“Don't you see it?” The magician raised his hands and twirled around on his bare feet, dancing amid the tiny specks of light. “It's coming, it's coming! Oh, you have to see it!”
The hero watched with a skeptical eye. “It's nothing spectacular.”
“Ah, not yet! Not yet! Just wait, wait, you'll see it!” The magician laughed his beautiful, musical, weightless and worryless laugh. “I didn't see it at first, either.”
The girl ran to his side and twirled with him, her lacey skirt billowing out like his flowing sleeves. “Is it here yet?”
“Not yet, not yet! It's coming, just wait! You'll see it. I promise you will.” He picked her up in his small, skinny hands and raised her above his head as he twisted around. She laughed. “Just wait!”
The hero sighed and crossed his arms. Another one of the magician's distractions. There was no need for this...
“Ah, but where are you going, my friend?” The magician was suddenly in front of him, smiling that carefree smile that irked him so much. “You don't want to miss it. Trust me.”
He brushed past the magician without a word. The magician stared after him, and shrugged. “If you don't want to see it, I can't make you. Happiness has to be chosen, my friend.”
He snorted and walked on.
Something that he couldn't identify stopped him, just before he descended the steps to leave. He turned, to see the magician, eyes ever-hidden just as always, dancing with the girl in the specks of light. And he stood there, watching them play, and if only for a moment, allowed himself to smile at the pure lightness and color and unadulterated fun that made up the magician, so full of inexhaustible life.
The magician suddenly stopped and sat down, and motioned for the little girl to sit next to him. She obeyed, looking up at him with a question in her eyes.
“It's here. Watch.”
The tiny specks of light suddenly bloomed, expanding into miniature stars. And from each of those came a thousand other stars, smaller, burning with intense, pure color. The smaller stars darted among the bigger ones, swirling around in a dance far more intricate than that of the magician. The little girl gaped in awe, and the magician only smiled. The tiny stars ranged further and further from their parents, each venturing out a little more than the last before darting back to the inner circle, and the process repeated itself.
The magician held out his small hand, palm upward, and seven tiny stars darted over to it. They swirled around his upturned hand, an unpredictable, patternless pattern of pulsing color and light. He moved his hand, and they followed, like ducklings running after their mother. The little girl reached out her hand, and he brought them over to her. And she held out her hand, much like he'd held out his, but smaller, and more hesitant. And one little star came to her, moving from his hand to hers, slowly rotating around as she watched it, all the wonder in the world shining from her face. Then it darted away, fleeing back to it's mother star.
“Don't be afraid,” said the magician with a smile. “It won't hurt you. Just believe it, and it will come to you.” He stood, and stretched out his arms, his face turned to the sky. “This, this is life, this is love and beauty! All these must be chosen, all must be believed!” The stars rushed to him as he spoke, both the tiny ones and their mother stars, swirling around him in a vortex of light and life and joy.
And the girl stood, and laughed with him, and danced with him among the stars.
And the hero watched from a distance, and desperately wished to go closer, but didn't.
Sort of goes along with the story I posted on dA, but not half so depressing. This story happens before that one.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Snow
Snow. This must be snow.
I shudder in the cold. Something had fallen on my hand, and my hand was wet. Must be snow.
I take another brick in my snow-wet hand and put it on the others. They are snow-wet too. Or are they blood-wet? My hands are bleeding again, I can tell. The cold numbs the pain. Only a little, though.
The workmen call to each other. They're going in. It's snowing.
But I don't want to go home yet. They aren't here to make me stay, but I don't want to go home. My hands are bleeding. My father will yell if I get blood on the floor again. He says that I'll stain it, and if something is stained with blood, it is cursed.
This whole mill must be cursed, then. There is enough of my blood for a thousand curses.
I drag the plank with the bricks on it across the wet ground. My blood is soaking into the rope, I can tell. They will yell at me again, but it's not so bad as when father yells. They don't hit so hard.
I trip. They've left a plank stray on the ground again. I curse under my breath. That's something I've learned from them, something that I didn't know before. Before the fire. Before the blindness. Before everything.
I stumble back to my feet, and drag my bricks onward. It's hard to tell where to go. Normally, I take it to the bricklayer. I can hear him working. The slap of mortar hitting the bricks is something I've gotten to know very well. I just drag the bricks to the sound.
But now he's gone, because it's snowing.
I trip again. This time, I put my hands out to catch myself. One falls into something squishy.
A bucket of mortar. I curse again, and pull my hand back out. It makes a squelching, gloppy noise as I free myself. They will be angry because there is blood in the mortar now. I scrape it off on the edge of the bucket. I don't care.
I want to leave. I want to vanish. If I could turn to smoke and fly away, then I would be happy. I would sting at their eyes, make their vision cloudy and black, black like mine, if only for a moment. Maybe then they would understand.
“Vale.” I didn't hear Ivan walking towards me. “Are you ok?”
“Fine.” I pulled myself up again, feeling around in front of me for the brick wall that I knew was here somewhere.
“Sorry I couldn't get here earlier.” He is breathing hard. I can tell he's been running. “The doctor came by today, and I couldn't leave until he'd had tea and crumpets with my mother and told me all about how I must take care of my hands.”
“What did he say?” I try to smile, if only for his sake.
“He says that I'm almost completely healed! He took the bandages off, but he wouldn't let me look at the burns while he put something new on it. It smells better than the other stuff. Here.” He shoves his hands into my face. They smell of aloe and dirt. “He says that I'll be able to keep the bandages off in about a week.”
“That's good.”
“Has he been to see you lately?”
I shake my head. “Father won't pay for it. Besides,” I finally find the brick wall, and put my hand on it to guide me as I feel around with the other hand for the rope that I've dropped, “he said that I couldn't be cured.”
“I know what he said, but don't you think that maybe he could've changed his mind? Maybe he's learned something since then. I'm sure there's something he could do if he just would try...”
I shrug. Where is that accursed rope... “I don't know. But father won't pay for it anyway.”
We stand in silence for a moment. He's looking up at the mill, I think. I can't feel his breath as much when he's looking up.
“The mill's almost done. Maybe when they finish it, you won't have to spend so much time up here...”
“Maybe.” I shrug again.
“I wish you could see it. The bricks are really pretty against the snow.”
I don't reply. I've been far too much involved with those bricks to ever wish to see them.
“Your hands!” He's finally noticed. I keep my palms down so he can't see them. “Vale, what happened?”
I shrug and keep my face to the ground. “Nothing.”
“You're bleeding.”
“I know.”
“Let me see them.” He grabs the hand that I've been fishing for the rope with. “Oh, wow...”
I jerk my hand back. “I'm fine.”
“No,” he grabs my hand again, “you're not.” I hear the soft swishing of his bandages unwinding.
“Ivan, no.”
“Just the stuff around my wrists. You need your hands more than I need mine.”
“Ivan...” I try to pull away, but can't. I hear the sound of threads tearing from each other.
“Here.” The bandages are ragged. He wraps my hand clumsily; I can feel the cloth twisting around itself. The knot is similarly tied. I know it'll come undone in a few minutes. It just feels unstable. He begins to unwrap his other wrist and releases my hand. “Give me your other hand.”
I obey. He exhales, then lets go. He grabs it again in a moment, and begins to scrape off the mortar with a stick. In another moment, the wrapping begins again. He runs out of cloth halfway across my palm. Snow touches down where my skin is left bare.
“Hang on just a second...” I hear him unwrapping cloth again.
“No, Ivan. This is good enough. Thank you.”
“I'll wrap it again as soon as I get home, ok? I have plenty of this stuff. You need it more than me.”
“Ivan, I...”
His sharp gasp cut me off. “Oh...”
“What?” He doesn't respond. I repeat myself. “What's going on? Are you ok?”
“Vale, look. Look at my hand.” I can hear panic in his voice. “Look!”
“I can't! Ivan, what's happened?”
“Look!”
“Ivan, I can't see your hand! I'm blind! What's happening?”
He is silent for a moment longer, then he takes my hand in his, mine unbandaged and his fully wrapped, and guides my fingers to his other hand. As soon as I touch his palm, I know what has happened.
Scars.
We stand here for a minute, as the snow swirls around us, as I trace his scars with my blood. He is shaking. He is almost crying.
I remove my hand, but do not speak.
And slowly, surely, he wraps his hand back up.
I shudder in the cold. Something had fallen on my hand, and my hand was wet. Must be snow.
I take another brick in my snow-wet hand and put it on the others. They are snow-wet too. Or are they blood-wet? My hands are bleeding again, I can tell. The cold numbs the pain. Only a little, though.
The workmen call to each other. They're going in. It's snowing.
But I don't want to go home yet. They aren't here to make me stay, but I don't want to go home. My hands are bleeding. My father will yell if I get blood on the floor again. He says that I'll stain it, and if something is stained with blood, it is cursed.
This whole mill must be cursed, then. There is enough of my blood for a thousand curses.
I drag the plank with the bricks on it across the wet ground. My blood is soaking into the rope, I can tell. They will yell at me again, but it's not so bad as when father yells. They don't hit so hard.
I trip. They've left a plank stray on the ground again. I curse under my breath. That's something I've learned from them, something that I didn't know before. Before the fire. Before the blindness. Before everything.
I stumble back to my feet, and drag my bricks onward. It's hard to tell where to go. Normally, I take it to the bricklayer. I can hear him working. The slap of mortar hitting the bricks is something I've gotten to know very well. I just drag the bricks to the sound.
But now he's gone, because it's snowing.
I trip again. This time, I put my hands out to catch myself. One falls into something squishy.
A bucket of mortar. I curse again, and pull my hand back out. It makes a squelching, gloppy noise as I free myself. They will be angry because there is blood in the mortar now. I scrape it off on the edge of the bucket. I don't care.
I want to leave. I want to vanish. If I could turn to smoke and fly away, then I would be happy. I would sting at their eyes, make their vision cloudy and black, black like mine, if only for a moment. Maybe then they would understand.
“Vale.” I didn't hear Ivan walking towards me. “Are you ok?”
“Fine.” I pulled myself up again, feeling around in front of me for the brick wall that I knew was here somewhere.
“Sorry I couldn't get here earlier.” He is breathing hard. I can tell he's been running. “The doctor came by today, and I couldn't leave until he'd had tea and crumpets with my mother and told me all about how I must take care of my hands.”
“What did he say?” I try to smile, if only for his sake.
“He says that I'm almost completely healed! He took the bandages off, but he wouldn't let me look at the burns while he put something new on it. It smells better than the other stuff. Here.” He shoves his hands into my face. They smell of aloe and dirt. “He says that I'll be able to keep the bandages off in about a week.”
“That's good.”
“Has he been to see you lately?”
I shake my head. “Father won't pay for it. Besides,” I finally find the brick wall, and put my hand on it to guide me as I feel around with the other hand for the rope that I've dropped, “he said that I couldn't be cured.”
“I know what he said, but don't you think that maybe he could've changed his mind? Maybe he's learned something since then. I'm sure there's something he could do if he just would try...”
I shrug. Where is that accursed rope... “I don't know. But father won't pay for it anyway.”
We stand in silence for a moment. He's looking up at the mill, I think. I can't feel his breath as much when he's looking up.
“The mill's almost done. Maybe when they finish it, you won't have to spend so much time up here...”
“Maybe.” I shrug again.
“I wish you could see it. The bricks are really pretty against the snow.”
I don't reply. I've been far too much involved with those bricks to ever wish to see them.
“Your hands!” He's finally noticed. I keep my palms down so he can't see them. “Vale, what happened?”
I shrug and keep my face to the ground. “Nothing.”
“You're bleeding.”
“I know.”
“Let me see them.” He grabs the hand that I've been fishing for the rope with. “Oh, wow...”
