Curtains

Sal heard ripping.
Sal didn't like that sound.
Especially when that sound was coming from her living room, which a certain someone had been explicitly told to stay out of, not just by her, but by every authority he'd recognized. Em had even programmed him a dream where Captain Cannonball of sugar-cereal fame told him to stay out of the living room. If anything should've stopped him that would've been it.
And yet, clearly, he was in the living room.
She muttered something unprintable as she grabbed the flyswatter and stomped down the hall. That little shredding machine on legs was going to get it this time, especially if it was the curtains.
“It's not the curtains!” said the twelve step “Bright side of things” course in the back of her head and the top of her fridge underneath the phone book. “It's... a recording! Sure! Let's go with that!”
She didn't believe the twelve step course, but belief was the first step.
“It's not the curtains. It's not the curtains. It's not the curtains.” She repeated slowly, as she walked down the hall.
It was the curtains.
She wasn't surprised. Score one for pessimism.
Why was it always the curtains?
Sal stared at the seemingly innocuous little ball of metal, quivering at her expected wrath, then looked back at the torn shreds of blue ribbon that had been her new curtains. Had been. For the third time this week.
“Kevlar.”
The quivering little ball stopped quivering and held stock still.
“Kevlar,” she repeated, with more of the very-angry-mother tone she'd somehow picked up between now and when she'd met this little ball of... fun. Yes. Fun. “I know that that's you.”
“Not.” The voice didn't look like it's coming from the ball, but it was.
“Is.”
“Not! Kevlar sleeping upstairs.”
“No, Kevlar is not sleeping upstairs.”
“Kevlar in kitchen, helping.”
“Kevlar is not in the kitchen, helping.” And he wouldn't be any time in the near future either, if she had anything to say about it. Cleaning batter off of the ceiling fan once was quite enough, thank you very much. “Kevlar is on my living room floor, where he shouldn't be, underneath my new curtains, which he was not allowed to touch, which have also, somehow, gotten shredded. That's where Kevlar is.”
“Kevlar not touch curtains.” The ball unrolled, and the little robot sat on her floor, looking up at her guiltily. “Kevlar only look.”
“If Kevlar was only looking, then who, pray tell, ripped my curtains?”
“Josephus.”
“Josephus isn't here.”
“Yep! Josephus rip curtains, run. Not here!”
“Josephus hasn't been here for three hours.”
“Josephus run very fast.”
Sal sighed. Time for Kevlar logic. “Kevlar, I'm a detective. You know what that means?”
“Not care.” Kevlar started picking something out of his claws. She didn't know what it was, but the twelve step optimist course assured her that it was not tiny bits of her curtains that would get scattered all over the house for the next 8 hours or so.
“It means,” she said, completely serious, “That I have psychic powers, and I can read your mind.”
“Can't.”
“Can! You're thinking...” She closed her eyes and waved her hand in a very psychic way. “That I can't read you mind.”
The robot stared, completely silent for a moment, stuck in something midway between shock and awe, then slowly put his claws on top of his head. “Can't read through hands.”
“Can.” She put a little extra spite into the word, mostly fueled by the sight of the curtain bits stuck in his claws that he'd been trying to remove. The twelve step optimist course had nothing to say.
“Prove!”
“Ok. Think something very hard, Mr not supposed to be in the living room anyway.”
He closed his eyes. She watched him for five seconds or so, smiling, before she finally spoke.
“Captain Cannonball.”
Kevlar almost fell over. “Hu-min cheat!”
“I didn't cheat. You would've noticed if I'd cheated.” She held her hands up, smiling and shaking her head. “Admit it. I'm psychic.”
“Not cheat?” Kevlar looked skeptical. “How know?”
“You're not listening, boltbrain. I'm psychic. Telepathic. Clairvoyant. Magical.” Sal did a sparkly motion with her hands on the last word. “And what's more, I can tell that you weren't just thinking about Captain Cannonball.”
The little robot started to look scared.
“You had a dream the other day, didn't you? Captain Cannonball came, and gave you cereal, and told you to stay out of my living room. You remember that, don't you? Of course you do, you were thinking about it!”
Kevlar panicked and backed up against the wall, hiding behind the shredded curtains. “No! Don't remember! Forgot! Didn't have! Not think! Hu-min stay out Kevlar head!” he wailed. “Don't like psi-kick!”
“I'm right!” She crowed. “And what's more, I can tell what you did! I see it in your mind! Admit it, Kevlar! You. Shredded. My. Curtains. You came in here, and climbed up the back of the couch, and jumped off to shred the curtains. Your mind tells all!”
“No more psi-kick! Admit! Admit! Admit curtains!”
“Good.” She crossed her arms. “And you know what happens when you shred the curtains. Time out.”
He finally peered out from behind the tattered ribbons. “Have to?”
“Have to.”
“Don't want.”
“Shouldn't have shredded my curtains then.”
“Have to now?”
“Yes. Now.” She waved the flyswatter at him menacingly. “Or flyswatter and no dessert.”
He put his hands over his head again. “No flyswatter. Going now.”
“Good.” She barely resisted kicking the little robot as he walked out of the room. She breathed in, and out, just like she'd learned from the twelve step optimist course. He'll go do it. He'll do it quietly. She'd have an hour of quiet. Just one hour. One.
“...Curtains ugly anyway. Better now.”
She stared at him for a moment, twitching. He did not just...
“Oh, that is it!”
In retrospect, Kevlar's grip on the ceiling was rather impressive.
The holes he left in it were slightly less so.
But the twelve step optimist course made for wonderful replacement curtains.

