where Asa usually sat. The girl was broad and stocky, dressed head-to-toe in black. Black was most efficient for absorbing sunlight. Verdi's leaves were black in winter.
"If by 'alien chick' you mean extra-terrestrial, yes. Otherwise, no."
"Your name is Verdi, right? Even though you're not green at all."
"Verdi wrote very pleasing music," Verdi said of her human namesake. "You are incapable of expressing my personal identifier."
"What kind of language do plants even speak?"
"You cannot pronounce or hear colors, I am told." Verdi shrugged. "What is your name, human chick?"
"Austin," she said. "My name is Austin."
"Hello, Austin."
"I see you sitting out here every day. Don't you get lonely?"
"I am obtaining nutrients, the same as the rest of you. And I am not always alone."
"I've never seen you eat." Austin shifted from foot to foot. "I thought you might need someone to talk to. About your problem."
"Problem?"
"With not eating."
Verdi sighed. "I find eating repulsive, if you must know. It does not mean I find all humans repulsive. But that one act is quite unpleasant to observe."
"But you need to have some food, right?"
"Why, when I have sunlight and water?" Verdi lifted one foot and wiggled her toes to demonstrate.
Bright red spread across Austin's face. "Oh! Um. I didn't realize -- I was really bad at biology. I'll leave you to your, um, absorbing."
"Thank you for speaking to me, Austin," Verdi said. "Perhaps we shall speak again." She watched Austin hurry back into the school building and, as an afterthought, turned one of her petals the same color as Austin's face had been. It was a pleasing shade. Humans were more like flowers than they knew.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Dagaz/WW Crossover
Leo sat just to Jed's left at the head of the conference room table. He scanned the faces of the other men and women seated at the table, all career military leaders and advisors, all decorated and well-respected, intelligent and prepared. They all looked terrified.
"So our only option is to, what, just let them keep on slaughtering their own people?" Jed demanded.
"The resources it would take --" one general began.
Another shook her head. "The international relations we would be straining --"
"What makes their people less worth our military protection than our people?" Jed asked.
One young man at the other end of the table, so low-ranking he wasn't even seated, cleared his throat. All gazes fixed on him. He was a good soldier and didn't even flinch.
"If you really want to do this without spending our military forces or causing an international incident, there may be another option."
Jed raised his eyebrows, cast a glance at Leo, but Leo could only offer a minute shake off his head; he had no clue what the young major was referring to.
The young man reached into his pocket and drew out a business card, slid it down across the table. Jed caught it and turned it over, and Leo leaned in to peer at it. There was no name, just a phone number. An international number.
"What is this?" Jed asked.
"They're freelancers," the young man said.
Jed's jaw tightened. "You mean mercenaries. What will this cost me?"
"You'll have to ask them," the young man said.
Jed scanned the other faces at the table. "Why do none of the rest of you know about this?"
The two generals exchanged pained expressions.
"It's a last resort for us. They rescued Harper, so he knows them. But --" The woman shook her head. "It's very last resort."
"What did they want from you?" Jed asked.
"To shut down an old military weapons testing program from the sixties that was basically defunct anyway." She pressed her lips into a thin line.
Jed turned to the man. "And you?"
"Access to some old Civil War service records."
Leo watched the gears turning in Jed's mind. Neither of those requests sounded particularly dangerous, although he suspected there was more to the defunct military weapons testing program than the lady general was letting on.
"So I just…call this number?" Jed picked up the card.
"It's a video conference line," the lady general said.
Jed took a deep breath. "It couldn't hurt to ask."
The lady general rose up. "I'll set up the connection, and then everyone else will need to clear out of the room."
"This is something out of a spy movie," Leo muttered.
"If something's too good to be true," Jed murmured back.
Once the line was ringing and the video conference was set, all of the uniforms shuffled out of the room, including the young man who'd given them the information in the first place.
Only Leo, Jed, and the two general remained.
Despite having seen far too may action and spy films, Leo wasn't sure what to expect of a mercenary team so secret not even the president knew about it (and Jed was probably stewing about that fact as the line rang). Leo certainly didn't expect to see four male models in cammo gear sitting on ammo boxes playing a game of cards while a fifth model adjusted the camera and tapped the mic.
"Hey, we have an American number coming in," the dark-haired, dark-skinned man said. He spoke with a smooth British accent, upper-crust and well-educated. "English mode, lads."
He settled back so they could see the rest of him. He looked barely older than twenty-three and had Indian features, dark eyes and a white-toothed smile. Like the rest of his compatriots, he had military-short hair. Judging by the expanse of green foliage around them, they were in a jungle, perhaps South American, since it didn't look like any jungles he remembered from Vietnam.
Several languages were being bandied about the card game, none of which were English, but as soon as the man whistled, the cards were abandoned and six young men were crowded into the frame, peering at whatever screen.
"Isn't that --?" the blond one began.
"Aye," said the redheaded one. He had an Irish accent. "The American president."
Another dark-haired one - pale-skinned, with an Eastern European cast to his features - tilted the camera up a smudge. "What we can we do for the esteemed POTUS?"
"Are you aware of the situation in Kundu?" Jed asked.
"Tobias? Gabriel?" the British-Indian one said, glancing over his shoulder.
What happened next was bizarre. The curly-haired boy grabbed the Eastern European boy by the shoulder, and both of their faces went slack, their eyes distant.
"How'd you get this number?" the Irish one asked.
"One Major Harper suggested you might be able to assist us," the Lady General said, and when the Irish one saw her, he smiled.
"Well, hello again, General Mullally. And you, General Ostroff."
Ostroff nodded his greeting tersely.