I jerk my hand back. “I'm fine.”
“No,” he grabs my hand again, “you're not.” I hear the soft swishing of his bandages unwinding.
“Ivan, no.”
“Just the stuff around my wrists. You need your hands more than I need mine.”
“Ivan...” I try to pull away, but can't. I hear the sound of threads tearing from each other.
“Here.” The bandages are ragged. He wraps my hand clumsily; I can feel the cloth twisting around itself. The knot is similarly tied. I know it'll come undone in a few minutes. It just feels unstable. He begins to unwrap his other wrist and releases my hand. “Give me your other hand.”
I obey. He exhales, then lets go. He grabs it again in a moment, and begins to scrape off the mortar with a stick. In another moment, the wrapping begins again. He runs out of cloth halfway across my palm. Snow touches down where my skin is left bare.
“Hang on just a second...” I hear him unwrapping cloth again.
“No, Ivan. This is good enough. Thank you.”
“I'll wrap it again as soon as I get home, ok? I have plenty of this stuff. You need it more than me.”
“Ivan, I...”
His sharp gasp cut me off. “Oh...”
“What?” He doesn't respond. I repeat myself. “What's going on? Are you ok?”
“Vale, look. Look at my hand.” I can hear panic in his voice. “Look!”
“I can't! Ivan, what's happened?”
“Look!”
“Ivan, I can't see your hand! I'm blind! What's happening?”
He is silent for a moment longer, then he takes my hand in his, mine unbandaged and his fully wrapped, and guides my fingers to his other hand. As soon as I touch his palm, I know what has happened.
Scars.
We stand here for a minute, as the snow swirls around us, as I trace his scars with my blood. He is shaking. He is almost crying.
I remove my hand, but do not speak.
And slowly, surely, he wraps his hand back up.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Life, the universe, and everything
Life, the universe and everything. Something simple becomes infinitely complicated. We don't really know who we are now, but that's alright. Some things aren't meant to be known, perhaps, but we'll keep chasing them. And the number of cogs and wheels that all turn together multiply by a thousand times, until there are so many, so many that we cannot count them, and we cannot see the one for the so many others. Perhaps we shall never know why. Life, the universe, and everything.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Wheeler and the hobo
Wheeler awoke to the sounds of traffic below him. He wondered, not for the first time, why taxi drivers got up before the sun did. His stomach growled. He needed to find real food today.
He sat up and pulled out his battered pocketwatch. 5:30. The church bells wouldn't ring until 8. He moaned. He was hungry! And his cd player was out of batteries, too. He stared at the street below the church steeple where he'd been sleeping. Yellow taxi's zipped by in both directions, in a great hurry to go nowhere in particular. People walked quickly by, stepping over a sleeping hobo like he wasn't even there. The pretzel vendor was similarly bypassed.
Wheeler had enough for a pretzel.
“Top o' the morning t' yeh, sir.” The man gave Wheeler a smile missing three teeth as he approached. “What can I do for yeh today?”
“Pretzel.” Wheeler muttered through his scarf. “How much?”
“Only a dollar, sir.” The man pulled one out of his cart. Wheeler handed him a dollar. “Want anythin' on it?”
“No.”
“Nice talkin' to ya, then!” The man waved goodbye, and turned back to hawking his wares to the disinterested passers by. Wheeler joined the slow trickle of early morning pedestrian traffic as he made his way across the city. Was the guitar repair place open yet? Probably not. He should stick around to hear the bells, then go later. But people always gave him more money in the morning, it seemed. And if the guitar place was open, he wouldn't need the bells anyway, though he did enjoy them. And then he could relocate to someplace less drafty.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood disappointed in front of Rocky's Rock On Guitar Sales and Repair, closed on Saturdays. He swore softly. No guitar today, and likely as not no guitar tomorrow. He walked away, disgusted. And he didn't have enough to pay for batteries and the repair bill, and of course Rocky's had a large, obvious sign stating that they did not under any circumstances take credit. He'd been counting on that guitar today!
Wheeler started back to the church. He was beginning to ache all over. He hated feeling hungry. The noise of the traffic zooming by only furthered his annoyance.
“Will you shut up?” he growled at the cars. Traffic continued regardless, and a man walking by gave him a strange look. “Quit tempting me!”
He glared at the street as he walked along, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. Oh, what he would give for a street musician right about now. Ironic, since he normally hated seeing them because it meant more competition for him. Maybe that annoying girl with the violin would be in the park... No, she only came in the afternoons, and he didn't want to deal with her today. She thought she was so much better than him, just because she wasn't homeless... The old guy who sat behind the burger place, maybe? No, he'd been chased off for loitering almost a week ago. Too bad, he was pretty good.
He sighed. He hadn't really been here long enough to get a handle on where more than a few of the musicians were. How long had it been now, a month? No, less than that. He'd been working at the soup kitchen over Thanksgiving, and he'd moved at least twice since then. He wondered how the nuns would be spending Christmas this year. If he had enough, he'd send them a gift. Maybe he could carve them a cross; that would certainly make Sister Valerie happy. And Sister Bertha would just be happy to learn that he hadn't starved yet.
But Sister Mary probably wouldn't even notice. She'd be too busy with the Christmas concert.
Wheeler sighed again. He missed the nuns, especially Mary. He almost wished he'd found a way to stick around after he turned 18. Maybe if he didn't need to wander so much, he could've.
Wheeler turned down a side street on his way to the church. He nearly tripped over an older man laying in the alley.
“Got any change, sir?” the old man muttered.
“Sorry.” Wheeler shrugged. “I got nothing, unless you're short on bad luck.”
The man laughed, wheezing. “I've got plenty of that. God bless you anyway.”
Wheeler nodded. “God bless.”
The man burst into a coughing fit as Wheeler walked by. He glanced back over his shoulder, then stopped short. Blood. The old man was coughing up blood.
“Hey, you alright?” Wheeler changed his tone to one slightly less insolent and slightly more concerned than what he usually used.
“I'm just old, moldy and cold,” the old man wheezed as he tried to laugh again. “I'm fine.”
“Hey man, you're coughing up...”
The old man went into another fit of coughing. He stared at his hand for a moment afterwards. “Huh. I'm bleeding.”
“Hey, man, you need to have a doctor look at that.”
“Can't afford no doctor...”
“The emergency room won't turn you away.”
“Can't get there... too far...” The old man slumped, shivering in the cold.
“I'll take you.” Wheeler knelt down. Why was he doing this? He didn't need anything else to worry about. He should just walk away.
And yet, somehow, he didn't.
Wheeler picked the old man up as best he could. Luckily, the man was practically a stick. “You know where it is?”
“That way...” the man pointed north with a shaking hand. “corner of... seventh and... Turner drive...”
“Got it.” Wheeler ignored the stares of the passersby. “Keep talkin', man, I don't want you going into shock. What's your name?”
“Teddy...”
“That short for Theodore?”
“Yeah...” the old man coughed again. “But nobody calls me that anymore. I used to be Theo...”
“What happened?”
“Eh... stock markets, divorce. Lots of stuff. Now I'm Teddy.” The man paused, drawing in a raspy breath. “I have a daughter, you know. Haven't seen her in a long time... Her mom took her when we split...” Wheeler rounded a corner, only to be met by the blinding first rays of the sun on the horizon.
“That's too bad. Do they know that you're out here?”
“No... no... I haven talked to her in such a long time... She probably hates me.”
“What's her name?”
“We named her... Francisca...”
“After St Francis?”
“You know the saints, boy?”
“Raised by nuns, man. Hard to avoid it.” Wheeler glanced both ways at the crosswalk. “Patron Saint of animals, the environment, Italy, and stowaways. Two feasts, both in fall, born in 1181 in Assisi, Italy, to a rich merchant, and he was originally named after John the baptist. Which is to say,” he paused as he steered his way through a crowd, “Yes. I know the Saints.”
The old man laughed again, then fell into a coughing fit. “Sounds like it. We wanted her to be... gentle like him... Didn't work out.”
“Eh, names don't mean much; Living proof, right here.”
“Oh?”
“Stephen. First Martyr of the church, patron saint of headaches, horses and Belgium. Germany too. And Italy, but they have so many that I don't count it.” Wheeler stared at a street sign for a moment. “I'm not him. I'm not wise, I'm not a great speaker, and I definitely am not a martyr. I do have a headache, though.”
“So, then, Stephen...”
“Wheeler. Everyone calls me Wheeler.”
“Wheeler, eh?” The old man coughed into his sleeve, staining it red. “Why's that?”
“Like I said, I'm no Stephen.”
“Right,” Teddy mumbled, zoning out.
“Hey, man, stay with me. Only ten blocks or so 'til the hospital.”
“Tha's a mile, boy.”
“Only a mile, man. Positive thinking.”
“You'll have to forgive this old man... Sorry about all this.”
“Hey, it's alright, man, I had nothing to do anyway.”
Ten blocks later, Wheeler deposited the old man in a wheelchair in the emergency room. “Stay here.”
“Not gonna be a problem...” Teddy sunk into his chair, soaking in the warmth of the heated hospital.
“Can I help you, Sir?” the receptionist asked politely. She fingered a clipboard with insurance papers on it, half impatiently.
“Not me,” Wheeler said, shaking his head. “Him. He doesn't have insurance, but he's coughing up blood. Didn't know what to do with him.”
“How long has he been..”
“No idea.”
Behind them, Teddy burst into another coughing fit, spattering blood all over himself and the floor. The receptionist stared. “I'll see what I can do.” She disappeared into the back part of the ER.
Wheeler sighed and took a seat next to Teddy. He picked up a magazine on nutrition, flipped through it for a moment, and put it back down. At least the ER wasn't busy. They should see him within an hour at least, and there's no way the warm air of the waiting room could hurt anything.
A jolt of pain ran through his body. He suddenly realized something. The warm air couldn't hurt Teddy, but it was dead quiet in here! He moaned.
Teddy glanced at him. “You ok?”
“Just hungry.” Wheeler replied. “Nothing a sandwich and half an hour of bad cafeteria muzak couldn't fix.”
“Mr... Um...” The receptionist stood at the door to the back.
“He's Teddy.”
“Mr... Teddy. Right. We can see you now.”
“Thanks, Ma'am.” Teddy tried to stand as he spoke, but couldn't. Wheeler pushed the wheelchair where he rested to the door, where the receptionist stood waiting.
“Sorry, man, but I don't think I can take you any further.” Wheeler held up his hands in a defeated sort of gesture. “Patient privacy and all that.”
“Well, I'll see you later, then. God bless you, Wheeler.” Teddy sat up straight and nodded to him as the receptionist wheeled him into the back part of the emergency room. Wheeler waited by the desk, not quite sure of what to do. The receptionist reappeared momentarily.
“Are you related to Teddy?” she asked, clearly surprised that he was still there. “Is he your father, or...”
“Tripped over him.”
“So you just brought a random stranger to the hospital?”
“Yeah.” Wheeler shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “He got no place to go.” He kicked himself for what he was about to do. “Here.” He handed her the 50 dollars that he'd saved to repair his guitar. “It's not much, but it's all I've got. I know it won't even begin to cover his hospital bill, but...” Wheeler shrugged. “Best I can do.”
“...Thank you.” The woman took the money hesitantly. “I'll tell him it was from you...”
“Don't bother.” Wheeler turned to leave. “I'll pay as much of his bill as I can... I might be back.” He waved goodbye without turning around, and walked out.
He made it less than a block from the hospital before he collapsed. He cursed himself and his stupidity over and over again. He was so dead. He now had no way of getting his guitar back, a hospital bill to pay, and he'd gone and missed the bells, all for the sake of some random stranger who he could have just walked away from. What on earth possessed him to do such stupid things?!