Tinysaurus

There was a dinosaur in the fridge.
Amy stared at it, somewhat surprised.
It stared back for a moment, completely unsurprised, then went back to eating her lunch.
“Jaaaack!”
“Whatever it is, it's not my fault,” he shouted from two rooms away.
The dinosaur finished off the sandwich, and swiveled in the confined space, looking for other tupperwared prey. She was amazed at how small it was; it couldn't have been more than a foot high. And it was clearly a meat eater, looking at it's teeth and claws. This was definitely no ordinary dinosaur... as ordinary as any dinosaur could be.
“Jack!”
“I'm coming already!”
A huge crashing, clanging noise sounded from the other room. The dinosaur perked up it's head at that, alert and looking for danger. Apparently the winged figure five or six times it's size didn't count, since it soon enough went back to trying to bite through the lid of the leftover chicken.
Crash sauntered casually in. “Jack's a bit tied up. What's the problem?”
“There's a dinosaur in the fridge.” She stepped away, allowing him to see inside. “I'd like to know how it got there, and what it's doing with my lunch.”
Crash stopped short for a moment, wide eyed, until his brain finally registered that snakes do not have legs, and therefore this was not a snake. “R-right. Let me have a look at the little guy...” He put his hand into the fridge, very slowly reaching for the bipedal lizard.
The thing whirled, snarling, and jumped for his hand. He pulled back just in time to avoid losing a chunk of his thumb. The tiny thing tumbled out of the fridge and landed on the tile floor, looking slightly confused, until it decided that Crash's sandaled feet were the ideal prey.
Ten seconds later, Amy sighed as Crash stood precariously on top of the table. “What, the mighty black belt can't take something that tiny?”
“It's a dinosaur. I was never trained to deal with dinosaurs.” Not to mention it looked very much like a snake from that angle.
“You were never trained to deal with Fixit either.” She offered the thing a piece of chicken, which it took quite happily. “You know, it's actually kind of cute.”
“I'm here! I'm...” Jack skidded into the room, a wire wrapped around one leg still, and stopped dead in his tracks. “Dinosaur.”
“Yeah.” She scratched it's head, and it made a noise almost like purring.
“Tiny dinosaur.”
“Tiny vicious dinosaur. It almost took a chunk of my hand!” Crash spoke from atop the table.
“You just scared it is all.”
“Where did it come from?” Jack reached out a hand to examine the thing, and winced at the sound of it's teeth trying to bite through his metal gloves. He drew back.
“That's what I was hoping you could tell me, actually.” She shifted, the movement of her wings catching the attention of the dinosaur. It started moving slowly across the floor, ignoring the promise of chicken, stalking her feathers. She laughed at it. “It's cute, don't you think?”
“Yeah, cute in a deadly predator sort of way,” muttered Crash as he started to climb down.
Jack watched it from a distance as Amy lifted her wings out of it's reach, making it jump and claw at the air. “Where'd you find it?”
“In the fridge.” She wasn't really paying attention to him so much as she was the dinosaur, which tumbled to the ground in a manner entirely too adorable for it's species.
“How'd it get there?”
“I'm blaming Fixit,” said Crash.
“If you weren't hiding on the table, I'd blame you,” muttered Jack. “Fixit!”
The little robot burst out of the microwave in a cloud of powdered sugar and saluted, startling all present, dinosaur included. It darted under the table again.
“Fixit, there's a dinosaur in the fridge.”
Fixit went to the fridge, opened it, and stuck his head inside. He shrugged.
“It's not in the fridge anymore.” Jack sighed. “How'd it get there?”
The sugar-covered robot turned away from the fridge, looked at Jack for a moment with an air of puzzlement, and then pointed to Crash.
“Crazy robot, it wasn't me!” Crash looked indignant.
Fixit made a motion which, had he been human, would've been the equivalent of sticking out his tongue at Crash. The man almost returned the favor.
“Well, then,” Jack said, glaring at them, “who was it?”
Crash and Fixit pointed at each other again. “It was him!”
Amy knelt, coaxing thing out from under the table with a bit of chicken. “Come on, little guy.” The little thing came out and let her pet it as it gnawed on the chicken. She laughed. “There you go.”
Jack made a mental note to give Amy a raise, and tack 'dinosaur whisperer' onto her job title.
“So we don't know where he came from then,” she sighed. “Guess we'll have to keep him.”
“No!” said Jack and Crash simultaneously, Crash being the more empathetic of the two.
“I mean,” Jack coughed, “I'm sure we can find out. After all, the security system should be able to tell us something.”
“We need to give him a name.” Amy was ignoring both her coworker and her employer. “How about... Turnip?”
“Turnip the dinosaur.” Crash was unimpressed. “And don't give it a name, you'll start getting attached to it!”
“Turnip the tinysaurus.”
Jack looked distressed. “I... Um... You can't...”
Fixit knelt, looking at the dinosaur. He offered his hand, and the dinosaur sniffed it, got powdered sugar up it's nose and started sneezing. Amy laughed. “See? They'll get along fine.”
“But it's... it's a...” Crash gestured vaguely. “It's a dinosaur! A bloodthirsty killer!”
“Oh, don't worry, he likes me!”
“For breakfast!”
“Quit being silly, Crash.” Jack pressed a few buttons on his visor, accessing the security system remotely. “Security system's got nothing on it. Apparently a dinosaur just spontaneously ended up in the fridge... somehow...”
“That's not even possible,” muttered Crash, as he very gently stepped down to the floor, trying not to attract the attention of the toe-eating monster.
“I'll keep it,” she declared. “My apartment building allows pets.”
“What? But...” Crash took a few quick steps back as the dinosaur looked his way. “Ok fine just keep it away from me.”
Jack shrugged. “Go ahead, I think it'll be fine.”
She smiled at it as it went after her wings again. “Turnip. Good name for a dinosaur.” She waved a bit of chicken at it, and it followed her dutifully out of the room.
Jack, Crash, and Fixit stared after her. A moment later, Crash looked at Jack, his voice low.
“How long did you spend rehearsing that?”
“Two hours,” he said without even looking at him.
“...You suck.”
“Says you, Mr. Afraid-of-snakes.” Jack took off his visor and handed it to Fixit, who put it on his head.“Now if you'll excuse me, Amy is out a lunch, and I'm going to buy her a new one.”
As he strolled casually out of the room, Crash could only think of one good side to this.
More blackmail.