Tobias and Gabriel came back to the present with twin gasps of breath, their eyes bright with horror. They exchanged a wordless look with their leader, and his expression turned grim.
"Kundu," the British-Indian one said. "Horrible situation. You're hesitant to send troops in, I assume?"
"The international relations ramifications are more than a little troubling," Jed said.
The British-Indian chuckled. "Spoken like a true politician. So you want us to go in there and fix things, then?"
"How can you fix them?" Leo asked.
The young man shrugged. "How would you prefer - mercenary strike? Dissension in the ranks? Populace revolt? Natural causes toppling the leader and an imbecile replacing him?"
Jed blinked. "You can just - go in there and take care of the problem however you want?"
"We're the best," the British-Indian said.
This was too much like a spy movie.
"What would you want for payment?" Jed asked. "Because no one does anything for nothing."
"That's not true, and also terribly cynical," the British-Indian said. "But you're right - our jobs come with a price." He glanced over his shoulder at the others. "Who's up next for a little clean-up? DJ? Keith?"
The blond and the Irish one shook their heads.
"What about Christian? Wait - where is Christian?"
A crashing through the undergrowth startled everyone. Leo flinched, momentarily thrown back to a jungle in Vietnam.
All five young men reacted instantly, armed with guns and knives and spread out in a defensive position so fast it was almost inhuman. Leo blamed it on the delay in the connection.
"Easy," another young man said. "If I were trying to ambush you, would I have made so much noise? I got that fish Tobias asked for, and some local herbs and spices. I think we deserve a nice meal after a job well done."
"Put the fish over there," the Eastern European once said, and Leo guessed he was Tobias, but he was confused because the young man's voice was familiar. Leo could only see his cammo pants and boots.
The young man tied the fish to a low-hanging bough, leaving them swinging and lifeless in the breeze, like Billie Holladay's strange fruit. Then he hunkered down with the others.
"We have a new client, then?"
"We're negotiating terms," the British-Indian one said. "Gabriel got scrubbed clean on both lives, so who's next? DJ and Keith say they're both clear, so I think that just leaves you."
The young man shuffled into position with the others, and when he finally looked into the camera, Leo's throat closed.
"Corporal Little?"
The young man - strawberry-blond, freckled, pixie-faced and compact - had served with Leo in Vietnam. Or the young man was a spitting image of the boy who'd dragged him, wounded and dying, away from the wreckage of his fallen helicopter. But the way the young man's eyes widened in recognition at the name was uncanny. Perhaps he was a relative?
The British-Indian sighed. "Christian. You know someone on the other end of this call?"
"Leo?" Jed asked.
Christian scrubbed a hand over his face. "I - yeah. Remember, I did a tour in Vietnam while you were busy sleeping your way through French diplomats?"
"I reckon this means Christian's the one who needs scrubbing next," Keith drawled, amused.
The British-Indian man grinned at the camera. He looked completely unruffled. "All right. In exchange for cleaning up the mess in Kundu, you need to locate the service records of one Corporal Christian Little - he served in Vietnam - and destroy them. Remove any traces of him from the system, carve his name off the monument if you have to."
Leo gaped. "Little? How? You haven't aged a day!"
"It's why we're the best at what we do," the British-Indian man said. "So, do you agree to our terms?"
"We can do that," Ostroff said. He glanced at Jed. "Mr. President?"
"Let me get this straight." Jed leaned forward. "You --" He pointed at the Christian -- "served in Vietnam with Leo? I'm supposed to believe that? You look like one of the punks from those boybands Zoey used to listen to."
"No one ever suspects a boyband boy of being a soldier," Christian said, shrugging one shoulder.
"Do you accept our terms?" the British-Indian man asked again.
Jed looked ready to ask more questions, interrogate Christian - and it really was Christian, all blue eyes and soft southern drawl - but then he reined himself in. "Yes."
"Then what are yours?"
"Peasant revolt," Jed said. "Let the people save themselves."
The British-Indian man glanced over his shoulder at Tobias. "You have something Kundunese to work with?"
"I can modify Gabriel a little," Tobias said. He reached out and grasped Gabriel's shoulder, and his face went slack, distant again. Leo and the others could only stare in wonder, confusion, awe, horror as Gabriel's skin darkened, his face twisted and morphed, and then Gabriel was gone and a native Kundunese man sat in his place, wearing Gabriel's clothes and Gabriel's amused expression.
Tobias lowered his hand. "Look authentic enough?"
"For now," the British-Indian man said. "We'll borrow a couple of actual natives once we land." He peered into the camera. "Give us seventy-two hours, and you'll have your peasant revolt. I'll send someone by to check the Vietnam Memorial."
And the connection cut out.
"That was bizarre. And insane. Does anyone else feel like they've gone insane?" Jed asked.
Mullally scrubbed a hand over her face. "Every time I talk to those boys. Every time."
"Who are they?" Jed asked.
"People we're systematically wiping out of our records," Ostroff said. "But wait, and watch. They always hold up their end of the bargain."
Leo stared at the blank screen where his former comrade's face had been moments before.
Sure enough, on the news that night, reporters were talking excitedly over footage of a citizen revolt against the military coup, strategically-planted homemade bombs followed by a wave of civilians armed with guns and machetes, and by the next morning, the coup was over.
Ostroff ordered someone down to the Vietnam memorial.
Seventy-two hours after that unbelievable phone call, Leo stood in front of the black granite wall, searching for Christian Little's name. There was a smooth blank spot where it should have been.
"I figured you'd be here," Christian said.
Leo spun around.