He gave in and allowed the traffic noise to wash over him, his head in his hands. It nauseated him, but it was better than the gnawing hunger he'd been feeling all day. So now he was homeless, guitarless, saddled with a debt not his own, and he was probably going to be sick. Great.
Yeah, this was going to be a wonderful day. He could just tell.
This makes no sense if you haven't read Wheeler's profile. If you haven't read Wheeler's profile, he lives off of sound. Anyway, meet Wheeler. Say hi, Wheeler.
Ok, fine. Don't say hi. See if I care.
He sat up and pulled out his battered pocketwatch. 5:30. The church bells wouldn't ring until 8. He moaned. He was hungry! And his cd player was out of batteries, too. He stared at the street below the church steeple where he'd been sleeping. Yellow taxi's zipped by in both directions, in a great hurry to go nowhere in particular. People walked quickly by, stepping over a sleeping hobo like he wasn't even there. The pretzel vendor was similarly bypassed.
Wheeler had enough for a pretzel.
“Top o' the morning t' yeh, sir.” The man gave Wheeler a smile missing three teeth as he approached. “What can I do for yeh today?”
“Pretzel.” Wheeler muttered through his scarf. “How much?”
“Only a dollar, sir.” The man pulled one out of his cart. Wheeler handed him a dollar. “Want anythin' on it?”
“No.”
“Nice talkin' to ya, then!” The man waved goodbye, and turned back to hawking his wares to the disinterested passers by. Wheeler joined the slow trickle of early morning pedestrian traffic as he made his way across the city. Was the guitar repair place open yet? Probably not. He should stick around to hear the bells, then go later. But people always gave him more money in the morning, it seemed. And if the guitar place was open, he wouldn't need the bells anyway, though he did enjoy them. And then he could relocate to someplace less drafty.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood disappointed in front of Rocky's Rock On Guitar Sales and Repair, closed on Saturdays. He swore softly. No guitar today, and likely as not no guitar tomorrow. He walked away, disgusted. And he didn't have enough to pay for batteries and the repair bill, and of course Rocky's had a large, obvious sign stating that they did not under any circumstances take credit. He'd been counting on that guitar today!
Wheeler started back to the church. He was beginning to ache all over. He hated feeling hungry. The noise of the traffic zooming by only furthered his annoyance.
“Will you shut up?” he growled at the cars. Traffic continued regardless, and a man walking by gave him a strange look. “Quit tempting me!”
He glared at the street as he walked along, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. Oh, what he would give for a street musician right about now. Ironic, since he normally hated seeing them because it meant more competition for him. Maybe that annoying girl with the violin would be in the park... No, she only came in the afternoons, and he didn't want to deal with her today. She thought she was so much better than him, just because she wasn't homeless... The old guy who sat behind the burger place, maybe? No, he'd been chased off for loitering almost a week ago. Too bad, he was pretty good.
He sighed. He hadn't really been here long enough to get a handle on where more than a few of the musicians were. How long had it been now, a month? No, less than that. He'd been working at the soup kitchen over Thanksgiving, and he'd moved at least twice since then. He wondered how the nuns would be spending Christmas this year. If he had enough, he'd send them a gift. Maybe he could carve them a cross; that would certainly make Sister Valerie happy. And Sister Bertha would just be happy to learn that he hadn't starved yet.
But Sister Mary probably wouldn't even notice. She'd be too busy with the Christmas concert.
Wheeler sighed again. He missed the nuns, especially Mary. He almost wished he'd found a way to stick around after he turned 18. Maybe if he didn't need to wander so much, he could've.
Wheeler turned down a side street on his way to the church. He nearly tripped over an older man laying in the alley.
“Got any change, sir?” the old man muttered.
“Sorry.” Wheeler shrugged. “I got nothing, unless you're short on bad luck.”
The man laughed, wheezing. “I've got plenty of that. God bless you anyway.”
Wheeler nodded. “God bless.”
The man burst into a coughing fit as Wheeler walked by. He glanced back over his shoulder, then stopped short. Blood. The old man was coughing up blood.
“Hey, you alright?” Wheeler changed his tone to one slightly less insolent and slightly more concerned than what he usually used.
“I'm just old, moldy and cold,” the old man wheezed as he tried to laugh again. “I'm fine.”
“Hey man, you're coughing up...”
The old man went into another fit of coughing. He stared at his hand for a moment afterwards. “Huh. I'm bleeding.”
“Hey, man, you need to have a doctor look at that.”
“Can't afford no doctor...”
“The emergency room won't turn you away.”
“Can't get there... too far...” The old man slumped, shivering in the cold.
“I'll take you.” Wheeler knelt down. Why was he doing this? He didn't need anything else to worry about. He should just walk away.
And yet, somehow, he didn't.
Wheeler picked the old man up as best he could. Luckily, the man was practically a stick. “You know where it is?”
“That way...” the man pointed north with a shaking hand. “corner of... seventh and... Turner drive...”
“Got it.” Wheeler ignored the stares of the passersby. “Keep talkin', man, I don't want you going into shock. What's your name?”
“Teddy...”
“That short for Theodore?”
“Yeah...” the old man coughed again. “But nobody calls me that anymore. I used to be Theo...”
“What happened?”
“Eh... stock markets, divorce. Lots of stuff. Now I'm Teddy.” The man paused, drawing in a raspy breath. “I have a daughter, you know. Haven't seen her in a long time... Her mom took her when we split...” Wheeler rounded a corner, only to be met by the blinding first rays of the sun on the horizon.
“That's too bad. Do they know that you're out here?”
“No... no... I haven talked to her in such a long time... She probably hates me.”
“What's her name?”
“We named her... Francisca...”
“After St Francis?”
“You know the saints, boy?”
“Raised by nuns, man. Hard to avoid it.” Wheeler glanced both ways at the crosswalk. “Patron Saint of animals, the environment, Italy, and stowaways. Two feasts, both in fall, born in 1181 in Assisi, Italy, to a rich merchant, and he was originally named after John the baptist. Which is to say,” he paused as he steered his way through a crowd, “Yes. I know the Saints.”
The old man laughed again, then fell into a coughing fit. “Sounds like it. We wanted her to be... gentle like him... Didn't work out.”
“Eh, names don't mean much; Living proof, right here.”
“Oh?”
“Stephen. First Martyr of the church, patron saint of headaches, horses and Belgium. Germany too. And Italy, but they have so many that I don't count it.” Wheeler stared at a street sign for a moment. “I'm not him. I'm not wise, I'm not a great speaker, and I definitely am not a martyr. I do have a headache, though.”
“So, then, Stephen...”
“Wheeler. Everyone calls me Wheeler.”
“Wheeler, eh?” The old man coughed into his sleeve, staining it red. “Why's that?”
“Like I said, I'm no Stephen.”
“Right,” Teddy mumbled, zoning out.
“Hey, man, stay with me. Only ten blocks or so 'til the hospital.”
“Tha's a mile, boy.”
“Only a mile, man. Positive thinking.”
“You'll have to forgive this old man... Sorry about all this.”
“Hey, it's alright, man, I had nothing to do anyway.”
Ten blocks later, Wheeler deposited the old man in a wheelchair in the emergency room. “Stay here.”
“Not gonna be a problem...” Teddy sunk into his chair, soaking in the warmth of the heated hospital.
“Can I help you, Sir?” the receptionist asked politely. She fingered a clipboard with insurance papers on it, half impatiently.
“Not me,” Wheeler said, shaking his head. “Him. He doesn't have insurance, but he's coughing up blood. Didn't know what to do with him.”
“How long has he been..”
“No idea.”
Behind them, Teddy burst into another coughing fit, spattering blood all over himself and the floor. The receptionist stared. “I'll see what I can do.” She disappeared into the back part of the ER.
Wheeler sighed and took a seat next to Teddy. He picked up a magazine on nutrition, flipped through it for a moment, and put it back down. At least the ER wasn't busy. They should see him within an hour at least, and there's no way the warm air of the waiting room could hurt anything.
A jolt of pain ran through his body. He suddenly realized something. The warm air couldn't hurt Teddy, but it was dead quiet in here! He moaned.
Teddy glanced at him. “You ok?”
“Just hungry.” Wheeler replied. “Nothing a sandwich and half an hour of bad cafeteria muzak couldn't fix.”
“Mr... Um...” The receptionist stood at the door to the back.
“He's Teddy.”
“Mr... Teddy. Right. We can see you now.”
“Thanks, Ma'am.” Teddy tried to stand as he spoke, but couldn't. Wheeler pushed the wheelchair where he rested to the door, where the receptionist stood waiting.
“Sorry, man, but I don't think I can take you any further.” Wheeler held up his hands in a defeated sort of gesture. “Patient privacy and all that.”
“Well, I'll see you later, then. God bless you, Wheeler.” Teddy sat up straight and nodded to him as the receptionist wheeled him into the back part of the emergency room. Wheeler waited by the desk, not quite sure of what to do. The receptionist reappeared momentarily.
“Are you related to Teddy?” she asked, clearly surprised that he was still there. “Is he your father, or...”
“Tripped over him.”
“So you just brought a random stranger to the hospital?”
“Yeah.” Wheeler shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “He got no place to go.” He kicked himself for what he was about to do. “Here.” He handed her the 50 dollars that he'd saved to repair his guitar. “It's not much, but it's all I've got. I know it won't even begin to cover his hospital bill, but...” Wheeler shrugged. “Best I can do.”
“...Thank you.” The woman took the money hesitantly. “I'll tell him it was from you...”
“Don't bother.” Wheeler turned to leave. “I'll pay as much of his bill as I can... I might be back.” He waved goodbye without turning around, and walked out.
He made it less than a block from the hospital before he collapsed. He cursed himself and his stupidity over and over again. He was so dead. He now had no way of getting his guitar back, a hospital bill to pay, and he'd gone and missed the bells, all for the sake of some random stranger who he could have just walked away from. What on earth possessed him to do such stupid things?!
He gave in and allowed the traffic noise to wash over him, his head in his hands. It nauseated him, but it was better than the gnawing hunger he'd been feeling all day. So now he was homeless, guitarless, saddled with a debt not his own, and he was probably going to be sick. Great.
Yeah, this was going to be a wonderful day. He could just tell.
This makes no sense if you haven't read Wheeler's profile. If you haven't read Wheeler's profile, he lives off of sound. Anyway, meet Wheeler. Say hi, Wheeler.
Ok, fine. Don't say hi. See if I care.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Skyler and the mob
Skyler's wrists burned. The ropes they'd tied him with dug into his skin, rubbing the burn deeper into him with every bump or curve in the road. Perhaps if he could see, he could've been prepared, but the blindfold made that impossible.
The choking cigar smoke, however, made it very possible to tell who he was talking to.
“Shouldn't'a run, thief. That was a very bad move.” Rossin. Oh, how he hated the man.
Skyler held his tongue. Whatever he might have to say at this point couldn't possibly help him.
“Bein' quiet? Hope you did that with whoever else you mighta met.” Rossin blew a huge cloud of smoke in Skyler's face, sending him into a coughing fit. “Glad ya didn't. Yeah, we know ya didn't go to the police. Like ya could, thief.” The mob boss poked the back of Skyler's hand with the cigar tip, leaving a small burn. “Wondering how?”
“You've been watching me.” Skyler spoke in a low, controlled tone. “Ever since I cleared out.”
“Heh.” Skyler could hear the smirk in the man's voice. “Long before that, thief.” Skyler tried to keep from tensing up. He couldn't give Emma away. “And we found somethin' interestin. Boys, it seems our little thief here has got himself a girlfriend. Lose the blindfold, please.” The huge man on Skyler's right ripped the dirty rag off his face. What he saw made him wish he hadn't.