Seeing Eye Parapalegic

The wooden door resonated deeply with the knock, just like always. Jay didn't turn his head. “Hey, Monty.”
“Jay, open the door. It's one of those infernal outward-swinging ones.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He stood and opened the door. His brother rolled inside and switched on the light.
“Thank you.” Monty wheeled himself calmly to the table and Jay sat back down.
“No problem. So, what brings you off campus?”
“Just seeing what you're up to. Reading?” Monty glanced towards the braille book in front of his brother.
“Yeah. 'Hamlet.' Gear was complaining about it. Apparently it's an assignment.”
“Does he know that Facet is his English teacher?”
“Nope. I don't think she knows he's her student either.”
“I'd like to see them when they find out,” mused Monty.
“You'd like to see Sonya at all.” Jay gave what he imagined to be a mischievous grin. Monty glared at him.
“Riiight. You think I like her, little brother? Your mind reading has failed you this time.”
Jay shook his head. “Don't think so. Anyway, how's the math?”
“Same as always. Joyce from Physics won a big award last week, but everyone still hates her class.”
“And you won the student's choice award again?”
“The final results aren't in yet, but I can't roll two feet across campus without someone telling me they voted 'Professor K all the way.'”
“Creative. Just the math majors, or everyone?”
“Mostly math majors, but I've had quite a few that I only saw for introductory stats. I think it was one of the art students that's been putting up the posters all over campus.”
“Posters?”
“Yeah, just a drawing of me and the slogan in big orange letters. There's a couple hundred of them.”
“Ooh, does everyone else call that cheating?”
“No, they know I had nothing to do with the posters.”
“But you had something to do with the rally.”
“Not voluntarily,” Monty admitted. He realized something. “Wait a minute, how'd you know about that?”
“I have my ways.” Jay leaned back in his chair with his customary smile.
“You have a source is what you have,” muttered Monty, “and one of these days I'm going to figure out who it is.”
“Anyway, what were you saying?”
“My appearance at that rally was not voluntary. My wheelchair was hijacked by a robotics major.”
“And?”
“And they made me roll right onto the stage in front of a thousand cheering students. So I waved.”
“And?”
Monty glared again, despite knowing that Jay couldn't see him. “One of these days I'm going to find your source, you know this? And they made me do skate tricks in my wheelchair.”
“Now that was voluntary.”
“Ok, maybe it was. A little. But I did not voluntarily attend or condone the rally. The faculty knows that; in fact, it was one of the engineering professors that helped me disassemble the remote control. He said that he'd give the student an A for it, in fact. Apparently I was hijacked by someone fairly skilled.”
Another knock at the door made Monty look up.
“Jay? You home?” asked a female voice.
Jay smiled, and whispered, “Did I mention that a certain Dr. Sonya DuBoise lives two doors down?”
Monty paled. “No, you failed to mention that,” he said weakly.
“I'm home, just give me a minute to get to the door,” said Jay, loud enough for Sonya to hear.
“How do I look?” whispered Monty. Jay raised one eyebrow. “Ok, ok, fine.” Jay stood up to let her in. “Wait, no, not yet! I'm not prepared, I...”
Jay smiled and put his hand to the doorknob. “If you don't want her to see you,” he whispered smugly, “hide.”
Monty wished fervently that he hadn't worn shorts and a completely unsuitable t-shirt; also, that he could stand up and whack his brother on the head. He could do neither, so he rolled backwards into the closet and shut the door. “You are so not funny.”
Jay calmly opened the door and smiled. “Sorry about that. What did you need?”
“I was just wondering if you had seen... I mean, encountered my cat.”
“The walking dust mop?”
“I suppose you could call him that.”
“Third floor laundry room, yesterday morning. I'm afraid to say he completely evaded my stick. Our encounter was less than pleasant.”
“Oh, terribly sorry about that. Any idea where he went?”
“None, sorry.”
“Well, thank you for your help.” She glanced around. “Hey, your lights are on. Did you have a visitor?”
Monty breathed in sharply, and whispered, “No. No you do not have a visitor.”
Jay, of course, could hear him. Sonya couldn't. “No, I don't. I had the light on for the seeing eye dog.” Monty had to resist smacking himself in the face. This could not go well for him.
“You have a seeing eye dog?”
“Just got him. His name is Gomery.”
“Well, I hope he likes cats.”
“Oh, he loves cats. But I don't think I'll be keeping him for much longer.”
“Really? Is he not trained right?”
“I suppose he's alright. He stops and starts when he's supposed to.”
“What's wrong with him, then?”
“Well, he has no fashion sense, for one. Matched spots with stripes.”
Sonya gave him a strange look. “How would you know?”
“I have my ways. And he tells the worst jokes.”
“Your seeing eye dog tells jokes?”
“If you prefer to call them that, yes.”
“You're taking your seeing eye dog back because you don't like his jokes.”
“And because he's thoroughly immobile. Couldn't keep up with me if I carried him.” Monty glared at Jay through the door.
“Oh, well, I suppose that's a good enough reason. Where is he?”
“He's in the closet, resting.”
“Can I see him?”
“I don't know, let me ask.” Jay walked over to the door and knocked. “Gomery, would you like to come out and see Sonya?” Sonya watched incredulously as Jay waited expectantly. “At least answer me, Gomery.”
Monty silently cursed his brother. “Bark bark. Bark. Bark bark bark woof.”
Jay gave a small smug smile at the door before turning back to Sonya apologetically. “He says he's too tired. Terribly sorry.”
“No, that's ok. I'm... I'm gonna go look for my cat now.”
“Right. I'll see you later then!”
Jay shut the door after her. Monty rolled out of the closet and glared at him. “You... That was....”
“That,” replied his brother smugly, “was for the mashed potatoes. Now what were you saying about not liking Sonya?”


Random short. Just figuring out how these two interact.

Missing Christmas

So I'm in Arkansas as I write this, as I have been for the past five-ish months. Now, don't get me wrong, Arkansas isn't that bad of a place by any standard; I have a roof over my head, three meals a day, and seventeen billion (or so it would seem) hours of homework a night. In fact, the biggest thing wrong with Arkansas is the fact that it is not, through no fault of its own, Colorado.
Now, I understand that I chose to come here. And I understand that I'm choosing to come back in January. But at the moment, I'm wishing, rather forlornly, that I wasn't here, and that I had chosen to go to a school in Colorado instead.
Why? Because as I said before, Arkansas is not Colorado. In fact, it's very much not Colorado (You call these mountains? More like "largish hills.") And as it is not Colorado, many of the things that I'm used to happening in Colorado do not happen here.
Things like snow. Now, a few weeks ago, everyone was all excited because it had snowed. I got kinda excited, so I went to my window and looked out.
That was not snow. That was thickish frost. It was thickish patchy frost at best. It didn't even stick to the sidewalks. Laaaame.
Now, Colorado has snow. Snow means winter, winter means Christmas, unless you happen to be in pre-Aslan narnia.
Arkansas does not have snow. Therefore, it stands to reason that it is not winter (it is a nuclear apocalypse and all the trees have died), and therefore, there will be no Christmas. Santa Clause does not exist. Rudolf is a lie. And Frosty the snowman? Yeah, right.
This makes getting into the holiday spirit difficult, to say the least. The hall decorations are helping, but until frozen whiteness falls out of the ceiling (at which point I am MOVING OUT), it ain't the holidays that I'm used to.
But snow's not the only thing that's missing from Christmas down here. There's also a crucial lack of Girl Scout related excursions (though I got at least one of those over thanksgiving), assorted madness trying to get Operation Christmas Child together, and staring suspiciously at mysterious packages that arrive in the mail and are rapidly whisked away to the magical land of wherever mom hides stuff. This was supposed to be happening all through the month of November, eventually leading up to the annual deciding not to get a real tree this year and decorating three smaller ones to look like a big one. Yes, true holiday traditions. And all they have in Arkansas is ice and paper snowflakes.
But what I really miss, surprisingly, is one of the things that I least looked forward to when I had the option. Wrapping books at Borders with my girl scout troop. Getting stiffed by the lady with five oddly shaped books who's yakking on her cell phone the whole time and running out of tape at crucial moments isn't something you'd think I'd miss, but it is. At least, right now. Maybe in a few minutes I'll be missing having a heater that isn't schizophrenic, or pretending that my mom doesn't already know everything she's getting. Who knows. But right now, I'm missing Borders, and I'm missing it like crazy.
The sad thing is, it's one of those things that even if I had stayed in Colorado, I wouldn't be doing. My girl scout troop is done. Over with. Graduated. I don't usually adress real life stuff here, but it's happened. And even if we do get together to go to the mall once in a while, we will never do another fundraiser. That includes Borders, and all the cell phone yakking, odd shaped presents, reciept not-having and tape running out of that comes with it.
Somehow, I miss it.
It's hard to grow up in Christmastime.