In person, Christian was just as Leo remembered, short and slender but leanly-muscled, only this time he was wearing jeans and a jacket instead of an army uniform, and he looked like an ordinary tourist instead of a seasoned soldier or a world-changing mercenary.
"How is this even possible?" Leo asked.
"The same way a peasant revolt against a military coup in Kundu was possible." Christian jammed his hands into his pockets, the gesture boyish, nervous. "I told you my rescuing you wasn't a big deal. You risked your life for this country. Me - I risked bullet wounds and pain. But not my life. Never my life."
"You still saved me."
"Looks like I made the right decision," Christian said. "Now, forget about me, all right? It's the only way I can get my work done."
"What is it you do?"
"Same as I did when you first met me. I'm a soldier. I fight."
"Why?"
"Because it's who I am." Christian smiled. "Good luck, Leo. Take care." Then he turned and walked away.
"So our only option is to, what, just let them keep on slaughtering their own people?" Jed demanded.
"The resources it would take --" one general began.
Another shook her head. "The international relations we would be straining --"
"What makes their people less worth our military protection than our people?" Jed asked.
One young man at the other end of the table, so low-ranking he wasn't even seated, cleared his throat. All gazes fixed on him. He was a good soldier and didn't even flinch.
"If you really want to do this without spending our military forces or causing an international incident, there may be another option."
Jed raised his eyebrows, cast a glance at Leo, but Leo could only offer a minute shake off his head; he had no clue what the young major was referring to.
The young man reached into his pocket and drew out a business card, slid it down across the table. Jed caught it and turned it over, and Leo leaned in to peer at it. There was no name, just a phone number. An international number.
"What is this?" Jed asked.
"They're freelancers," the young man said.
Jed's jaw tightened. "You mean mercenaries. What will this cost me?"
"You'll have to ask them," the young man said.
Jed scanned the other faces at the table. "Why do none of the rest of you know about this?"
The two generals exchanged pained expressions.
"It's a last resort for us. They rescued Harper, so he knows them. But --" The woman shook her head. "It's very last resort."
"What did they want from you?" Jed asked.
"To shut down an old military weapons testing program from the sixties that was basically defunct anyway." She pressed her lips into a thin line.
Jed turned to the man. "And you?"
"Access to some old Civil War service records."
Leo watched the gears turning in Jed's mind. Neither of those requests sounded particularly dangerous, although he suspected there was more to the defunct military weapons testing program than the lady general was letting on.
"So I just…call this number?" Jed picked up the card.
"It's a video conference line," the lady general said.
Jed took a deep breath. "It couldn't hurt to ask."
The lady general rose up. "I'll set up the connection, and then everyone else will need to clear out of the room."
"This is something out of a spy movie," Leo muttered.
"If something's too good to be true," Jed murmured back.
Once the line was ringing and the video conference was set, all of the uniforms shuffled out of the room, including the young man who'd given them the information in the first place.
Only Leo, Jed, and the two general remained.
Despite having seen far too may action and spy films, Leo wasn't sure what to expect of a mercenary team so secret not even the president knew about it (and Jed was probably stewing about that fact as the line rang). Leo certainly didn't expect to see four male models in cammo gear sitting on ammo boxes playing a game of cards while a fifth model adjusted the camera and tapped the mic.
"Hey, we have an American number coming in," the dark-haired, dark-skinned man said. He spoke with a smooth British accent, upper-crust and well-educated. "English mode, lads."
He settled back so they could see the rest of him. He looked barely older than twenty-three and had Indian features, dark eyes and a white-toothed smile. Like the rest of his compatriots, he had military-short hair. Judging by the expanse of green foliage around them, they were in a jungle, perhaps South American, since it didn't look like any jungles he remembered from Vietnam.
Several languages were being bandied about the card game, none of which were English, but as soon as the man whistled, the cards were abandoned and six young men were crowded into the frame, peering at whatever screen.
"Isn't that --?" the blond one began.
"Aye," said the redheaded one. He had an Irish accent. "The American president."
Another dark-haired one - pale-skinned, with an Eastern European cast to his features - tilted the camera up a smudge. "What we can we do for the esteemed POTUS?"
"Are you aware of the situation in Kundu?" Jed asked.
"Tobias? Gabriel?" the British-Indian one said, glancing over his shoulder.
What happened next was bizarre. The curly-haired boy grabbed the Eastern European boy by the shoulder, and both of their faces went slack, their eyes distant.
"How'd you get this number?" the Irish one asked.
"One Major Harper suggested you might be able to assist us," the Lady General said, and when the Irish one saw her, he smiled.
"Well, hello again, General Mullally. And you, General Ostroff."
Ostroff nodded his greeting tersely.
Tobias and Gabriel came back to the present with twin gasps of breath, their eyes bright with horror. They exchanged a wordless look with their leader, and his expression turned grim.
"Kundu," the British-Indian one said. "Horrible situation. You're hesitant to send troops in, I assume?"
"The international relations ramifications are more than a little troubling," Jed said.
The British-Indian chuckled. "Spoken like a true politician. So you want us to go in there and fix things, then?"
"How can you fix them?" Leo asked.
The young man shrugged. "How would you prefer - mercenary strike? Dissension in the ranks? Populace revolt? Natural causes toppling the leader and an imbecile replacing him?"
Jed blinked. "You can just - go in there and take care of the problem however you want?"
"We're the best," the British-Indian said.
This was too much like a spy movie.
"What would you want for payment?" Jed asked. "Because no one does anything for nothing."
"That's not true, and also terribly cynical," the British-Indian said. "But you're right - our jobs come with a price." He glanced over his shoulder at the others. "Who's up next for a little clean-up? DJ? Keith?"