On Rossin's lap rested a portable computer. The screen showed something he had never wanted to see: Emma tied up, blindfolded, confused. He barely refrained from crying out. Rossin's grin grew wider. “Yeah, see what happens when you run?” The cigar met Skyler's hand again. “The question is, what happens now?”
“Let her go. I'll do what you want.” Skyler tried to keep his face impassive, but it was nearly impossible.
“What? Before we even get to the threatening? Well.” Rossin raised one thick eyebrow. “This should be easier than I thought. But...” Skyler hated the way this man grinned. “Let's see just how much you like her, Thief.” He pushed a button on the laptop.
“Hello?” Emma's voice crackled through. “Is anyone there? I thought I heard someone.”
“Emma!” Skyler tried to choke it back, but finally failed. “Let her go!”
“Skyler?”
“She can hear you, lover boy.” Rossin sat back, his arms folded across his chest, holding the cigar between his teeth. “So, let's get started.”
“Skyler? What's going on? Who's that?”
“Emma, I...”
“Enough talk.” Rossin pushed the button again and turned the laptop away from Skyler. “She's in good hands, don't worry. Worrn knows if he touches her, he's dead.”
“Worrn is with her?!” Skyler would've strangled Rossin, if not for rope and three bodyguards. “You know what he'll do!”
“Hey, hey, I warned him. If he touches her without my express permission, in fact, without my orders, you have my personal promise that he dies.”
“You...” Skyler shook with uncharacteristic rage. “You...”
“Me what? Monster? Uncreative. Heard it a million times. Oooh, how about devil? I like that one. Satan's a good one too.” Rossin sat back again and gave Skyler the grin that he so hated. “So. You're working for me again.”
Skyler only glared. “Right.”
“Glad we could come to an understanding, then. Boys?” The two huge men on either side of Skyler grabbed his arms. “I'll contact you when we need your expertise. Until then, stay in your apartment. If we see you going any further away than the nearest grocery store, Worrn gets a phone call. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Well, then. Show our good friend the door.” And with that, Skyler was tossed from a moving car.
The river was cold. It felt good on the rope burns. He didn't care anymore.
More random story bits. This one is kinda dormant in my head right now, but I wrote this bit a few weeks ago, and felt like posting it. Please tell me what you think.
The choking cigar smoke, however, made it very possible to tell who he was talking to.
“Shouldn't'a run, thief. That was a very bad move.” Rossin. Oh, how he hated the man.
Skyler held his tongue. Whatever he might have to say at this point couldn't possibly help him.
“Bein' quiet? Hope you did that with whoever else you mighta met.” Rossin blew a huge cloud of smoke in Skyler's face, sending him into a coughing fit. “Glad ya didn't. Yeah, we know ya didn't go to the police. Like ya could, thief.” The mob boss poked the back of Skyler's hand with the cigar tip, leaving a small burn. “Wondering how?”
“You've been watching me.” Skyler spoke in a low, controlled tone. “Ever since I cleared out.”
“Heh.” Skyler could hear the smirk in the man's voice. “Long before that, thief.” Skyler tried to keep from tensing up. He couldn't give Emma away. “And we found somethin' interestin. Boys, it seems our little thief here has got himself a girlfriend. Lose the blindfold, please.” The huge man on Skyler's right ripped the dirty rag off his face. What he saw made him wish he hadn't.
On Rossin's lap rested a portable computer. The screen showed something he had never wanted to see: Emma tied up, blindfolded, confused. He barely refrained from crying out. Rossin's grin grew wider. “Yeah, see what happens when you run?” The cigar met Skyler's hand again. “The question is, what happens now?”
“Let her go. I'll do what you want.” Skyler tried to keep his face impassive, but it was nearly impossible.
“What? Before we even get to the threatening? Well.” Rossin raised one thick eyebrow. “This should be easier than I thought. But...” Skyler hated the way this man grinned. “Let's see just how much you like her, Thief.” He pushed a button on the laptop.
“Hello?” Emma's voice crackled through. “Is anyone there? I thought I heard someone.”
“Emma!” Skyler tried to choke it back, but finally failed. “Let her go!”
“Skyler?”
“She can hear you, lover boy.” Rossin sat back, his arms folded across his chest, holding the cigar between his teeth. “So, let's get started.”
“Skyler? What's going on? Who's that?”
“Emma, I...”
“Enough talk.” Rossin pushed the button again and turned the laptop away from Skyler. “She's in good hands, don't worry. Worrn knows if he touches her, he's dead.”
“Worrn is with her?!” Skyler would've strangled Rossin, if not for rope and three bodyguards. “You know what he'll do!”
“Hey, hey, I warned him. If he touches her without my express permission, in fact, without my orders, you have my personal promise that he dies.”
“You...” Skyler shook with uncharacteristic rage. “You...”
“Me what? Monster? Uncreative. Heard it a million times. Oooh, how about devil? I like that one. Satan's a good one too.” Rossin sat back again and gave Skyler the grin that he so hated. “So. You're working for me again.”
Skyler only glared. “Right.”
“Glad we could come to an understanding, then. Boys?” The two huge men on either side of Skyler grabbed his arms. “I'll contact you when we need your expertise. Until then, stay in your apartment. If we see you going any further away than the nearest grocery store, Worrn gets a phone call. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Well, then. Show our good friend the door.” And with that, Skyler was tossed from a moving car.
The river was cold. It felt good on the rope burns. He didn't care anymore.
More random story bits. This one is kinda dormant in my head right now, but I wrote this bit a few weeks ago, and felt like posting it. Please tell me what you think.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Understand
But oh, what torture it is, this entrapment. To not be able to speak, to lay out in words and pictures and the pure ethereal power of ideas this world that lies unfolding in my mind! I can only tell you a bit, show you a fragment, dilute the idea through what I call “skill” until it is barely what it was to make you understand. Why can't you see into my mind, to see it as I do? Can't you see it unfolding before you? Let it take you, as it takes me, be with it, be in it, let it become a part of you. Can't you see it coming together before your eyes? Let it be in you as it is in me. I want to show you. Come, come see. But this skill of mine is too small, these hands too feeble and this mouth too slow to tell, to show, to make you see it.
But oh, what torture this is.
wrote this the other day out of frustration at my inability to express my ideas.
But oh, what torture this is.
wrote this the other day out of frustration at my inability to express my ideas.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Beloved Exile
I am the beloved exile.
I live to protect my people. They've raised me, they've cared for me, and now I strive to keep them safe. And if that means I cannot be among them, so be it.
I make it sound nobler than it is.
My name is Terry. Not a very noble name, I know. I live with it.
And my task is no great thing. I simply walk the lines with my lantern every night, keeping away the outsiders.
Well, perhaps I am understating the task now.
My duty, in its most basic form, is to protect the waterforest. I have lived here all my life, and I know it's every pool and tree like no other. This is one reason that I was chosen for this task.
Who do I protect it from? Outsiders. Once, all were welcome here, but as the waterforest grew, and we grew more secluded, they began to forget we were here. Now, they come with guns and machines, forgetting that the waterforest is ours, determined to take it for their own. They've shot two already. Luckily, my people lived. And I was appointed to my task.
At first, my duty was simple. To scare the outsiders away. It was simple enough. A red sheet on a thin wire made for an excellent ghost, and with wires all along the paths of the waterforest, I could've sworn that we were safe. But the outsiders weren't to be stopped for long, not for more than a few days. The ghost never came down from it's wire, never presented a threat. If they weren't so nervous in the first place, it wouldn't have scared them at all.
We needed something tangible. Something seemingly deadly, monstrous, inhuman. We needed to give them a face to fear, something to keep them up at night.
And I was chosen for that task.
They'd never seen the ghost up close. All they knew was that it was red, and it flew. So I wear a red cloak on one shoulder, and I fly.
But to be more precise, I walk in thin air. That seems to scare them more.
I paint designs on my face to make me look cursed. Jewels, found in the deepest pools of the waterforest where the ruins lie, only add to that. Mysterious symbols, no more than chickenscratch, made up my curse, and with them, I cursed the forest. Parchment nailed to a tree, a set of symbols painted on rocks and trees over and over and over and over. I sabotage their equipment, and leave the same symbols, over and over and over. They thought it was a curse. They brought in linguists, historians, dozens of people to interpret my markings.
And of course they've brought someone in to deal with me.
And that is why I live in exile.
The bounty hunter didn't seem so intimidating at first. Just another man, just another gun pointed at me. The difference was that this one wasn't shaking. I almost lost my arm to his bullet the first time we met, escaping by half an inch.
Whoever thought that a gun was the best way to deal with a cursed man is a strange person, but perceptive. I fled from him, the first time I'd ever run from any of them. Most of the time they were running from me. But when I ran, he chased me. He followed me as I ran across the lines, keeping me in his sights and firing again and again and again. I thought I was going to die, and my only thought was to get back home.
I would have led him straight to my people had I continued.
He would have killed them. No question about it, they couldn't have fought him. We've been at peace for so long we've forgotten how to make war. It is a blessing that has become a curse.
I did not continue. The bounty hunter could not follow me once I entered the water, but he did follow me once I appeared again in a tree. The water cleared my head. I realized that as long as he followed me, I couldn't return home.
I also realized that if I appeared human for even one moment while this man watched, all would be lost.
So my task became a thousand times more.
My people realized I hadn't come back. They sent someone out to look for me. She was my friend, though I would not admit it. She had always been so.
And she nearly lost her life seeking me.
She didn't know the bounty hunter was there. She'd simply seen me as I ran. She called out to me, and I couldn't respond. I knew he was watching me.
He shot her. She fell from the path into the water, and I didn't know if she was alive.
And that was the first time I'd ever attacked someone.
He didn't know what hit him. He had turned his attention from me to shoot her. And while his gun was still smoking, I took him down. I didn't know I could. My head was hardly aware of what my body was doing, but I knocked him down, broke his gun, broke his arm, fractured his leg. I left him in a heap, barely conscious. And he watched me as I ran to where she'd fallen.
She was not dead. I carried her home. And I told them what had happened.
But something was strange. I didn't know how to fight, but I'd fought. I couldn't carry her weight, but I had. My markings hadn't washed off in the water where she'd fallen.
And the jewels from the underwater ruins glowed.
I have cursed myself. My harmless markings were the language of the ruins. I am bound to the forest now, but I cannot live among my people. I am not myself anymore. I cannot be myself. I must be the phantom, the cursed one. I cannot be Terry anymore. I am exiled from my people and myself.
And now I live in exile.
The curse is a part of me that I can barely control. My anger leads to power now, uncontrolled strength and speed, violence beyond what I can understand. I cannot become angry. I've attacked them many times now, whenever I lose control.
I haven't killed one. Not yet, anyway. But someday, I know I'll lose control, I won't be able to take back my body before the curse leaves my hands stained with blood.
The bounty hunter is afraid of me now. He still shoots at me, but he doesn't follow with that same reckless determination. All of them are afraid of me now. I have become precisely what I needed to be, but I have given up everything to become it.
I am the beloved exile.
Before you ask, yes, Terry is the same Terry from the Defiant stories that I wrote like, a year ago. This is the eventual turn his story would have taken, but I was so unhappy with the way that I'd written it, I decided to give up and start over. Yes, it's darker. Much darker. Hope you like it.
I live to protect my people. They've raised me, they've cared for me, and now I strive to keep them safe. And if that means I cannot be among them, so be it.
I make it sound nobler than it is.
My name is Terry. Not a very noble name, I know. I live with it.
And my task is no great thing. I simply walk the lines with my lantern every night, keeping away the outsiders.
Well, perhaps I am understating the task now.
My duty, in its most basic form, is to protect the waterforest. I have lived here all my life, and I know it's every pool and tree like no other. This is one reason that I was chosen for this task.