The Magician's Grave

I stand here, waiting. Waiting for what, I don't know. Magic, maybe.
I stand where his grave should be. He has no grave, but here is where it would be, on a hill, looking away from the city, looking up at the sky. There's a tree here instead; just starting to bloom. Ten years old.
I planted it here. When I was young, too young to really understand who he was, what death meant, who he could've been. To me, he was a friend. A mentor. A refuge, a shelter, a listening ear, a caring voice. And again, he was a friend. That meant so much to me, young though I was.
I didn't really understand what it meant to die; simply that he was gone, he was gone, he wasn't coming back ever or ever again. I couldn't see him, I couldn't speak to him, he couldn't speak to me. He was just gone; a few brief days of silent twilight until he at last slipped away, vanished into nevermore.
I remember how he died. I was there. I saw it, I remember it. I don't count those brief days of halfness in the hospital, sleeping, barely breathing, barely living. He didn't die there, that was just when the last little bit of him stuck around while the good part, the living part, the part that made him him checked to see if he was done. Had he kept all his promises, settled his affairs, fed his doves and said his goodbyes? And then he was gone, vanished. I'll never be able to explain quite what it was, just that sitting there, my little hands wrapped around his thin fingers, I looked at him, and he almost, almost, seemed to smile. Almost seemed to laugh, halfway, as the magic came to take him to be with it, his magic, my magic, the world's magic, what little of it still showed through. And then he was gone. Gone-gone, not halfway, not leaving anything to chance, not leaving anything to ordinariness. Just gone, with that last hint of laughter and the frantic panic of the machines sent by doctors and nurses to guard what little of him was left.
The others were with me, then, just as they were when he really died, for real, the first time when he stood and saved me and gave his life for mine, not twilight died in a cold white room with silent machines to watch over him. They cried with me, and took my hands, and held me, and rocked me to sleep as I cried for him, cried because I couldn't see him anymore, and I couldn't see him ever again, and that was all I understood. I didn't understand that they were crying too, and they were as lost as I.
It is doubly sad to be lost when you're a grown-up, because then there's nobody to lead you home.
But he was gone, one hundred and a half percent and never coming back, no matter how much I cried. All I have left to me are his words, his words and his scarves and his doves, and a little book with golden pages, which I gave to the inventor. But I know, somehow, the magic, his magic, my magic, is still here, in golden pages and doves and dancing stars. In the colors of the sunset, in the silent whisperings of twilight, in choice and in belief. I am not afraid.
But that's never stopped me from standing here, in front of a tree just barely in bloom, and waiting for something that I can never name. He has no grave, no gravestone, no great monument like they gave to the others. This is the only place I have to mourn for him. This is the only place anyone will ever mourn for him; I and the others who knew him. This tree is a gravestone, a living monument, sheltering doves and freely dispensing fruit and being draped in all different colors as the seasons change. Stone is dead, and he was alive, so it's alright.
It's alright.


Written while listening to this song.

Emotions suck

Emotions. Yay.
On a related note, I hate/love/loath/need you all, so go away but don't leave me and shut up and talk to me.
To anyone who may be offended by my wanton drama-queening, I'm sorry. Once I turn into a robot, I can guarantee it won't happen again.

Climbing (Last and Only Friend)

Climbing.
I'm climbing.
It briefly enters my mind that when I reach the top, he'll kill me.
So maybe he will. So what?

Climbing.
He's climbing.
When he reaches the top, he'll kill me.
Maybe he will. So what?

Climbing.
I'm climbing.
Nothing matters anymore. Nothing. Not me, not him, not anything. Just climbing, climbing, getting to the top so he can kill me. Climbing, upward, onward, through the blinding snow. My hands are ice, my face is ice. He'll kill me, but he will only kill ice, not me. I've been dead for a long time.
So maybe I am. So what?

Climbing.
He's climbing.
Everything matters now. How I look, what I say, how I say it, what I think, how I breathe, everything. Just everything. He's climbing, climbing, coming the top so he can kill me. The blowing snow outside the high window swirls briefly into the dancing firelight before it disappears into the blackness of the ice outside. Somewhere, he's out there. I wonder if he's still alive. Maybe he's been dead for a long time now.
Maybe he is. So what?

Climbing.
Still climbing.
I pull myself onto a ledge, one that's just big enough for me to sit, to stay for a moment while I turn my hands from ice to hands again. But I can't stay for too long, all of me will turn to ice. I am already ice; my blood runs colder than the snow that melts on my skin, that sticks to my hair, that turns my black clothing into icy whiteness. I am ice. All he will kill is ice. I start for the top again.
Maybe I'll die before I get there.
I won't.

Climbing.
Still climbing.
I can feel my brother's blood pulsing through my own veins, getting colder and colder by the second. I move to the fireside; maybe he'll feel my warmth like I feel his cold. He's coming to kill me; his hands are ice and his blood is ice and his heart is ice. And I am fire, white hot and burning. My hands are fire, I destroy everything I touch. My blood is fire, I cannot control myself; I cannot choose what I will destroy. And my heart is fire, I cannot bear the destruction that I brought, but all I do to fix it destroys more. So I confine myself here, in this tower, on a cliff on a mountain on a snowy plain, where all is ice like my brother, and where he's coming to kill me.
Maybe he'll die before he gets here.
He won't.

Climbing.
I'm climbing.
My brother probably knows I'm coming. Of course he does, that's why he's going to kill me. I blow on my frosted hands whenever I get the chance, trying to warm them up. Sometimes, I'm glad the cold doesn't burn me like it does him. I can feel his warm blood in my veins, pulsing, burning, roaring through me, with that eternal fire that wanted to save the world, but instead turned it to ash. Ash. My brother. My last and only friend.
I'm climbing
So he'll kill me. So what?

Climbing.
He's almost here.
I pause, hesitantly, at the window. I want to open it; he's not that far yet, but... I am glad that the heat of the fire doesn't burn me like it does him, but I cannot be careful enough, I cannot know how much to hesitate. How much can he stand? He's cold, he's ice, he's frost. Frost. My brother. My last and only friend.
He's climbing.
So he'll kill me. So what?

Climbing.
The rock gets colder as my hand touches it.
I can feel him now, he's here, he's nearby. I'm almost to the top. My brother, my last and only friend. Ash. Ash, my brother. I'm coming, I'm climbing, I want...
I want you to kill me.
Ash, my brother. My last and only friend.
I'm climbing.

Climbing.
I can almost touch him now. We are linked, somehow, painfully, sorrowfully, for no two could be so alike. And yet so different. I am fire, I feel, I love and hate and change, I move, I walk and run and climb and learn by knowing, and he is ice, he stays, he reads, he feels so little and knows so much. We are brothers, but we could've been strangers. And yet somehow, painfully, sorrowfully, we are the same. I can't explain it, I never could. But now he's coming, he's coming to kill me. My brother, my last and only friend. Frost, my brother. It should me me out there climbing, and you here in this tower so far away. That is how it should be. But you're coming, you're climbing.
You're going to kill me.
You're climbing.

I'm at the top.

He's at the top.

He's going to kill me.

My brother, my last and only friend.

Hello.



Inspired by this song.