The blond and the Irish one shook their heads.
"What about Christian? Wait - where is Christian?"
A crashing through the undergrowth startled everyone. Leo flinched, momentarily thrown back to a jungle in Vietnam.
All five young men reacted instantly, armed with guns and knives and spread out in a defensive position so fast it was almost inhuman. Leo blamed it on the delay in the connection.
"Easy," another young man said. "If I were trying to ambush you, would I have made so much noise? I got that fish Tobias asked for, and some local herbs and spices. I think we deserve a nice meal after a job well done."
"Put the fish over there," the Eastern European once said, and Leo guessed he was Tobias, but he was confused because the young man's voice was familiar. Leo could only see his cammo pants and boots.
The young man tied the fish to a low-hanging bough, leaving them swinging and lifeless in the breeze, like Billie Holladay's strange fruit. Then he hunkered down with the others.
"We have a new client, then?"
"We're negotiating terms," the British-Indian one said. "Gabriel got scrubbed clean on both lives, so who's next? DJ and Keith say they're both clear, so I think that just leaves you."
The young man shuffled into position with the others, and when he finally looked into the camera, Leo's throat closed.
"Corporal Little?"
The young man - strawberry-blond, freckled, pixie-faced and compact - had served with Leo in Vietnam. Or the young man was a spitting image of the boy who'd dragged him, wounded and dying, away from the wreckage of his fallen helicopter. But the way the young man's eyes widened in recognition at the name was uncanny. Perhaps he was a relative?
The British-Indian sighed. "Christian. You know someone on the other end of this call?"
"Leo?" Jed asked.
Christian scrubbed a hand over his face. "I - yeah. Remember, I did a tour in Vietnam while you were busy sleeping your way through French diplomats?"
"I reckon this means Christian's the one who needs scrubbing next," Keith drawled, amused.
The British-Indian man grinned at the camera. He looked completely unruffled. "All right. In exchange for cleaning up the mess in Kundu, you need to locate the service records of one Corporal Christian Little - he served in Vietnam - and destroy them. Remove any traces of him from the system, carve his name off the monument if you have to."
Leo gaped. "Little? How? You haven't aged a day!"
"It's why we're the best at what we do," the British-Indian man said. "So, do you agree to our terms?"
"We can do that," Ostroff said. He glanced at Jed. "Mr. President?"
"Let me get this straight." Jed leaned forward. "You --" He pointed at the Christian -- "served in Vietnam with Leo? I'm supposed to believe that? You look like one of the punks from those boybands Zoey used to listen to."
"No one ever suspects a boyband boy of being a soldier," Christian said, shrugging one shoulder.
"Do you accept our terms?" the British-Indian man asked again.
Jed looked ready to ask more questions, interrogate Christian - and it really was Christian, all blue eyes and soft southern drawl - but then he reined himself in. "Yes."
"Then what are yours?"
"Peasant revolt," Jed said. "Let the people save themselves."
The British-Indian man glanced over his shoulder at Tobias. "You have something Kundunese to work with?"
"I can modify Gabriel a little," Tobias said. He reached out and grasped Gabriel's shoulder, and his face went slack, distant again. Leo and the others could only stare in wonder, confusion, awe, horror as Gabriel's skin darkened, his face twisted and morphed, and then Gabriel was gone and a native Kundunese man sat in his place, wearing Gabriel's clothes and Gabriel's amused expression.
Tobias lowered his hand. "Look authentic enough?"
"For now," the British-Indian man said. "We'll borrow a couple of actual natives once we land." He peered into the camera. "Give us seventy-two hours, and you'll have your peasant revolt. I'll send someone by to check the Vietnam Memorial."
And the connection cut out.
"That was bizarre. And insane. Does anyone else feel like they've gone insane?" Jed asked.
Mullally scrubbed a hand over her face. "Every time I talk to those boys. Every time."
"Who are they?" Jed asked.
"People we're systematically wiping out of our records," Ostroff said. "But wait, and watch. They always hold up their end of the bargain."
Leo stared at the blank screen where his former comrade's face had been moments before.
Sure enough, on the news that night, reporters were talking excitedly over footage of a citizen revolt against the military coup, strategically-planted homemade bombs followed by a wave of civilians armed with guns and machetes, and by the next morning, the coup was over.
Ostroff ordered someone down to the Vietnam memorial.
Seventy-two hours after that unbelievable phone call, Leo stood in front of the black granite wall, searching for Christian Little's name. There was a smooth blank spot where it should have been.
"I figured you'd be here," Christian said.
Leo spun around.
In person, Christian was just as Leo remembered, short and slender but leanly-muscled, only this time he was wearing jeans and a jacket instead of an army uniform, and he looked like an ordinary tourist instead of a seasoned soldier or a world-changing mercenary.
"How is this even possible?" Leo asked.
"The same way a peasant revolt against a military coup in Kundu was possible." Christian jammed his hands into his pockets, the gesture boyish, nervous. "I told you my rescuing you wasn't a big deal. You risked your life for this country. Me - I risked bullet wounds and pain. But not my life. Never my life."
"You still saved me."
"Looks like I made the right decision," Christian said. "Now, forget about me, all right? It's the only way I can get my work done."
"What is it you do?"
"Same as I did when you first met me. I'm a soldier. I fight."
"Why?"