Who do I protect it from? Outsiders. Once, all were welcome here, but as the waterforest grew, and we grew more secluded, they began to forget we were here. Now, they come with guns and machines, forgetting that the waterforest is ours, determined to take it for their own. They've shot two already. Luckily, my people lived. And I was appointed to my task.
At first, my duty was simple. To scare the outsiders away. It was simple enough. A red sheet on a thin wire made for an excellent ghost, and with wires all along the paths of the waterforest, I could've sworn that we were safe. But the outsiders weren't to be stopped for long, not for more than a few days. The ghost never came down from it's wire, never presented a threat. If they weren't so nervous in the first place, it wouldn't have scared them at all.
We needed something tangible. Something seemingly deadly, monstrous, inhuman. We needed to give them a face to fear, something to keep them up at night.
And I was chosen for that task.
They'd never seen the ghost up close. All they knew was that it was red, and it flew. So I wear a red cloak on one shoulder, and I fly.
But to be more precise, I walk in thin air. That seems to scare them more.
I paint designs on my face to make me look cursed. Jewels, found in the deepest pools of the waterforest where the ruins lie, only add to that. Mysterious symbols, no more than chickenscratch, made up my curse, and with them, I cursed the forest. Parchment nailed to a tree, a set of symbols painted on rocks and trees over and over and over and over. I sabotage their equipment, and leave the same symbols, over and over and over. They thought it was a curse. They brought in linguists, historians, dozens of people to interpret my markings.
And of course they've brought someone in to deal with me.
And that is why I live in exile.
The bounty hunter didn't seem so intimidating at first. Just another man, just another gun pointed at me. The difference was that this one wasn't shaking. I almost lost my arm to his bullet the first time we met, escaping by half an inch.
Whoever thought that a gun was the best way to deal with a cursed man is a strange person, but perceptive. I fled from him, the first time I'd ever run from any of them. Most of the time they were running from me. But when I ran, he chased me. He followed me as I ran across the lines, keeping me in his sights and firing again and again and again. I thought I was going to die, and my only thought was to get back home.
I would have led him straight to my people had I continued.
He would have killed them. No question about it, they couldn't have fought him. We've been at peace for so long we've forgotten how to make war. It is a blessing that has become a curse.
I did not continue. The bounty hunter could not follow me once I entered the water, but he did follow me once I appeared again in a tree. The water cleared my head. I realized that as long as he followed me, I couldn't return home.
I also realized that if I appeared human for even one moment while this man watched, all would be lost.
So my task became a thousand times more.
My people realized I hadn't come back. They sent someone out to look for me. She was my friend, though I would not admit it. She had always been so.
And she nearly lost her life seeking me.
She didn't know the bounty hunter was there. She'd simply seen me as I ran. She called out to me, and I couldn't respond. I knew he was watching me.
He shot her. She fell from the path into the water, and I didn't know if she was alive.
And that was the first time I'd ever attacked someone.
He didn't know what hit him. He had turned his attention from me to shoot her. And while his gun was still smoking, I took him down. I didn't know I could. My head was hardly aware of what my body was doing, but I knocked him down, broke his gun, broke his arm, fractured his leg. I left him in a heap, barely conscious. And he watched me as I ran to where she'd fallen.
She was not dead. I carried her home. And I told them what had happened.
But something was strange. I didn't know how to fight, but I'd fought. I couldn't carry her weight, but I had. My markings hadn't washed off in the water where she'd fallen.
And the jewels from the underwater ruins glowed.
I have cursed myself. My harmless markings were the language of the ruins. I am bound to the forest now, but I cannot live among my people. I am not myself anymore. I cannot be myself. I must be the phantom, the cursed one. I cannot be Terry anymore. I am exiled from my people and myself.
And now I live in exile.
The curse is a part of me that I can barely control. My anger leads to power now, uncontrolled strength and speed, violence beyond what I can understand. I cannot become angry. I've attacked them many times now, whenever I lose control.
I haven't killed one. Not yet, anyway. But someday, I know I'll lose control, I won't be able to take back my body before the curse leaves my hands stained with blood.
The bounty hunter is afraid of me now. He still shoots at me, but he doesn't follow with that same reckless determination. All of them are afraid of me now. I have become precisely what I needed to be, but I have given up everything to become it.
I am the beloved exile.
Before you ask, yes, Terry is the same Terry from the Defiant stories that I wrote like, a year ago. This is the eventual turn his story would have taken, but I was so unhappy with the way that I'd written it, I decided to give up and start over. Yes, it's darker. Much darker. Hope you like it.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Scarecrow's nightmare
Tin awakened to the sound of screaming.
To be more precise, the sound of Scarecrow screaming.
He didn't hesitate a moment. He leapt from his bed faster than he could think, faster than he could see, using all the military instincts he'd tried so hard to repress. He grabbed for the gun on the bedside table that wasn't there anymore. He ran for the door without it. Ripping a piece from the doorframe, he burst into the hallway, swinging wildly at whatever enemy might be waiting for him, then skidded sideways into a sprinting run towards Scarecrow's room.
The door was open. If it hadn't been, he might have broken it down. He found the lightswitch, still running, and skidded to a halt upon what he saw.
Scarecrow was not being attacked.
Her hands flailed wildly as she twisted and screamed, trying to shield herself from the nightmare that consumed her. She screamed words he didn't know, something here in French, something there in German. She arched her back in pain and screamed again.
“Scarecrow,” he shouted. “Scarecrow!” She didn't wake up. He ran to her bedside, dodging her flailing hands and grabbing her shoulder. “Wake up!” Nothing. She pulled herself from his grip and twisted away, yelling something he couldn't understand. “Wake up!” The nightmare only intensified.
Tin stood back a few feet and stared. He had no idea how to deal with this. None of his training could possibly be stretched into this situation. But he couldn't just leave her. She was in pain. She was fighting something, and it was something he couldn't fight for her. He couldn't help her.
She threw up her hands to protect herself, and more out of instinct than any actual thought, he caught them. Suddenly, the screaming stopped. He almost let go out of surprise, but stopped himself. She was gasping for air now, looking desperately from side to side.
“Scarecrow,” he said again, gently this time. “Scarecrow. It's ok.” He lowered her hands down onto her body without letting go of them. “It's ok.” Tears streamed down her face, but she was still. “I'm here. You're ok.”
“T-Tin?” Her voice shook, and her eyes stayed closed. Was she awake yet?
“I'm here.”
“Stay...” She didn't move. He could feel her hands trembling in his.
“I'm not going anywhere. You're ok.”
“Stay...” He slowly released her hands, keeping one hand on top of them both in case she started up again.
“Scarecrow. I'm here. Don't worry.”
“Stay...” She trailed off into actual, dreamless sleep. Her breathing was slow and steady now, and she no longer trembled under his hand. The nightmare was gone.
He sat down beside her on the bed, his heart racing. The nightmare was gone, but it would be back, he was sure. So this is what they'd meant by “other side effects”. He cursed them all again, once for himself and twice for her.
He would stay.
A.N.
Random? Very much so. If things go as planned, you'll be seeing a lot more of these two. And hopefully you'll understand why the strange names and nightmares. Hopefully.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Murdoch
Being unable to speak is an extremely frustrating thing. If she had been born that way, it might not have been so bad, but as the situation stood, she had, for the greater part of her life, been fully capable of speech. So when she suddenly found herself completely unable to make any sound more complicated than a hiss, she was rather at a loss for a good many years. And with the complete loss of her powers, too, it's not surprising that she was a tad bit helpless.
Of course, that was the plan. We thought that through rather well, I think.
Allow me to explain. I am Murdoch. I am one of the rather... well, to be honest, I'm probably the least important wizard of all who participated. Still, to be powerful enough to be included in the fifty at all is an honor, and secures my place as the greatest wizard to ever walk this land! And I'm not just saying that because the others all fly. I am powerful. Really. Quit looking at me like that.
Anyway. She is the interdimensional moderator. At least, that's what I call her. Her proper title is considerably more impressive, and considerably harder to remember. I mean, it's not like I don't remember, but anyway. It's her job to keep people like me from jumping from universe to universe, wreaking havoc, building empires, burning buildings, stealing babies... You know, that sort of thing. And she was very, very good at it. You'd be almost through the dimensional barrier, just sacrificing the seventeenth goat, when bam! No more ritual. I don't know how many goats I've lost through those portals of hers, but seriously, she's gotta have several thousand of them somewhere. And with over a hundred major dimensions under her watch, to catch everyone who tries that every time is a major achievement. Not to mention going along helping people and improving the quality of life along the way. Really, she is impressive.
The previous moderator, Jarn, wasn't half as bad as her. He would let things go, where there's no way he didn't notice, armies going through large, unstable portals and the like. He was more interested in dramatic entrances and massive rituals where millions of people bowed down to him in awe. And for the right price, he would occasionally even do it for you! Ah, the good old days.
But when he finally kicked the bucket, she was for some reason chosen as his successor. And we all laughed at the girl when she fell out of a portal on her head the first try. After Jarn's overdone lightshow of an entrance, her simple portal-open-fall-out was rather amusing. But her willingness to actually do her job more than made up for it. In her first year, she stopped almost as much as Jarn had in his entire career. You could still get away with some, because she was still learning her powers, so it wasn't so bad at first. But she got better and better at an incredible rate. Before long, you couldn't get a dagger through the dimensional veil before she was on you. And a couple thousand years of that was far too much.
And that was precisely why she had to go.
The ritual wasn't my idea. It was Lui's. (Lui Sho Reed, for those of you who're interested.) Don't call him Luigi. He really hates that. And you do not want to make him mad. He's the best, the brightest, the most powerful, and definitely the most evil. He'll steal your soul without a second thought, or just kill you, if he's feeling nice. (Very seldom is he feeling nice.) He got along really well with Jarn, probably because Jarn was absolutely petrified of him. That's how powerful he is. Virtually immortal too. I mean, everybody's got the no-aging thing going, but most of us figured it out around seventy, eighty. Him? He's in his thirties.
Anyway, enough about him. He came up with the ritual. Great idea. Basic principal: get enough of us to make all of us together more powerful than her, set a trap, get rid of the IDM. (The acronym was my idea.) Sounds simple, right? Well, it wasn't. We had to get all of us, that's fifty known dimensional offenders to the same place at the same time without her noticing. Just communicating without her picking up on it was hard enough. And to get all of us there! That was a brilliant stroke of strategy.
How, you ask, did all of us get through the barrier at the same time? Well, we didn't. Two hundred tried.
And fifty... well, forty nine made it through. I had to try twice.
Really, I am a great and powerful wizard. Seriously! I'll turn you into a newt!
Anyway. By the time we were all together, we didn't have a ton of time to plan. I mean, she knew where we were, and as soon as she was done putting the dimensional barrier (which we damaged quite badly) back together, she was coming for us. And even with that many of us, she would still kick our collective rear ends if we weren't ready the first second she showed up. Even Lui was worried, I think. But don't tell him I said that! So, we had to get ready fast. Symbols painted, check. Everyone in position, check. And when she popped up (right where we needed her! I don't know how Lui planned that, but it was amazing) we almost instantly started the ritual.
Now, at this point, you're probably expecting me to tell you how it went wrong. Shows how much confidence you have. Just so you know, we succeeded. She was completely out of our hair for almost twenty years, which, considering she'd been stopping us for a couple thousand before that, wasn't honestly that good. (What? We had almost ten thousand years with Jarn in charge. I wasn't around for that whole thing, of course, but who was? Twenty years went by like nothing.) Completely powerless, just like an ordinary human. Also, completely unable to speak, which was a major plus. It kept her from breaking the curse, and it had her scrambling to make even the most intelligent of people understand what she was trying to say. She got chased by more than one angry mob, let me tell you!