The Train

I sit silently on the hill, waiting for the train.
I don't want to get on it. I never do, I never did, and I never will again. I just sit, and wait, and watch for it, just to know that it's still there, and that I'm not the only one left.
Someone has to be running the train, I know. Someone is still there.
I don't want to find them, but it's nice to know.
I can hear it coming, far away, the chug-chug-chug of the old steam engine pumping smoke and water into the air, bringing ash to settle on the trees, the empty bird's nests, the new fallen snow. The distant clacking is comforting, but I still sit, I still wait. I can see my own breath like the steam of the train.
It's getting closer. Chug-chug-chug and clack-clack-clack dance in the breathless air, spewing black warmth into the silent cold. I pull my old jacket tighter around my shoulders.
I wonder if the train will still come through here in spring.
The empty gray sky tells me a story, today, of how I should get to shelter, or I might be stuck here, sitting, waiting for the train, in the snow and ice and ash. A story of snow, and snow, and then maybe snow tomorrow. There will be no sunset today, only empty grayness fading into black.
I can almost see it now, the big black engine chug-chug-chugging it's way along the frozen tracks. Every day, a moment and an hour before sunset, it makes its way through this empty forest. Empty now, but not when it started. Not back when, way back when, before me, before my mother, before my grandmother and great grandmother and all so many years ago, back when the train was new, and the tracks shone in the sunlight. Back before the tracks were lined with ash from the train rolling by, again, again, again, and again. Back before the forest was cut, and grown, and cut, and grown, and left to rot when nothing was left, and slowly, slowly grew back, back into something that it never thought to be. It's still a forest, but it's a place for things like me.
Things with no place for them.
I rub my human hand with my other, trying to warm it. My left shoulder is cold; I can understand why. It's a problem, but not in spring, not in summer, not in fall. I can deal with it in winter. Metal is cold, always cold, but I'm ok. I'm ok now.
The train is coming still. The light shines through the blowing snow, shining on the tracks. The tracks are black now; once they shone like my left hand does now. Once back when.
I wonder, when I am as old as these tracks, will the train still come?
The engine rushes by me, finally. I can see the silhouette of the coal man, rising and falling like a clock. I know they have machines for that now, but he still rises and falls, rises and falls, moving the train with his dented shovel and blackened hands. I can't see his face, but that's alright. I just need to know he's there. I just need to know I'm not the only one left.
The cars of the train clack-clack-clack along behind the engine, staring at me with frosted windows and darkened cars. There's nobody there, not like the coal man. If there was then I would never know. But the coal man is still there, and that's enough. That's enough.
I don't need to be lonely, not anymore. I don't need to feel that way. But somehow, somehow, I do, I am. But it's better to be lonely than to pretend not to be. This is my place; there is no other for me now.
But the coal man is still there, and that's enough. That has to be enough.
So I sit silently on the hill, watching the train roll away, staring at it long after it's faded into the distance, long after the clack-clack-clack fades into the silent cold.
The train still comes. And that's enough.


I wanted to write something not quite so happy; more specifically, I wanted to write something that felt like this. Not sure that I succeeded, but at least I tried.

Solar vs Bottom Dweller

“And with a push of a button, I shall destroy your puny hydraulic dam, and destroy this city!” The man in the fish suit laughed maniacally. “And the river shall once again be free for fish to swim in! Freedom, my brethren!” He spoke to the two catfish swimming lazily around in a walking robot tank. “For I am... The bottom feeder!”
Solar could only stare. “You cannot be serious.”
“There is a fish ladder. It's not like they're stuck,” came Susan's voice from the huge robot panther beside him. “I remember I rescued a cat from it once. Dear Duplo, he was such a wonderful kitty.”
“He spit everywhere, and smelled to high heaven,” complained the robotic voice of Todomi, who was the one actually running the robot. “You said yourself that you should've left him in the fish ladder.”
“I didn't really mean that, dear, any more than I meant that I wished I'd kept the cat-cannon to launch you into the sun.”
“Focus please,” said Solar, as he watched the maniac below dance in front of his camera via which he was threatening the city; namely all four people watching his videoblog. “He might not have a brain, but he has a bomb.”
“And a rather interesting robot! Do you think we could manage not to break it, dearie?”
“Sure, why not.” Solar pulled a staff out of a beam of sunlight. “I'll distract him, you take care of the bomb.”
“Right! Let's go, Todomi!”
The agile robot leapt into the forest surrounding the dam, disappearing into shadows as Solar stepped into light. He was off and running down the slope, head down, headed straight for the fishman.
It didn't take long for the man to notice him, especially once he started attacking. “Heathen superhero! How did you find us?”
“Gee, I wonder,” said Solar, as he landed a solid hit to the man's chest, knocking him back. “It's not like three people a day threaten the dam or anything, and of course there would be no reason for someone to be up here watching for it!”
“How dare you suggest the plan of the great ones is unoriginal?!” The Bottom Dweller threw a handful of muck at Solar, which he dodged.
“Quite easily!” Solar twisted around and struck the man again. “You've put your bomb down by the generators, right next to one of the central pillars. It has a digital timer, I'm guessing.”
“You spy!”
“I'm no spy, you're unoriginal! What you fail to realize is that the pillar you intend to destroy won't actually bring down the dam! It's still structurally sound without that support!”
“That's why there are two bombs!” The fishman looked triumphant as he finally managed to hit Solar with a fistful of mud.
“On the same pillar!” Solar wiped the mud off with the back of his hand and struck again as the man squawked.
“You spy!” He struck with the fury of a thousand flopping goldfish. Solar caught his fist and twisted it around his back until he cried uncle. “I.. I surrender! You win this round, land dweller!”
“Big surprise.”
“Fool!”
Solar stared at the robot containing the catfish tank. “Excuse me?”
“You dare surrender to this pathetic human? You make us ashamed to call you our brother.”
“I'm sorry, Oh great ones!” The man in the fish suit cowered, bowing as much as he could without breaking his still-twisted arm. “Forgive me! My human body is weak!”
“You shall pay for your disobedience!” The catfish-mobile began charging what appeared to be a high powered laser. “Now, speak your last, and be honored to do it in our presence!”
“I shall love and serve the fish of the world, even in my death!”
The robot stood high on it's spindly legs and the two catfish inside did their best to look imposing and merciless. “Now, then, die!”
Solar caught the laser beam in midair, freezing it in place.
“What is this treachery?” asked the fish.
“What is this lunacy?” countered Solar.
“The great and mighty catfish, heathen!” The man in the fish suit had regained some of his self righteous confidence. “They will transform this puny human town into the beginnings of a new Atlantis, ruled by catfish, where humans are slaves to the superior race! You shall be no more than a pebble washed away by the mighty river of their greatness! All hail the mighty...”
“Done!” Susan's robotic panther sprang out of the top of the dam. “Bomb's gone. All taken care of. How's the madman?”
“Ruled by fish.”
“All hail the mighty catfish!”
The panther gave as incredulous a stare as was possible with a robotic panther face. “Seriously?” it asked in Todomi's voice.
“Dearie, bring that fishtank robot back. I'd like a look at the robot, and I'm sure you and the other kitties wouldn't mind a snack...”
The fishtank backed away. “Do not touch the tank of the great ones, mortal... shining cat thing! For we are great, and we shall destroy you when we conquer...” It didn't get any further before the robot panther leapt. The smaller robot didn't stand a chance. It was trapped before it could even start it's laser charging.
“We'll have to leave you alone for a while, Solar. I need to take a closer look at catfish technology.”
“Right. You call Sam?”
“She's on her way with the police. Do try to be nice, dearie, the poor girl's had it rough recently.”
With that, the robot panther leapt from the dam, landing neatly on it's feet hundreds of feet below, and took off toward Susan's little cat-filled home.
“Oh, yeah...” Solar stared after it. “Right.”