"Because it's who I am." Christian smiled. "Good luck, Leo. Take care." Then he turned and walked away.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Just Say It
DJ was halfway out the window and up onto the roof to stare out at the lights in Victoria harbor when he saw it, the faintest glint of it, taped to the edge of the windowsill. It was a slender paper packet, white enough to blend in with the paint. When he peeled it away from the wall and turned it over, he saw it was guitar strings. Brand new guitar strings, to replace the ones he'd broken learning to play that dreadful song with the jumping chord hammers and with the chorus it was almost impossible to hear, "Go now, you are forgiven." But he ducked back inside and grabbed his guitar, levered it carefully up onto the roof, and he sat with it across his knees as he restrung it, the harbor lights dancing across the steel like a thousand wandering stars.
When Celia finally climbed the final heights of the roof - how she made it through the leafy boughs below without making a sound, he'd never know - DJ had the thing tuned and was picking out a low melody. He glanced up, saw her crouched in the shadows, and immediately he shifted into the chords of a familiar song, a little Elliot Smith.
Cellia sank down next to him and sang the chorus of Miss Misery, and he heard what she couldn't say in proper words, felt it when she ducked in for a kiss.
Thank you.
For not giving up.
When she pulled back and curled into his side, he reciprocated the only way he knew how, with skittering notes and jumping chord hammers, and he tried to accept what she'd been trying to tell him for so long.
"Go now, you are forgiven."
When Celia finally climbed the final heights of the roof - how she made it through the leafy boughs below without making a sound, he'd never know - DJ had the thing tuned and was picking out a low melody. He glanced up, saw her crouched in the shadows, and immediately he shifted into the chords of a familiar song, a little Elliot Smith.
Cellia sank down next to him and sang the chorus of Miss Misery, and he heard what she couldn't say in proper words, felt it when she ducked in for a kiss.
Thank you.
For not giving up.
When she pulled back and curled into his side, he reciprocated the only way he knew how, with skittering notes and jumping chord hammers, and he tried to accept what she'd been trying to tell him for so long.
"Go now, you are forgiven."
Sunday, November 11, 2012
What He was Grateful For...
Patient note:
Joseph has been attending mandatory counseling session for three months now. As it is November and close to Thanksgiving I will try to get him to open up to things he is grateful for.
I closed my file and looked up at Joe as he came in the door. Slunk in was more like it, shoulders hunched forward and a slightly sour expression on his face. I had tried calling him Joseph, but he adamantly refused to answer to it.
I watched with a carefully smooth expression as he took a seat across from me and folded his arms across his chest in a defensive way. I could tell today's session would not be an easy one. We continued to sit in silence a few moments as I watched him, and he watched me, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.
"So Joe," I began, and I saw him tense automatically, "you have been coming to me for three months now." I could see him stifle a sigh and roll his eyes. I knew he would rather be anywhere than in therapy. All of them would rather be anywhere but here. "Tell me, do you think this is helping?"
Joe sat in stubborn silence, staring a hole into the carpet. I uncrossed and crossed my legs as I let him think.
"It will be Thanksgiving in a few days," I began again, "do you have any plans? Are you and the team going to get together?" I knew it would needle him, maybe enough to get him talking.
Joe's head jerked up at the mention of Thanksgiving and he looked at me, his clear eyes seemed to pin me to my chair.
"What on earth do I have to be grateful for?" he asked incredulously, "What do any of us have to be grateful for? All of us except Steve have lost their family. We were recruited to this work without truly knowing what we were getting into. We get sent from hell hole to hell hole putting out fires around the world. For what? We put our lives on the line day in and day out for people who don't even know we exist. And David is dead. Tell me, councilor" his voice dripping with sarcasm "just what do you think I should be grateful for?"
I looked at him for a long moment as he sat gripping the arms of the chair. "Can you think of nothing at all?" I asked quietly.
Joe seemed to look inwards for a while. Finally, though he seemed not to be aware that he was speaking, he said, "I'm grateful for Steve, Mark and Bryan. They are my family now."
I held back a sigh of relief at the words. "Anything else?" I quietly prodded.
"I'm grateful for my cat Kent. David let me keep him," Joe mumbled, his eyes moist, "I'm grateful for Jen, for all that she did for me after my brother died. I'm grateful for fast cars that help dull the pain. I'm grateful for..."
I sat quietly as Joe slowly began listing things he was grateful for.
Project Assignment: Gratitude
Why yes, it is November, and everyone is extra grateful this time of year, and our characters should be too. If you already have characters, how do they show gratitude? What do they do for Thanksgiving (if they even celebrate it)? How do they say thank you? If you don't have characters, go ahead and make something up to throw into the mix. 500 words. One week. I realize Nanowrimo has claimed primacy on this month, and I've been a super slacker to boot, but go with it. :)
Thursday, October 25, 2012
I feel awful about never participating. Everything I feel like writing, though,
is ruminations on teaching, and not very relatable. Teaching is just my whole
life right now.
Here's a response to poetry, something new: not mine, but my new favorites. Nagi...what do they say about lawyers?
What Teachers Make
by Taylor Mali
He says the problem with teachers is
What’s a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life
was to become a teacher?
He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true
what they say about teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.
I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.
Be honest. What do you make?
And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—
because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-‐kicking:
if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor
and an A-‐ feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time
with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?
Because you’re bored.
And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.
To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,
“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?
It’s no big deal.”
And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.
You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math
and hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you’ve got this,
then you follow this,
and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this.
Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?
Here's a response to poetry, something new: not mine, but my new favorites. Nagi...what do they say about lawyers?
What Teachers Make
by Taylor Mali
He says the problem with teachers is
What’s a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life
was to become a teacher?
He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true
what they say about teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.
I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.
Be honest. What do you make?
And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—
because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-‐kicking:
if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor
and an A-‐ feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time
with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?
Because you’re bored.
And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.
To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,
“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?