That was after, of course, she escaped from Lui. He had her imprisoned for the first year or so, just to make sure the curse was holding. And he would have kept her there too, just to keep an eye on her. (Because regardless of the curse, she was a clever one.) But she had other ideas, and so did that nifty little machine she built.
Now, keep in mind that we have no idea what universe she's originally from, nor do we know what kind of education she had there. For that matter, we don't even know her real name. At this point, I doubt she remembers it either, she's been alone for so long. (Sad, really. If she wasn't my sworn enemy, I might feel kinda bad for her.) Anyway, whatever world she's from, if that's the level of technology they have there, I'm steering clear. Cut through the dimensional barrier like butter, and Lui had no idea where she went for about three years. Amazing. And it went up in smoke five seconds after she was through. Pity, though I couldn't have figured it out for the life of me. Would've been handy.
But I, unlike Lui, knew exactly where she went. That's just how amazing I am.
No, I didn't use a magical artifact I found by sheer chance. That would be silly.
...Ok, maybe I did. But still, I think it was clever.
Anyway. I developed a system by which I could see her every move, and I've been watching her, ever since I returned home from the ritual. It would have been handy to have before, just so I could know when to hide, but it's just something interesting now. When she escaped from Lui, it started getting really interesting. Her little machine took her to an almost completely dead world. The buildings were in ruins, without a sign of life for miles. Mostly ashes. Rivers were clean, though, and the plants were doing well, so whatever happened happened a long time ago. I think she went there to take stock of her situation, and that was probably a good place to do it. Not a lot of people to not be able to talk to and all.
Anyway. Lui was a little mad, to put it lightly. And of course he went shooting through the dimensions looking for her. Eventually someone implied that he was scared (and got fried for their trouble), and he gave up looking to save face. But while he was doing that, she was building another machine. Somewhere in there she must have decided that powers or no powers, she still had a job to do. I told you she was amazing.
Or, just speculation and not at all implying that I might know something that I really don't want Lui to find out from me because he'd kill me, something just might have gone wrong with the ritual. Just a little tiny something, maybe, just a few cracks in the curse caused by a lack of consistent motivation among those who participated. Maybe just a minuscule ability to use very specific parts of her powers under extremely unlikely circumstances. Just speculating, but it might be that she encountered one of those unlikely circumstances involving a specific shape of leaf falling into an unusual bend of a small stream causing three goats to fall out of a portal looking very startled. And it could be possible that she figured out that the curse was imperfect and started dropping oddly shaped leaves into the stream until she had a healthy flock of goats to look after. Of course, I'm just speculating. Not like I saw it happen or anything. Cause that would just be silly.
I mean, the curse could never have been cracked. Our motivation was perfect. It's not like me being there because she scared the pants off of me didn't completely coincide with Tusok's desire to exact revenge for his past humilations, or Ajah's planning to play pranks on respected authority figures once she was out of the way, or Ulioh's craving for ravioli at the time. All fifty of us were completely on the same page. Really.
Just out of speculation, if everything I just postulated were true—which would be absolutely absurd, and there's no way it could happen—but if it did, in some very unlikely scenario, I would be very scared. In fact, I'd be so scared that I wouldn't try to jump between dimensions anymore. I wouldn't try to build up empires or wreak havoc. I'd probably be too scared to come out of my basement. And I'd sit here, watching her every move, just waiting for her to find me so I could beg on my knees for mercy. And I'd probably be writing this.
Because when we completed the ritual, she recognized us. She knows every one of our names. And she has to know that if she manages to get every one of us to retract the curse before the seven thousand year mark when, for seven brief minutes, her powers will be completely up for grabs, the curse will be broken.
So she's got seven thousand years to find fifty of us.
Don't mind me saying so, but my money's on her.
Of course, that was the plan. We thought that through rather well, I think.
Allow me to explain. I am Murdoch. I am one of the rather... well, to be honest, I'm probably the least important wizard of all who participated. Still, to be powerful enough to be included in the fifty at all is an honor, and secures my place as the greatest wizard to ever walk this land! And I'm not just saying that because the others all fly. I am powerful. Really. Quit looking at me like that.
Anyway. She is the interdimensional moderator. At least, that's what I call her. Her proper title is considerably more impressive, and considerably harder to remember. I mean, it's not like I don't remember, but anyway. It's her job to keep people like me from jumping from universe to universe, wreaking havoc, building empires, burning buildings, stealing babies... You know, that sort of thing. And she was very, very good at it. You'd be almost through the dimensional barrier, just sacrificing the seventeenth goat, when bam! No more ritual. I don't know how many goats I've lost through those portals of hers, but seriously, she's gotta have several thousand of them somewhere. And with over a hundred major dimensions under her watch, to catch everyone who tries that every time is a major achievement. Not to mention going along helping people and improving the quality of life along the way. Really, she is impressive.
The previous moderator, Jarn, wasn't half as bad as her. He would let things go, where there's no way he didn't notice, armies going through large, unstable portals and the like. He was more interested in dramatic entrances and massive rituals where millions of people bowed down to him in awe. And for the right price, he would occasionally even do it for you! Ah, the good old days.
But when he finally kicked the bucket, she was for some reason chosen as his successor. And we all laughed at the girl when she fell out of a portal on her head the first try. After Jarn's overdone lightshow of an entrance, her simple portal-open-fall-out was rather amusing. But her willingness to actually do her job more than made up for it. In her first year, she stopped almost as much as Jarn had in his entire career. You could still get away with some, because she was still learning her powers, so it wasn't so bad at first. But she got better and better at an incredible rate. Before long, you couldn't get a dagger through the dimensional veil before she was on you. And a couple thousand years of that was far too much.
And that was precisely why she had to go.
The ritual wasn't my idea. It was Lui's. (Lui Sho Reed, for those of you who're interested.) Don't call him Luigi. He really hates that. And you do not want to make him mad. He's the best, the brightest, the most powerful, and definitely the most evil. He'll steal your soul without a second thought, or just kill you, if he's feeling nice. (Very seldom is he feeling nice.) He got along really well with Jarn, probably because Jarn was absolutely petrified of him. That's how powerful he is. Virtually immortal too. I mean, everybody's got the no-aging thing going, but most of us figured it out around seventy, eighty. Him? He's in his thirties.
Anyway, enough about him. He came up with the ritual. Great idea. Basic principal: get enough of us to make all of us together more powerful than her, set a trap, get rid of the IDM. (The acronym was my idea.) Sounds simple, right? Well, it wasn't. We had to get all of us, that's fifty known dimensional offenders to the same place at the same time without her noticing. Just communicating without her picking up on it was hard enough. And to get all of us there! That was a brilliant stroke of strategy.
How, you ask, did all of us get through the barrier at the same time? Well, we didn't. Two hundred tried.
And fifty... well, forty nine made it through. I had to try twice.
Really, I am a great and powerful wizard. Seriously! I'll turn you into a newt!
Anyway. By the time we were all together, we didn't have a ton of time to plan. I mean, she knew where we were, and as soon as she was done putting the dimensional barrier (which we damaged quite badly) back together, she was coming for us. And even with that many of us, she would still kick our collective rear ends if we weren't ready the first second she showed up. Even Lui was worried, I think. But don't tell him I said that! So, we had to get ready fast. Symbols painted, check. Everyone in position, check. And when she popped up (right where we needed her! I don't know how Lui planned that, but it was amazing) we almost instantly started the ritual.
Now, at this point, you're probably expecting me to tell you how it went wrong. Shows how much confidence you have. Just so you know, we succeeded. She was completely out of our hair for almost twenty years, which, considering she'd been stopping us for a couple thousand before that, wasn't honestly that good. (What? We had almost ten thousand years with Jarn in charge. I wasn't around for that whole thing, of course, but who was? Twenty years went by like nothing.) Completely powerless, just like an ordinary human. Also, completely unable to speak, which was a major plus. It kept her from breaking the curse, and it had her scrambling to make even the most intelligent of people understand what she was trying to say. She got chased by more than one angry mob, let me tell you!
That was after, of course, she escaped from Lui. He had her imprisoned for the first year or so, just to make sure the curse was holding. And he would have kept her there too, just to keep an eye on her. (Because regardless of the curse, she was a clever one.) But she had other ideas, and so did that nifty little machine she built.
Now, keep in mind that we have no idea what universe she's originally from, nor do we know what kind of education she had there. For that matter, we don't even know her real name. At this point, I doubt she remembers it either, she's been alone for so long. (Sad, really. If she wasn't my sworn enemy, I might feel kinda bad for her.) Anyway, whatever world she's from, if that's the level of technology they have there, I'm steering clear. Cut through the dimensional barrier like butter, and Lui had no idea where she went for about three years. Amazing. And it went up in smoke five seconds after she was through. Pity, though I couldn't have figured it out for the life of me. Would've been handy.
But I, unlike Lui, knew exactly where she went. That's just how amazing I am.
No, I didn't use a magical artifact I found by sheer chance. That would be silly.
...Ok, maybe I did. But still, I think it was clever.
Anyway. I developed a system by which I could see her every move, and I've been watching her, ever since I returned home from the ritual. It would have been handy to have before, just so I could know when to hide, but it's just something interesting now. When she escaped from Lui, it started getting really interesting. Her little machine took her to an almost completely dead world. The buildings were in ruins, without a sign of life for miles. Mostly ashes. Rivers were clean, though, and the plants were doing well, so whatever happened happened a long time ago. I think she went there to take stock of her situation, and that was probably a good place to do it. Not a lot of people to not be able to talk to and all.
Anyway. Lui was a little mad, to put it lightly. And of course he went shooting through the dimensions looking for her. Eventually someone implied that he was scared (and got fried for their trouble), and he gave up looking to save face. But while he was doing that, she was building another machine. Somewhere in there she must have decided that powers or no powers, she still had a job to do. I told you she was amazing.
Or, just speculation and not at all implying that I might know something that I really don't want Lui to find out from me because he'd kill me, something just might have gone wrong with the ritual. Just a little tiny something, maybe, just a few cracks in the curse caused by a lack of consistent motivation among those who participated. Maybe just a minuscule ability to use very specific parts of her powers under extremely unlikely circumstances. Just speculating, but it might be that she encountered one of those unlikely circumstances involving a specific shape of leaf falling into an unusual bend of a small stream causing three goats to fall out of a portal looking very startled. And it could be possible that she figured out that the curse was imperfect and started dropping oddly shaped leaves into the stream until she had a healthy flock of goats to look after. Of course, I'm just speculating. Not like I saw it happen or anything. Cause that would just be silly.
I mean, the curse could never have been cracked. Our motivation was perfect. It's not like me being there because she scared the pants off of me didn't completely coincide with Tusok's desire to exact revenge for his past humilations, or Ajah's planning to play pranks on respected authority figures once she was out of the way, or Ulioh's craving for ravioli at the time. All fifty of us were completely on the same page. Really.
Just out of speculation, if everything I just postulated were true—which would be absolutely absurd, and there's no way it could happen—but if it did, in some very unlikely scenario, I would be very scared. In fact, I'd be so scared that I wouldn't try to jump between dimensions anymore. I wouldn't try to build up empires or wreak havoc. I'd probably be too scared to come out of my basement. And I'd sit here, watching her every move, just waiting for her to find me so I could beg on my knees for mercy. And I'd probably be writing this.
Because when we completed the ritual, she recognized us. She knows every one of our names. And she has to know that if she manages to get every one of us to retract the curse before the seven thousand year mark when, for seven brief minutes, her powers will be completely up for grabs, the curse will be broken.
So she's got seven thousand years to find fifty of us.
Don't mind me saying so, but my money's on her.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Blue
The sea was blue, calm and inviting.
It was not supposed to be this way.