Wrote this as a part of a much larger story, in which I've been making all my characters ten years older than I originally thought them up as. Apologies for the lack of conclusive ending, but it makes sense in context. For now, laugh at the insane fish cult member. And comment!

The Magician's Door

The inventor slumped against the wall, staring at the wooden door. Nothing was behind it, no flying ribbons, no escaping doves, no smiling magician to burst out just as he opened the door. Nothing would fall on him, nothing would fly out at him, nothing would scare him. He knew that.
So why was he so afraid to open the door?
He stood and put his hand to the bronzed doorknob, then stared at his hand, and slumped back against the wall. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing.
The magician had nothing dangerous; the worst that he could expect was ribbon. He knew that, the man was about threatening as a basket of kittens. Or at least, he had been. Now...
He put his hand to the doorknob again. Opening the door in three, two, one...
He slumped back down, letting his hand slide from the doorknob like water. No, no, he couldn't do this. He was afraid. Why? What was so different about now? He'd never known if the magician was here...
That was it. That was what was different. That was why he was afraid.
He knew the magician wasn't here.
And that scared him.
He didn't want to walk into the empty room knowing that it would never be filled again, he didn't want to know, to see with his own eyes, to test and to verify the magician's absence. He knew it, he'd seen the man fall, but somehow, somehow...
Somehow, maybe, if he didn't open that door, the magician would still be in there. Still laughing, still smiling, still quietly reading the little book with golden pages. Still feeding the doves, opening the windows, throwing ribbon everywhere. Still living, still laughing, still loving.
And he didn't want to know that he wasn't.
Oh, he was not crying. No. No. He was not crying. He was not going to cry about this. Not because the magician had gone and gotten himself shot, darnit, not because that stupid magician had gone and stood in the way of that stupid, stupid idiot conqueror and took thirteen stupid shots to the chest and gotten the stupid crap beaten out of him, darnit, not because said magician had wound up in the stupid hospital on a respirator with no magic left and probably going to die within a few days, maybe a few hours, a few stupid lonely hours, darnit, not because that stupid magician was dying, not because he was dying, not because he'd never wake up, not because he was... not because the magician was his friend, his good friend, maybe his only friend, and his friend was dying, darnit, not because he was too much of a stupid coward to go and see the only friend he had before he was dead, darnit, stupid dead, stupid death, stupid stupid stupid stupid! Darnit, he was not going to cry!
The inventor was crying.


I wasn't sure if I needed to introduce the character of the inventor before I showed his response to the magician's death, but I'm posting this anyway. I've written some other magician stuff involving this character, but I didn't like it so much as I liked this. Enjoy.

Falling

The world was falling.
This didn't see quite right. He opened his eyes.
Ok, so the world wasn't falling. He was falling.
This didn't seem quite right either.
The ocean below him seemed quite small still, so he had a ways to go. He looked back up. Nothing. He'd fallen out of nowhere.
Nothing seemed quite right today.
He looked all around him. Hello cloud, hello other cloud. Nothing else around. He looked back down.
The ocean was still very far away.
He stretched, then gathered up his hair and stuffed it in his collar. Nothing worse than hair getting in your face when you're falling to your death.
It momentarily occurred to him that he shouldn't be this calm about falling out of nowhere to his death. He considered panicking, then decided against it. It couldn't do him much good, and besides, it was a pleasant day today, if you discount the wind. No sense in ruining it. He looked down again.
The ocean didn't seem to be getting any closer. Probably because it was just so big.
Maybe this was a dream. Yeah, that must be it. He was having the flying dream again, and he'd wake up right before he hit.
If he ever hit. The ocean needed to hurry up and get here.
But he didn't remember the flying dream being quite so... cold. Or windy.
No matter. Clearly, he was dreaming. Which totally explained the lack of panicking. And how and why exactly he was falling.
He flapped his arms experimentally. No, he couldn't fly. No matter, it was just a dream. Too bad; he'd always wanted to fly.
He looked back down and wondered, momentarily, why the ocean was still an ocean. If this were a dream, it should logically have turned into lemon pudding by now. But no. Still water, still big, still very far away. How high up was he, anyway?
It pleased him that the ocean was getting a little closer. He rubbed his ears. Dreams shouldn't be so cold. He decided that as long as he was here, he might as well have fun with it, so he twisted around in midair until he appeared to be seated.
At that point, he began going through the motions of having a tea party.
Abe Lincoln stared at him. “You should be panicking,” he said over a cup of earl grey.
He nodded politely, and his mind's version of Abe Lincoln pulled the parachute cord and vanished.
He wondered why Abe Lincoln hadn't seemed quite himself today. He'd had to work much harder to bring him to the tea party.
He looked back down. The ocean was getting closer fast. He said goodbye to his imaginary tea party, gave the tiger a hug and waved goodbye as he drove away, and then turned his attention back to falling. Yes, he should be hitting the ground within a minute. Or the water, either way.
So he'd be waking up.
He stared down at the ocean calmly and politely, arms outstretched. It briefly flashed into his mind that he was going to do a bellyflop, and it would hurt like nothing else, so he pulled himself into a swan dive and waited.
He'd be waking up any minute now.
Any minute now.
Any...

A few random shorts

I haven't written anything really worth posting recently, but I have quite a few small things that I like enough to share. Don't expect them to be complete or make sense; they're not, and they won't.



A slice of the sky, of heaven and angels, cut down and bound here, bound to the earth to walk, to walk forever and ever amen, always staring up, never quite remembering who, or what, she is. Never, ever knowing, always longing, never looking down, never looking back, always trying, striving, reaching higher and higher, seeking to pull herself up from here, from this empty dust of too many distractions and nothing is real, nothing is reliable, and yet far too steady and unchanging, she walks the earth. Her prison. She doesn't remember, doesn't, couldn't imagine what she is, who she was. Who she will be. The wind calls her name. She doesn't know it's hers.



Black. White. Black. White. 64 squares. He stared at them darkly. Chess, chess, how he hated chess. The boy that sat across from him apparently liked it. Oh, and how he hated this boy. Smug little... The boy stared at the board a moment longer. “You're sure.”
“Yes, good grief! I'm sure!”
“You're sure you're sure. You want to move your queen to take my pawn. You're sure.”
“I'm sure! Just take your turn already!”
The boy shrugged. “Fine then.” He gently picked up a the black rook with the delicacy of an artist. “My turn.”
The man sputtered in shock. “How the...”
“Checkmate.” The young face broke into a gentle smile as he tipped over the white queen with the rook. The small noise of it tapping to rest on the board sounded like the crash of an empire.
The sirens of the police sounded like a dirge.