It’s no big deal.”
And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.
You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math
and hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you’ve got this,
then you follow this,
and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this.
Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?
To be of use
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
--Marge Piercy
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Hello, Goodbye
Look who hasn't been here in forever and is a dirty slacker? That would be me. Naturally, alone in a hotel room in a city that faintly terrifies me, I feel inspired to write poetry.
Obviously I need a new muse.
On to the poetry...
Hello
Is an echo down a long,
Half-empty
Hallway
After green eyes
And musician's hands
As he walks on,
Oblivious to
Important things, like
Existence and
My smile.
Goodbye
Is a sigh
In the wake of
The click
A door makes
When it closes
For
The last time
Behind
Green eyes
And musician's hands
That play
The only song
I will ever hear.
Obviously I need a new muse.
On to the poetry...
Hello
Is an echo down a long,
Half-empty
Hallway
After green eyes
And musician's hands
As he walks on,
Oblivious to
Important things, like
Existence and
My smile.
Goodbye
Is a sigh
In the wake of
The click
A door makes
When it closes
For
The last time
Behind
Green eyes
And musician's hands
That play
The only song
I will ever hear.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Project Assignment #3 - poetry
Let have a good old standby.
Hit us with something new, or in lieu of that, if you are super busy, then post your favorite that another author has written. :)
Hit us with something new, or in lieu of that, if you are super busy, then post your favorite that another author has written. :)
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Wings
A mouthful of feathers first thing in the morning was awkward.
A half-naked angel perched on the bedpost was even more awkward.
The problem with giving up one’s own wings was the rest of the crew still possessing wings thought they could drop in on mortality with impunity.
They had no respect for personal space, sleep, food, or wearing clothing.
But they were welcome comfort when his mortal family passed, and it turned out not having wings didn’t mean he could die after all.
A handful of feathers as nightfall descended was a little bit of heaven on earth.
(100 words)
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Flight - 100 words
I was flying.
I had always wanted to, ever since I was a little girl and all through my teenage years. I had still wanted to fly in my mid-twenties when I met and married Josh.
I had nurtured his children, kept the house clean and even scratched out a bit of a social life. With carefully approved friends I might add. I went to the parties and played the host, and through it all, I still wanted to fly.
I was determined to fly when I stepped onto the bridges ledge.
To bad the flight was all to short.
New challenge
Okay kids, sorry I didn't participate in the last challenge, but I just don't have the time to hunt up old stuff at the moment...so here's a new challenge instead (which I will be doing with my Creative Writing class tomorrow, and I shall post results).
Challenge: the ubiquitous 100-word story. That's right, a complete story in 100 words exactly. Like this one:
Love it. Makes me think of Amber for some reason.
Ready? Go.
Challenge: the ubiquitous 100-word story. That's right, a complete story in 100 words exactly. Like this one:
The Wedding
Short, short story by Becky Ruth Powell
She looked at the name on the wedding cake. She couldn’t remember whether she was Lisa, or Beth, or Mary. She was Lenora this time. She looked at her new in-laws, who adored her. Mother, aunt, sister, like three scoops of sherbet in pastel dresses, strands of pearls buried in folds of neck-fat.
Lenora considered whether she’d rushed things by spiking his cup of wedding punch, but when his head plopped onto her shoulder she dismissed doubt.
Amid the chaos of death, she inherited his sizeable estate. Her in-laws fussed so over her well-being, she grew fond of being Lenora.
Love it. Makes me think of Amber for some reason.
Ready? Go.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Project Assignment #2: Modernize a classic
In 500 words or less, modernize a classic, a la "The Lizzie Bennett Diaries" on YouTube or something a little less dramatic, like Eric the geeky emo kid who always hides behind his hair offers to help cheerleader Christine become a better singer.
No need to build a whole world - just one scene. Be as creative as you like! If you can, make your readers guess.
Good luck this week, writers, and revisit your favorite classics.
Project #1 Overview: Reboot
So...I'm still getting back into the swing of things. And I forgot to post, well, anything yesterday. But here's my overview for our first project assignment of the reboot. The hardest part for me was picking a piece to rewrite, because there were so many to choose from. I figured the important consideration was to rewrite a piece that meant something important to a project I already had going, and I figured a little Dagaz wouldn't hurt, since I fully intend to finish that story (one day).
Most of my revisions were minor, but they were to cut down on some of my bad habits, like too-long sentences. I also battened down the point of view so it was a little tighter, and that helped. Some aspects of the plot itself needed to change, like Asia's reaction to discovering young James had never been kissed.
Here's to the reboot!
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Pay (revised)
Original post is here.
He was fifteen and tall for his age, still narrow in the shoulders, and completely and utterly grass-stained. Asia suspected, after the last time she’d seen him, any hope he wouldn't like Arcturus was futile. He even moved the same, which was uncanny. How could she still find things uncanny when she lived with a quislai, a genie, a fire elemental, and a dragon?
The boy was fast, skilled from practice. Asia 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 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 for the inaugural council meeting 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 sauntered 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. “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 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 --" He lifted his head, green eyes blazing. "This is madness. Can we have the ball back, please?”
The rest of the players were getting restless. Asia 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.
One lad was brave. “Go on, James, kiss her!”
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 did. She was going to share his first kiss?
He was fifteen and tall for his age, still narrow in the shoulders, and completely and utterly grass-stained. Asia suspected, after the last time she’d seen him, any hope he wouldn't like Arcturus was futile. He even moved the same, which was uncanny. How could she still find things uncanny when she lived with a quislai, a genie, a fire elemental, and a dragon?