The sea was supposed to be stormy, gray, hostile; it was supposed to hiss at his approach and beat the white rocks like a beast within a cage. It needed to whip him with salty spray and sting at his skin with its cold wind. It needed to roar and fight the tide for the right to overtake him, to drag him under, to destroy his fragile human self.
He needed the sea to be that way.
Instead, it welcomed him, with smiling blue eyes and the gentle crash of the waves. It stretched out long before him, meeting the sky as blue as itself with gentle white clouds and seabirds calling over him. It lulled him into a sense of perfect peace, tranquility beyond measure, a life untainted by the worries of itself.
He knew it couldn't really be this way. The sea had tricked him before, and he would not let it again.
Under the surface of perfect blue, he knew there were undercurrents, waiting for him, waiting to pull him down, down, away from the sunlight, away from the world of streets and houses, into that dark world of endless water. He'd gotten away, he wasn't going back. He wasn't going back to that life.
He'd come here to remember. To remember why he couldn't go back. He was happy here, wasn't he? Here on land, with the muddled brown and green beneath his feet and the stability that came with it. There were no changing currents here, no cold water swirling down from the north to freeze his blood. The wind was like that, certainly, but there is escape from the wind. And he'd already escaped from the water. He wasn't going back.
The sea smiled at him again, playing with the sunlight in its waves. He didn't smile back. As soon as a cloud touched the sun, he knew the blue smile would disappear, and the sea would stare at him with a gray confidence. It knew he would return.
But he wasn't going to. He wasn't going back to be pulled under and frozen in darkness, or beaten against the rocks in the rage of the storm. He felt the bruises again in his imagination, and winced. No, he couldn't go back to that. He wouldn't. The sea was wrong.
But the blue sea still smiled at him, and the birds still called. They called him, he thought. He couldn't trust them. They were a part of the sea.
But then, he was a part of the sea too. No matter how far he ran on two feet, there was still that drop of water in his heart that called him back here, time and time again, to stare at the sea and make a choice.
Could he go back?
No, never, never again. He'd made the choice before, he would do it now, too. He would simply walk away, up the wooden steps that led off the white sand, and down the road into the town. He would stay there for a day, then go further inland, further and further until he couldn't feel it anymore, the sea pulling on his heart like gravity on his feet. And then he would be free, he'd be free finally. He could laugh again, smile again, live again. And never come back.
Was that what he really wanted? To never come back? Yes, yes, that was it! Never, ever would he come back to watch the seagulls swoop over the waves or watch the fish leap out of the water. Never again would he watch the brilliant orange sunset as the sun touched the water, and faded into inky twilight. Never again would he see the sea exhaust itself in storm, and caress those that it had bruised and broken in its waves until they were healed. Never.
This was not what he wanted.
He stared at the sea for a while longer. No. He would not go back. He would run forever, run until he couldn't feel it anymore, run until the blue in his heart and his eyes turned to brown and green, like those born to walk the earth. He would run until there was no saltwater running through his veins, until it was dirt and mud and stone. Until he was one of them, fully and completely, born of land and not of sea.
This was not what he wanted.
A hint of laughter, a splash, a sense of himself in another. She was here. He stood abruptly on feet that should not have been there and stared into the sea. Where, where, where? She was here!
She smiled at him from beneath the waves. He didn't smile back, and she darted away. He reached out his hand to call to her, then stopped, and sat back down.
He knew what he didn't want.
So what did he?
He wanted freedom. But was there freedom in running forever, in constantly staying away from where his heart longed to go? No, no there wasn't. As long as he lived, the sea would still have some part of him, whether he wanted it nor not. Was there freedom in giving in, in letting himself become himself and accepting that?
Yes.
He moved to the water's edge and stared down into it. The sea was smiling above the white sand, turning everything beneath it a crystal shade of blue. It stopped just short of his feet, and as the tide fell back, his heart went with it.
That was what he wanted.
He left his shoes on the beach as he walked into the water, feeling its summer warmth wrap around him. He didn't flinch as the water got deeper, deeper still, gradually accepting him back without condition. And he smiled, actually smiled for the first time in such a long time as the water rushed over his head, playing in his hair. The sea still knew him. The facade fell away and he became himself again.
He belonged here. This was what he wanted.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Serial Killer Dream
Ok, so last week I had a dream about a guy who somehow became a serial killer. I think it was because he was tortured, but it had something to do with water. He was convinced that "Life is the Deception." He only used his hands to kill people, and sometimes rope, and he never killed them while they were still conscious. And he always killed people in shallow water. Anyway, most of the time he wasn't aware that he was a serial killer. He was the nicest guy you could hope to meet when he wasn't in serial killer mode.
Anyway, he tried to kill this girl, but she somehow got away and left her hands behind. This made nice-guy (no, he doesn't have a name) suspicious and he went to a house in the mountains with a lot of other people. Anyway, it turned out that some of them were killers too, though they didn't have the "Life is the Deception" thing going on. So nice guy was taking out the trash (Gatorade bottles) with two of the other killers (though he didn't know they were killers yet) when the other two flung the bottles down the hill for no good reason and ran off.
Nice guy went to pick up the bottles and found a shallow stream at the bottom of the hill. Somehow this triggered a memory and he even more strongly began to suspect that there was more to him than he remembered. Anyway, his whole life he'd seen these dvd cases with people on them but nothing in them. He finds one with one of the two that ran off on it and decides to ask him about it after he throws the gatorade bottles away. The bottles are scattered all over the hill so it takes him a while to find them all and he finds a few more dvd cases, all having people from the house on them and numbers.
Then he finally throws away the gatorade bottles and finds his way to a smaller house in the trees where he finds a dvd case with his own picture on it and the number 9. The two that ran off come in and one of them is #8, so nice guy shows him the dvd cases and #8 seems startled and demands an explanation. The other guy, #5, goes back out and other people start coming in. All of them are the killers on the empty dvd cases and one girl, #4, shows that she has a superpower, the power to shrink. (her name was Mini or something like that.)
It turns out that all of the others have a superpower, and that nice guy is the only one with the killing amnesia. Also, the girl that he tried to kill turns out to be #2, with the power to regrow body parts, so she has hands again. She hasn't killed anyone (or at least she doesn't remember it) and she confirms that nice guy does, in fact, kill people. He's quite devastated by this. So then all nine of them are wondering what nice guy's power is, and all eight look at him expectantly. But then I woke up.
Anyway, he tried to kill this girl, but she somehow got away and left her hands behind. This made nice-guy (no, he doesn't have a name) suspicious and he went to a house in the mountains with a lot of other people. Anyway, it turned out that some of them were killers too, though they didn't have the "Life is the Deception" thing going on. So nice guy was taking out the trash (Gatorade bottles) with two of the other killers (though he didn't know they were killers yet) when the other two flung the bottles down the hill for no good reason and ran off.
Nice guy went to pick up the bottles and found a shallow stream at the bottom of the hill. Somehow this triggered a memory and he even more strongly began to suspect that there was more to him than he remembered. Anyway, his whole life he'd seen these dvd cases with people on them but nothing in them. He finds one with one of the two that ran off on it and decides to ask him about it after he throws the gatorade bottles away. The bottles are scattered all over the hill so it takes him a while to find them all and he finds a few more dvd cases, all having people from the house on them and numbers.
Then he finally throws away the gatorade bottles and finds his way to a smaller house in the trees where he finds a dvd case with his own picture on it and the number 9. The two that ran off come in and one of them is #8, so nice guy shows him the dvd cases and #8 seems startled and demands an explanation. The other guy, #5, goes back out and other people start coming in. All of them are the killers on the empty dvd cases and one girl, #4, shows that she has a superpower, the power to shrink. (her name was Mini or something like that.)
It turns out that all of the others have a superpower, and that nice guy is the only one with the killing amnesia. Also, the girl that he tried to kill turns out to be #2, with the power to regrow body parts, so she has hands again. She hasn't killed anyone (or at least she doesn't remember it) and she confirms that nice guy does, in fact, kill people. He's quite devastated by this. So then all nine of them are wondering what nice guy's power is, and all eight look at him expectantly. But then I woke up.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Technology
The problem with technology getting smaller is that it is simultaneously getting more expensive and easier to lose.
Take my iPod for example. It cost about $200 for 80 gigs. Not long ago, that thing would have been the size of a computer. Not very portable, but on the plus side, pretty easy to keep track of. As it is, I think I spend more time looking for the dumb thing than I do using it.
Another example: my cell phone. Don't know how much that cost, but that doesn't keep me from losing it every three days, just as soon as it runs out of battery. Again, I spend more time looking for it than I spend using it.
Now, I know that an iPod that you couldn't take with you would be about as useless as a cell phone tied to a wall, but an iPod you can't take with you is more useful than an iPod you can't find. A cell phone you can't find is pretty much useless too.
Maybe I should just get organized or something.
Take my iPod for example. It cost about $200 for 80 gigs. Not long ago, that thing would have been the size of a computer. Not very portable, but on the plus side, pretty easy to keep track of. As it is, I think I spend more time looking for the dumb thing than I do using it.
Another example: my cell phone. Don't know how much that cost, but that doesn't keep me from losing it every three days, just as soon as it runs out of battery. Again, I spend more time looking for it than I spend using it.
Now, I know that an iPod that you couldn't take with you would be about as useless as a cell phone tied to a wall, but an iPod you can't take with you is more useful than an iPod you can't find. A cell phone you can't find is pretty much useless too.
Maybe I should just get organized or something.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Black
There was never a night so black as the night of the invasion.
I was a soldier then, convinced that my country could do no wrong. I was young, almost in love. Almost, not quite. Not enough to keep me from enlisting at any rate. I knew that I would have to fight, that men would die. That was what happened in war. I knew that I might die. It didn't seem to matter so much, somehow. I don't think I knew what death was. I don't think any of us did. Death is something that resents being pinned down.
There was never a night so black. Trust me.
I was a soldier, in the prince's own squadron. I'd shown exceptional skill with a sword, they told me, and so I received this honor. I would be on the front lines, taking no prisoners, with glory ripe and ready for the taking. I knew that I would kill someone. I knew that I would kill a lot of people. But they were the enemy. They were more beasts then men. At least, that's what they told us.
Stars haven't seen a night so black as that. Even they hid their faces.
I was a soldier. I was a good guy. I was a hero.
I never realized I was an enemy as well.
Black. Only black. No moon, no stars, just black.
He was a soldier. He was the enemy. I should have killed him. I knocked his sword to the ground, held my sword to his throat, smiled. Why did I smile?
Why did he?
Black skies, black smoke from the oily torches. Black swords, black smiles.
I was a soldier. I had to do it. He was a soldier. He was the enemy. I could kill him, I would kill him!
So why did he smile?
Black hearts.
I was a soldier. Soldiers kill people. He was a soldier. He killed people. He would kill me. I could kill him. I should kill him. I was a soldier. I smiled to kill people.
He smiled to be killed.
I killed him.
There was never a night so black as the night of the invasion.
I don't smile anymore. I know what death is. It resents being pinned down, but you can pin it down regardless. And it smiles at you. It smiles because as you pin it down, it takes something from you. It takes something you can never take back.
I was a solder. I killed again. I became a hero, a good guy, with glory beyond what I could dream. But it doesn't mean anything. I don't smile anymore.
But he smiles. He smiled as he died. I don't know his name, I don't know his past.
All I know is he smiled. And I killed him. He still smiles as I suffer.
When I die, I shall smile.
There was never a night so black.
A bit darker than usual, I'm afraid. I started typing and this is what came out this time. Enjoy.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Phantom Club
November gets no posts. Feel sorry for it. Anyway, here's some writings by me.
Yeah, it's shorter than usual. And I didn't number it. But since I'm pretty sure nobody reads this, you'll live.