Jack stumbled out of the smoking robot, coughing. He looked up with tired eyes through the shattered mask, and saw her.
“Amy...” he whispered.
She was running to him before she even knew she was standing up. He opened his arms just in time to catch her as she embraced him. “Jack...” she mumbled.
His heart skipped several beats as they stood there. He was holding her. He was holding her. He was holding her! He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, and was hardly embarrassed at all when he started crying. She was crying too, and he shushed her gently, reveling in this new role as the comforter, the pillar of strength.
Thirty feet away, Crash hauled himself up, and proceeded to pull the little robot up from the hole behind him. They stared at the pair for a while, and then Crash shook his head and sat down, smiling broadly.
“So. Who's his best man, you or me?”
Fixit sat down next to him, looked at him for a moment, and then pointed to himself.



“Cursed be the charcoal, cursed be the wood, cursed be the gasoline, cursed be the one that would. The world will burn, the world will burn, the world will burn and I will laugh and the world will turn and turn and turn and we'll be left behind.” Spindle offered his hand. “Shall we dance?”

Jars and spiders

Love, Mike Queens thought between glancing behind him and not using his turn signal, was a very strange thing. It made a man do things, unmanly, unnecessary things, like buy flowers. Flowers. Dead plants. It was beyond him why dead plants were deemed necessary by love, but they were, and even an idiot like himself could look at flowers and say “I will buy these for Sadie” without having any comprehensive reason why.
And for some reason, dead plants made Sadie very happy with him. Sunflowers especially; roses seemed a little formal... How did he know this stuff?! He was male, for goodness sake. Men aren't supposed to think about roses and formality and piddly little stuff like that, they were supposed to think about guns, and lifting heavy things, and opening jars, and killing spiders, and other manly things.
But then, Sadie was his match with a gun any time, and heavy things were not his specialty.... But he was good with jars! And very good with spiders. Sadie didn't like spiders, and spiders didn't like rolled up newspaper. Mike glanced at the rolled up newspaper in the side pocket of his jeep door and smiled. Yes, he was good with spiders.
But then he glanced back at Sadie, sleeping peacefully through the bumpy jeep ride into the outback, and sighed again.
Why was he sighing? This was that whole love thing messing with his head again. It made him buy flowers, it made him sigh... What next, jewelry?
He glanced at Sadie again, then swerved slightly to miss an alarmed looking road-creature.
Ok, jewelry. Her ring size... seven maybe? Eight? What was the rule on this, guess high or guess low? But maybe rings were too formal, maybe he should start off with something less... committal.
Darnit, he was thinking about these things again! Jars and spiders, Mike, keep it together!
Bracelets... did she wear bracelets? Or earrings? Another glance in her direction made him almost hit a tree. Earrings. Small ones, maybe, she didn't seem like the type for big hoops or dangling things getting caught in her hair and in her way... Maybe just diamonds, set in...
Diamonds? No! Way too committal! What was he trying to do here, propose?
How the heck was he supposed to propose, anyway? The whole get down on one knee affair was a little... cliché, but a classic nonetheless. Maybe something a little more creative, like a scavenger hunt, or...
Good grief!
Mike shook his head in disbelief and pulled off. He didn't know whether it was love or just plain old lack of sleep that was making him think this stuff, but either way, he was in no condition to drive.

Spindle's March

The rhythm of a thousand pounding footsteps hitting the ground in unison shakes the city as they march, one in mind and thousandfold in body to the center, to the tower, to the summoner. To Spindle. Spindle. He twirls around the spire of the tower, the ever-present smile glued onto his mask, laughing as they march. This is it, this is it! They're coming!
They march, march, footsteps on concrete, from everywhere, from miles around. They come from sewers, from forests, from everywhere. The army of the unknown, the army of the feared, the army of Spindle. The inhumanly tall form winds it way down the tower, laughing, laughing. He is mad, no doubt. He has known that for a long time. But now! Now madness was sanity, now the unknown marched the streets! Now the uncontrollable was his to command, the feared feared him! He leaps from the tower, vaulting head over heels in the air.
The pounding beat works its way closer, and they begin to arrive, begin to gather. Spindle watches, gleeful and mad and inhuman. He spins again, spins with dark, near-demonic joy as the abominations surround him.
Abomination! What a word. Spindle loves words like that. Abomination, exhumation, rotation. Quotation! No, no, that one's no good. Spindle laughs. Abomination! He is, they are! This is what they are called! This is abomination!
He dances, his long limbs trailing behind themselves as the creatures watch. This is it, this is it! They're coming, they're here! He can hear them, the march of thousands more getting closer and closer, the pounding beat syncing up to his mad heartbeat, the rhythm shaking the dark, damp city that for so long has called him abomination. He is! This is his march, the march of the abominations! This is his night!
Spindle laughs, and spins around in glee. This is his. This is his. Everything is his now.



Spindle wants to wish you a happy Halloween.
In person.
I'd hide if I were you.

Too big, Too white.

The doctor exited the room, slowly shaking his head. The hero knew instantly what he meant. So did the rest. But the little girl did not. And when they told her, when they told her that the magician could not get better, that he would never come back to dance with her and to show her the spots in the world where a bit of magic still showed through, when they told her that he would never even open his eyes again, or breathe without a machine to help him, she cried. She cried, and shouted, and fought against them all, trying to get into the room where his battered body lay. The hero held her, took her kicks and scratches and screams in stride, and did not move, did not cry, did not change his face or look into her eyes as she fought him. He did this for her.
She fought for a very long time. The others tried to console her, took turns holding her, took turns being kicked and bitten and scratched and screamed at. But she fought on, and on, trying to get in, trying to see him, even when they took her away from the hospital she kept screaming, kept crying. The magician, her magician, was being taken away from her. She couldn't understand why.
She fell asleep, sometime between the second and third day after. And the hero finally left her side, finally came back to the hospital. He came to see for himself what he wouldn't let her.
The magician lay on a bed far too big, looking far too small, far too pale against the white bedsheets. He looked too frail, too thin and tiny to really be the magician, to really be the color and life and everything that he had been. Even his smile, his ever-present smile was gone, covered with the respirator that allowed him to get just enough air to cling to whatever of the incredible life was left in him. The long IV in his thin, pale arm was too much. The hero couldn't stay here, in this colorless room, with a friend that he never knew well enough to understand.
But he needed to know. He needed to understand.
So he stayed.
He fell asleep there, in the visitors chair of the tiny hospital room, waiting for something he knew would never happen. But he chose to hope for it anyway.
The morning light filtered through the white, sterile curtains as he awoke. The magician still lay unmoving on the too-big bed in the too-big hospital gown and everything was white, white and sterile and far too big and not magic at all. This was not where the magician belonged, his mind decided as he awoke. And when his mind was fully awake, and clear and ready to be rational, he still held onto that thought. With or without his magic as he'd known it, the magician remained just that, a magician, and his magic never could, and never would, have tolerated such empty whiteness.
So the hero, in one of the least rational but perhaps greatest ideas he'd ever had, tied his red bandanna to the magician's bed. Just a little spot of color, just a tiny bit, just enough to break the sterile whiteness.
And just a little, just a tiny bit, the magician looked more like himself.
The hero smiled, a sad smile, nothing like the magician's, but perhaps just a little more than it had been the day before, and walked out.