The boy was fast, skilled from practice. Asia 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 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 for the inaugural council meeting 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 sauntered 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. “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 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 --" He lifted his head, green eyes blazing. "This is madness. Can we have the ball back, please?”
The rest of the players were getting restless. Asia 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.
One lad was brave. “Go on, James, kiss her!”
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 did. She was going to share his first kiss?
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Can I keep it 2
Can I Keep It?
(Original)
"He followed me home Sir," Joe said in response to his commanders questioning look. David had stopped Joe as he tried to walk quietly through the dining room and to his own room. He was holding a small ball of fluff and petting it gently with one finger.
Joe had tried to sneak it past his commander and into his room, hoping to keep the little creature a secret for a while. He held the kitten close to his chest, cupping it in both hands as if to protect it.
"Can I keep it Sir?" Joe asked in a small voice, his eyes large and pleading.
David stopped and carefully considered his answer before he gave it. He knew how hard their job was, how much it was important to having something to care about, something that cared about you. Cared unconditionally.
"Alright Joe," David said, "You can keep it."
Joe had tried to sneak it past his commander and into his room, hoping to keep the little creature a secret for a while. He held the kitten close to his chest, cupping it in both hands as if to protect it.
"Can I keep it Sir?" Joe asked in a small voice, his eyes large and pleading.
David stopped and carefully considered his answer before he gave it. He knew how hard their job was, how much it was important to having something to care about, something that cared about you. Cared unconditionally.
"Alright Joe," David said, "You can keep it."
#################################
Objective: Don't get caught.
I eased open the front door of our safe house with one hand and with the other carefully cradled my cargo. I knew the door would be noiseless but I wanted to make absolutely sure that no one knew I was there. The others were home, I could tell by the smell of Steve's cooking and the sound of Bryan and Mark watching the news in the front room.
I paused just after nudging the door closed behind me to listen. I couldn't quite tell if anyone was in the dining room, but I thought not. I paced closer towards the entrance to the dining room and the hall just beyond it. My room was the second on the left, the first belonged to Mark and Bryan, and the third was David and Joe. I shared my room with Steven, but I didn't think he would rat me out to David, even if he did find out.
I was just letting out the breath that I had been holding, thinking that I was home free when I heard someone clearing a throat behind me. I winced internally and turned to face the music.
David was sitting at the dining room table with schematics spread around him, working on the next mission. I looked at my commander and held the little kitten close to my body. I saw David raise an eyebrow at me in a silent request for an explanation for the little bit of fluff in my hands.
"He followed me home Sir," I muttered, dropping my gaze to the little creature as it sat purring in content. I petted it with one finger and the vibrations increased in volume and intensity as its little eyes closed. I looked up at my commander and I couldn't help the next words that came out of my mouth, "can I keep it Sir?
I held my breath as I watched him weighing his options and decision. I could almost see his choice in his eyes before he spoke, and I had to stop myself from hugging him.
"Alright Joe," David said to me with a small nod, "you can keep it."
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Challenge #1 - Begin Again
So to jump in and get our feet wet, how about we take an old piece we have done and rework it. Less pressure to produce something new, and at the same time we can get used to editing and rewriting. (This is for me) Post the previous piece along with the reworked piece in once post.
Ready... Set... GO!!!
Happy Writing!
Ready... Set... GO!!!
Happy Writing!
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Regret?
When I am an old woman and I can hardly see
And my limbs are as gnarled as an old oak tree
And naught but my thoughts are left to me
Should I regret the time I spent with thee?
When the tapestry of life has been spun
And sands of time have been outrun
And we feel as if we have just begun
Should I sorrow when our time is done?
When the end has come to us at last
And all of our life is in the past
And all that's left to us is fading fast
Could all that we had be surpassed?
And my limbs are as gnarled as an old oak tree
And naught but my thoughts are left to me
Should I regret the time I spent with thee?
When the tapestry of life has been spun
And sands of time have been outrun
And we feel as if we have just begun
Should I sorrow when our time is done?
When the end has come to us at last
And all of our life is in the past
And all that's left to us is fading fast
Could all that we had be surpassed?
Monday, June 11, 2012
Five Things - SPN and GG
There are five things Dean Forester will never tell Rory Gilmore.
1. He's already read every book she's ever lent him. He read Anna Karenina on a long car ride, and again by candlelight while huddled in an empty church while winter winds howled down the walls. He didn't compare them to banshees, though, because real banshees didn't sound like that. He appreciated Tolstoy's style, if not his plots, but of the Russian writers he liked Pushkin better. Maybe it was in his nature to enjoy a story about a good game of cards.
2. When he said he'd kill Tristen for giving her crap at the dance, he hadn't meant it, not really. He knew how to sound like he meant it, because sounding like meaning was often scarier than actually meaning it. But Tristen was just a boy, a poor, annoying fool with a crush on a girl who already had a foolish crush of her own, and Tristen hadn't done anything to deserve death. Besides, dealing death with bare hands was a rare occurrence, one to always be avoided.
3. In Chicago they did call it pop, so he learned to call it pop, and back West they called it pop too, but down South it was Coke, no matter what it actually was, it was Coke. You walked into a dingy diner, the gum-snapping, slow-drawling waitress came to take your order, and when you asked for a Coke, she asked what kind, and cherry and vanilla weren't the type she meant.
4. He's smarter than any of the residents of Stars Hollow know or could possibly guess. Other students are athletes, musicians, cheerleaders, shining on the school auditorium stage or rousing school spirit on the football field. He gets straight A's, quietly and persistently, and he's going to an ivy league school as soon as he's done with the high school in this little town - or any little town. Rory wants to be a journalist, and that's fantastic. He wants to be a lawyer, to shine some measure and justice in ordinary people's lives. And he's going to go to Stanford to make it happen. Palo Alto is nice no matter the time of year.