Blind could feel the last rays of sunlight on his back as he crouched on the edge of the building, listening to the sounds of the twilight city below. He was quite sure that the sunset behind him was beautiful, everyone would certainly tell him it was. He didn't really know, though. He'd never seen one.
He knew how the sun warmed his skin, and how the shadows of the buildings cast patches of coolness through the city. He knew the cold feeling of the metal beneath his fingertips as the warmth of the day dissipated into the chill air. He knew how the birds called among themselves that the day was gone, he knew how traffic dwindled from it's great roar of the daytime to near-silent whispers of the lone car heading home, he knew how the city itself seemed to sigh as it celebrated the release of sleep.
All this he knew.
He was just frustrated that he couldn't see the stupid thing, that's all.
Everyone had told him about it, and he was certain that they'd done a wonderful job, but it really didn't help to tell him about the way that the brilliant orange melted into the midnight blue of the sky when he didn't know what orange was. And really, how could he expect them to describe orange? It was... Well, orange. Not much help.
Of course, this shortcoming hadn't stopped him from writing about sunsets. Some of his best lyrics had been about sunsets. He'd written about the clouds that billowed around the dying sun, about the first dance of the silver stars in the inky twilight. He wrote about things he didn't know, he sang about things he'd never seen.
But he wouldn't be singing tonight. Tonight was not a night for Jay Kilsinger, but rather a night for DJ Sightless. And DJ Sightless never sang. Too bad.
Yeah, it's shorter than usual. And I didn't number it. But since I'm pretty sure nobody reads this, you'll live.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Fractals
So Recently I've started rendering fractals on 
my 
computer. Just for fun. I have no intention of putting them on an art site or anything. But here's a couple of my favorite ones, just for the sake of someone besides me seeing them. Assuming someone besides me reads this blog.My very favorite isn't here, cause it's too big for blogger to upload. I might post it someday, though.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Defiant Chapter 3
“So,” Cain said with a smile that would reassure a vampire, “I understand that it's you gentlemen who saw the phantom?”
Surveyors One, Two, and Three, better known as Jim, Carlson, and Edward, looked at him from their hospital beds. “Um... Yes,” said Jim.
“Who are you?” asked Carlson.
“And why do you have a loaded rifle?” Edward chimed in.
“All in time, my friends. As for now, just think of me as the creepy man with a rifle in your hospital room who's going to ask you questions. You're going to answer them.” Cain enjoyed scaring people, and this was a prime opportunity. “Right?”
After a moment's hesitation all three chorused, “Right.”
“So exactly what do you want to know?” asked Jim hesitantly.
“For starters, where did you see it?”
“In the west side of the forest, slightly south of the hidden trail head we found a few months back. He... I mean, the phantom, hadn't been seen there before, so we figured we'd be alright,” said Carlson.
“Wrong...” muttered Edward.
“You say the phantom is a he?” Cain focused his attentions on Carlson, but Jim answered instead.
“Yeah. Me and Ed got a better look then Carlson did, cause we started running later.”
“Hey, he was scary! Leaping out of a tree in a cloak the color of blood, and then just standing there, staring...”
“Hey, you took off almost before he started coming at us! For all we knew, he could've just been some random dude... In a cloak... Leaping out of trees... With freakish red spirals all over half of his face... Ok, so he probably wasn't normal,” Ed conceded.
“Anyway. He's a guy phantom, or whatever. Not a normal human. As Ed mentioned, he had freakish red spirals on the left half of his face.”
“ Red spirals?” questioned Cain. “You do realize that your story contradicts the wraith-like-tortured-spirit face story we've been getting up until now.” They shrugged. “Ok, back to the spirals. Just that made him not human?”
“Well, that and the flying. I swear he was flying.” Carlson interjected.
“Oh, not the whole 'It flew, It flew!' thing again. Are you sure it was flying?” Cain glared and fingered his rifle as he spoke. “Because this will go much easier if your story follows the laws of physics.”
“Hey, no need for violence.” Edward held up his hands, one of which was in a cast. “We're just telling you what we saw. The guy might not have been flying, but it looked a heck of a lot like it.”
“Ok, start from when you first saw the phantom.” Cain sighed.
“Well... We heard a voice when we were just heading down the trail, minding our own business...”
“And mercilessly mocking Carlson,” interjected Carlson.
“We were not merciless,” muttered Edward.
“Boys?” Cain tapped his fingers on the rifle. “I only need one of you to tell this story.”
“Um... Boys?”
Carlson made a face at Edward, then caught Cain's glare. He shrank back. “Shutting up now.”
Edward smiled. “Phantom tree, Carlson, Phantom tree...” Cain relocated the glare. Edward flinched. “Joining him.”
“Thank you,” said Cain, then motioned to Jim again. “Continue.”
“Well... We were minding our own business, mocking Carlson about believing in the phantom and all...” Jim paused and sent an apologetic look to Carlson, who smiled an I-told-you-so type of smile. “Headed towards where Edward thought he'd heard something. And I'd just said that if we saw the phantom, then I'd believe it exists, flying red ghost all the way. Just then, the thing did a front flip out of a tree ahead of us and landed about 40, 45 feet away, with this billowing red cloak thing swirling around it. Honestly, it was almost sorta cool.”
“And you almost sorta wet yourself,” interrupted Carlson with a grin.
“Look who's talking.” Edward said, dissipating Carlson's smile.
“Guys, now is not the time...” Jim was watching Cain.
“Gentlemen...” Cain's voice carried a warning tone in it. “There's two bullets in my rifle and three of you. As I mentioned before...”
“Um... Yes. Being quiet is a wonderful thing, with many redeeming qualities! Boy I sure do love being quiet, it's one of my favorite things, and...”
“We're going to practice right now! Yes, right now! Why don't we just let Jim get on with telling the scary rifle man the story now.”
“Anyway! After the billowing cloak thing, he just sorta stood there and watched us for a moment, and I told the boys that...”
“Wait, it sorta stood there? How can it sorta stand there?”
“Well, it's just the way he was standing. He looked ready to move, almost like he was moving already, like he was just waiting for us to run before he started chasing us. And he pointed at us, like he was accusing us of something... Of course, when we didn't run right away, he just leapt into the air, about ten feet high, coming towards us, and... Well...”
“We screamed like little girls and ran.”
“Very fast little girls. Manly ones.”
“Yeah,” Jim shrugged. “Pretty much.”
Hey! It's a new chapter! That has been written for like, a month now! Feel free to critique.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Random quotes
Yeah, I should post more often. But I'm fairly sure nobody reads this, so it doesn't really matter.
RANDOM'D!
"So maybe this was mostly my fault."
"Mostly?"
"Well... Yeah."
"How is it not entirely?"
"...You didn't stop me?"
RANDOM'D!
“I sleep in the anti-computer box. See over there? It's entirely made of not computer.”
"So maybe this was mostly my fault."
"Mostly?"
"Well... Yeah."
"How is it not entirely?"
"...You didn't stop me?"
“I would, except that at some point it becomes much more interesting to set things on fire rather than eating them.”
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Hamlet.
You know you're really, truly tired when you can say "Gardening is the theme of Hamlet!" and mean it. And you say it in such a way that it reminds you of Phoenix Wright, with the pointing and the fire of justice in your eyes, and you feel that you have totally shot down your opponent and they will never, ever be able to prove otherwise. Not with their silly theories about revenge being the theme. Gardening is totally the theme of Hamlet. And I don't believe you if you say otherwise. And do you know why?
Because it's midnight, and I'm almost done with an essay about Hamlet. I get the feeling that I'll turn this in tomorrow, and the teacher will say, "Well, the first part is good, but I get the feeling that during your conclusion, you just started making stuff up." And then, I will look her in the eye, and say with the fiery conviction of justice, "Yes. Yes I did." And then gardening is the theme of Hamlet. Cause I can prove it.
Because it's midnight, and I'm almost done with an essay about Hamlet. I get the feeling that I'll turn this in tomorrow, and the teacher will say, "Well, the first part is good, but I get the feeling that during your conclusion, you just started making stuff up." And then, I will look her in the eye, and say with the fiery conviction of justice, "Yes. Yes I did." And then gardening is the theme of Hamlet. Cause I can prove it.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Defiant Chapter 2
“Sir?” The young man watched nervously as the bounty hunter pulled a long, black rifle barrel out of the box.
“Yes?” responded the man, in a walking-on-thin-ice tone that made his employer's representative jump.
“We just wanted to let you know that the phantom has been spotted...”
“Phantom?” he interrupted, without looking up. He looked down the barrel, and snapped it onto the rifle as he continued. “You seriously believe there's a phantom.”
“Well, we don't quite know... I mean... Um... Well, yes.”
“A phantom. As in, ghost? As in ectoplasm and the disembodied spirits of dead people? Or is it more of a hobgoblin, some sort of mysterious monster, a creature yet undiscovered by science?” Cain LeStram looked the man in the eye. “Let's get something straight. Whatever is in that forest, it's not a phantom.”
“But sir...”
“Well, I don't quite care what it is,” came another voice. Both men looked up to see a man in a gray suit walking down the shattered sidewalk towards them. “We're paying you to shoot it.”
“Now that I fully intend to do,” said Cain, leaning the rifle against the truck. “You'll have yourself a dead whatever soon enough.”
“Mr. Miller! What are you doing here... I mean, I can take care of this, Sir. You didn't really have to come down.”
“I'm fine, Brant. I wanted to speak to Mr. LeStram myself. You can go.” Mr. Miller adjusted his tie as he spoke. “If you really need something to occupy your time, I'm sure the janitorial staff could use some help.”
“No Sir. I have plenty to do Sir. I'll go now Sir.” Brant backed away before half walking, half fleeing up the hill towards his small black car, which currently looked fairly meek next to the elegant limousine that had pulled up next to it.
“What's with him?” asked Cain, pointing a dirty thumb in the direction Brant had fled.
“Chronic Lackey Syndrome,” responded Mr. Miller with a chuckle. “Symptoms include mindless obedience, over the top respect, and power ties. Fairly common, I'm afraid.”
“Ah.” Cain smiled. “Is it deadly?”
“Not particularly. Completely incurable, though.”
“Too bad.” Cain coughed a bit and leaned against his pickup truck. “But I suppose you didn't come down to talk about him.”
“No. There's been another report of the phantom.”
“Phantom?”
“Yes, yes, I know. It's completely ridiculous. But let's just call it that for the sake of clarity, alright?”
“Hey, you're the boss. You say phantom, we go with phantom. So what did it do this time?”
“Badly scared three surveyors. They reported that it actually came out of the trees and attacked them.”
“You sure it isn't one of the 'it flew, it flew, we saw it' reports that you get so often?”
“Quite. They report that it actually touched the ground, and one claims he saw it's face.”
“Well, the face thing is nothing new, but the touching the ground thing we might want to look into. Nobody's reported that before, am I right?”
“Correct. They're in the hospital building at the main camp if you wish to speak to them.”
“Hospital? Don't tell me the thing actually attacked them.”
“I doubt it. From what I've been told, one or more of them fell while he was running. He's fairly scratched up. I didn't pay much attention to that part.”
“So I'll go have a chat with the surveyors,” said Cain with a grin, “and we'll find out what they saw.” He put the rifle into the back of the pickup and pulled out his keys. “You want me to follow up on whatever?”
“Yes. Please do.” Cain climbed into the tattered leather drivers seat and slammed the door shut, but opened the window when his employer continued. “Also, if you find the phantom, I don't particularly care for it alive.”
“Already understood. You pay me to kill things.” Cain rolled the window up and drove off.
“You don't have to put it that way,” muttered Mr. Miller. “But at least he's direct.”
'Ello everyone! I had this written a long time ago! I just never bothered to post it. But now, you all can read it! And critique it! Or whatever! But seriously, feedback of any sort is appreciated.
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