Puppies (of the evil sort)

Puppies, they say, are the least evil of creatures. I stand in direct opposition to this point of view. No, I am not taken in by the adorable brown eyes, the big, fun, fuzzy paws, or the oh-play-with-me-please-please-please attitude. I am well aware that all these are designed to trick me, to fool me into dropping my guard and snuggling the fuzzy little hairball like there's no tomorrow.
And that's when the vampire puppies attack.




Just practicing not taking myself seriously. Enjoy.

Rush.

He rushes at me, his sword drawn. I leap out of his path, and try to cut him with my own sword. He dodges, but not without another cut to his cape. His clothes are all full of holes from my attacks, and mine are likewise. We've been fighting for so long, so long now. I whirl around and try to slice him in the back, but miss. That cape of his makes it difficult to judge where he is. It doesn't matter. I'll win this anyway.
My wounds are bleeding, still. How long they've been there, I don't know. How badly I am injured, I don't know. How badly I have injured him, I don't know. I only know that I am bleeding, and he is bleeding, and eventually one of us will run out of blood. It will be him. I'll win this.
I jump out of the way of his sword as he tries to cut a path through me. He almost doesn't expect my counterattack, and my sword nicks his shirt. Almost, I almost had him that time. He almost has me with a thrust at my chest. Another button gone.
I hate him. He hates me. We've hated each other, and fought, attacked and defended, dodged and struck, trying to destroy each other for as long as I can remember. I don't know why.
His sword almost catches my ear. My sword almost severs his foot. Sword clashes against sword, sparking the air into light and noise. The ruined city around us watches silently. We've been fighting for so long now...
Why do we hate each other? Why do we fight, why do we attack each other with swords drawn, why do we strike and destroy? Why? We've been fighting for so long now. I don't remember why. Why don't I remember? Why do I hate him? Who is he? Who am I? Will this ever all be over?
He rushes at me. I dodge. A flurry of swords, he dodges. I miss him, he misses me. Another tear to my clothing, another ever-so-slight wound that slowly speeds my demise. Another clash of swords.
No.
Until we know. Until we know who, and why, until someone comes here, and tells us who we are, and why we fight, we won't know. We won't remember. And this will never be over.
I rush at him, sword drawn.
I don't remember why.

Happiness has bad penmanship

http://www.critters.org/bonsai.html is a very interesting thing. The basic premise? You put in several blocks of text, and it spits out a bizarre amalgam of them that somehow makes sense. Here are some of my favorites that it's given me:

"Something seemingly deadly, monstrous, inhuman.
We needed something tangible.
Something that he twisted around.
She didn't know I designed the stars. "

"I told you, I could've sworn that I was not dead."

"They've shot her.
She didn't know I live in exile.
The difference was much stronger than prison.
“You're awake then.” A Memo, from Outsiders.
Once, all must be stopped for me. "

" “You don't want to miss it.
Trust me.” He shot her. "

" “It's nothing to do anything with.
Now they come to you.” He kidnapped my arm to make me sir, does yours have a name?” “Yes, it's name is Jack.
Call me sir, does not give you license to call me now.
He still shoots laser beams. "

"This is the earth shattering crunch of the imagination, alone."

"Happiness has become a bullet."

" "The golum is afraid of healing, quite clearly!”
“It is.”
"The golum is a blessing that you say I couldn't carry."
“You don't want to see it!” "

The Crucial Question

The crucial question. The one and only answer. One he had, the other he so desperately needed.
A year ago he'd been convinced he knew the question. He'd prepared, he'd practiced, the whole thing was set up. And he was so sure of the answer. He just had to ask the question, and hear the answer. Happily ever after.
How quickly things had changed.
So much had happened. The world was dying. Perhaps it was already dead. Everywhere, things were falling to pieces, and only he could stop it. So the world asked him the crucial question. Not his question. It's question. And he answered.
And now, now the world was in a thousand pieces on the ground, trying to pick itself up again. It had shattered somewhere between the middle and the end. And it asked a thousand questions, all without answers, and the one crucial question was lost amidst the noise. But he had a new question. Still the old remained unanswered, but if the answer to the new question was no...
Happily ever after would never come.
So he sought his answer. The question was asked a thousand times to a thousand people, and all eventually lead him here.
A shattered chapel. Stained glass windows shine patches of color on the splintered pews. Here, here is where his question could be answered. Here, in front of the alter he stands. Here is where the first question would have lead him if the answer was yes.
Here is where his heart breaks if the answer he seeks is no.
And they tell him the answer will be found here. He goes back outside. A field of yellow flowers, underneath the sun. A little bit of life left in his shattered world. He almost smiles.
And then he sees her. Among the ruins of a battle.
She is lying on her back in the field, her eyes closed. She does not move.
This is the crucial question.

The Sleeper

“Quiet.” The stranger held up his hand. “Peace be to you, my brethren. We are gathered.”
“Brethren?” Victoria pulled back. “We are not your...”
“We are gathered,” he repeated, interrupting her, “not to mourn, not to conquer. We are gathered simply to know.”
“Who are you? Who is this 'we' that you keep talking about?”
“We are gathered.” He kept his face turned to the ground, not opening his eyes. “You seek the sleeper, correct?”
“We do!” Galen stepped forward. “Do you know where...”
“Peace. You have sought what you do not understand. Do you truly know what you seek?”
“We seek the sleeper, the one who dreams this world into being.” Victoria responded. “The unknown element of all that drifts in and out of existence. The one thing in this world that is real.”
The stranger did not smile. “If that is so, what shall you do when you find him.”
“We shall wake him.”
“Why.”
“Why? To escape! The sleeper is what traps us here! If the sleeper awakes, than we can...”
“Escape.” The man finally smiled. “You do not understand what you ask. Escape is entirely possible. Your quest is in vain.”
“What do you mean?!” asked Galen. “We have fought our way to the deepest part of the world, and you tell us it's all been for nothing?”
“Not for nothing. We are gathered.” The stranger lifted his arms, motioned to the ethereal world around them. “Here, where ideas are the shape and substance, where everything changes and all remains the same, here at the border of darkness and light where nothing becomes everything and everything melts away; here is where we have come. Here is the world where the sleeper resides. This is his domain. And here. We Are Gathered. And now you shall know.”
The two stepped back, staring. The world around them shifted, moving inward and outward, pulsing with power at his words. Shafts of brilliant light formed out of the darkness. Color became color in it's true self, indescribable and impossible. They fought to hang onto their existence, their very being, as reality moved around them and beneath them and inside them.
And then the man spoke the words as they realized them.
“I am the sleeper.”



Listening to too much creepy music. I could've continued this, but didn't feel like it. Enjoy.