5. His name isn't really Dean Forester. Dean is his brother's name, and Dean is a mechanic, but Dean is leaner, sharper, blonder, and would use a copy of Anna Karenina to start a blaze for a corpse before he'd read it.
But when he kisses Rory and tells her he loves her, that's all truth, and it hurts like hell when it has to end.
1. He's already read every book she's ever lent him. He read Anna Karenina on a long car ride, and again by candlelight while huddled in an empty church while winter winds howled down the walls. He didn't compare them to banshees, though, because real banshees didn't sound like that. He appreciated Tolstoy's style, if not his plots, but of the Russian writers he liked Pushkin better. Maybe it was in his nature to enjoy a story about a good game of cards.
2. When he said he'd kill Tristen for giving her crap at the dance, he hadn't meant it, not really. He knew how to sound like he meant it, because sounding like meaning was often scarier than actually meaning it. But Tristen was just a boy, a poor, annoying fool with a crush on a girl who already had a foolish crush of her own, and Tristen hadn't done anything to deserve death. Besides, dealing death with bare hands was a rare occurrence, one to always be avoided.
3. In Chicago they did call it pop, so he learned to call it pop, and back West they called it pop too, but down South it was Coke, no matter what it actually was, it was Coke. You walked into a dingy diner, the gum-snapping, slow-drawling waitress came to take your order, and when you asked for a Coke, she asked what kind, and cherry and vanilla weren't the type she meant.
4. He's smarter than any of the residents of Stars Hollow know or could possibly guess. Other students are athletes, musicians, cheerleaders, shining on the school auditorium stage or rousing school spirit on the football field. He gets straight A's, quietly and persistently, and he's going to an ivy league school as soon as he's done with the high school in this little town - or any little town. Rory wants to be a journalist, and that's fantastic. He wants to be a lawyer, to shine some measure and justice in ordinary people's lives. And he's going to go to Stanford to make it happen. Palo Alto is nice no matter the time of year.
5. His name isn't really Dean Forester. Dean is his brother's name, and Dean is a mechanic, but Dean is leaner, sharper, blonder, and would use a copy of Anna Karenina to start a blaze for a corpse before he'd read it.
But when he kisses Rory and tells her he loves her, that's all truth, and it hurts like hell when it has to end.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Technique Study: Flashback
Kyle spun on his heel and went to storm out of the room, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted a photograph. A woman holding her daughter smiled and waved at the camera while the little girl tried to hide her face.
Kyle knew that woman.
"Mom," he breathed.
* * *
"Kyle, hurry up!" Julie pawed at her eyes, squinting in the bright noonday sunlight.
Mom laughed, tugged Julie into her arms for a hug.
"Take the picture, honey!"
Kyle, who was hesitant about using Dad's fancy camera - he was a professional photographer - lifted it, pressed the buttons carefully.
"Are you ready?"
"Say cheese, Julie," Mom said.
Julie buried her face against Mom's collarbone and muttered, "Cheese."
Mom waved. Kyle pressed the button for the shutter.
And then behind him, someone screamed. "Fire! Fire! The house is on fire!"
Kyle turned around, and the camera tumbled from his hands, bounced against his chest so hard it knocked the breath out of him.
Flames licked up the roof of his home. Dad was still inside.
Kyle screamed.
* * *
"You all right?" Sam asked.
Kyle paused, blinked. "What? Yeah."
Sam stepped closer. "Is there something in that picture that's important."
"No," Kyle said. "Just - I hadn't looked at it in a while. I didn't know anyone got it developed. It was from the day our house burned down."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "Your house burned down?"
Kyle shrugged, jammed his hands into his pockets. "When I was a kid. My dad was still inside. What does it matter?"
"Was the fire an accident?" Sam asked.
Kyle frowned. "What else could it have been?"
Sam and Dean exchanged looks.
Kyle's chest tightened. "Do you think the fire was set deliberately?"
"Well," Sam began, and Dean said,
"Your father thinks it was."
Kyle knew that woman.
"Mom," he breathed.
"Kyle, hurry up!" Julie pawed at her eyes, squinting in the bright noonday sunlight.
Mom laughed, tugged Julie into her arms for a hug.
"Take the picture, honey!"
Kyle, who was hesitant about using Dad's fancy camera - he was a professional photographer - lifted it, pressed the buttons carefully.
"Are you ready?"
"Say cheese, Julie," Mom said.
Julie buried her face against Mom's collarbone and muttered, "Cheese."
Mom waved. Kyle pressed the button for the shutter.
And then behind him, someone screamed. "Fire! Fire! The house is on fire!"
Kyle turned around, and the camera tumbled from his hands, bounced against his chest so hard it knocked the breath out of him.
Flames licked up the roof of his home. Dad was still inside.
Kyle screamed.
"You all right?" Sam asked.
Kyle paused, blinked. "What? Yeah."
Sam stepped closer. "Is there something in that picture that's important."
"No," Kyle said. "Just - I hadn't looked at it in a while. I didn't know anyone got it developed. It was from the day our house burned down."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "Your house burned down?"
Kyle shrugged, jammed his hands into his pockets. "When I was a kid. My dad was still inside. What does it matter?"
"Was the fire an accident?" Sam asked.
Kyle frowned. "What else could it have been?"
Sam and Dean exchanged looks.
Kyle's chest tightened. "Do you think the fire was set deliberately?"
"Well," Sam began, and Dean said,
"Your father thinks it was."
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