So apparently, I haven't fooled anyone into thinking that I can keep my head in one story for more than twenty minutes. This is further evidence towards their point, and as such, a new story. A bit of introduction is necessary for this one. The story is set in late 1800's Europe, though I need to work on showing that in my dialouge, and stars Mary, a british author on holiday, and Charles, her unlucky suitor/stalker/friend, who, working together, create a fake detective and accidentally make him famous. This is early on in their working relationship.
The man I had collided with was not, fortunately, a stranger. The shaggy brown hair and startled eyes were extremely familiar, coming as they did attached to a beanpole of a man, shabbily dressed, and headed towards the inn where I was staying.
"Oh! Good day, Charles!" I said, trying to regain my composure.
“Mary!” Charles looked startled, nearly falling backwards into the woods as he stumbled to regain his balance. “What's going on? I heard there was a murder!”
“There was!” I whispered, pulling him off the lane towards a small stone bench. “But keep your voice down, I'm not supposed to have left.”
“What happened?” he asked, a little more quietly, glancing back up the road to the little inn.
“The desk clerk was poisoned. Looks like Arsenic to me, but they haven't let me inspect the body well enough to tell for sure.”
“You're trying to investigate?”
“Of course I...”
“Mary, just leave it to the police!” Charles implored, interrupting me. “They know what they're doing.”
“No they don't,” I retorted heatedly. “That inspector is a first class idiot—he's been promoted because of some rich uncle or something, I'm sure of it.”
“He can't be all that bad.” Charles glanced from side to side, making sure we were completely alone. “Can he?”
“He saw my name on the desk register and assumed it was a man.”
“”Well, Augustus is a man's name...”
“Well, yes, but when he came up to speak to me about the clerk's death, he assumed...” My embarrassment took over at that point. I turned bright red, and broke off abruptly.
“Assumed what?”
I took a deep breath, and attempted to continue. “I had to tell him Augustus was my brother, and not, in fact, my lover.” I had to look away as I spoke, trying to hide the burning blush on my face.
“He what?” I should have known better than to tell Charles that. His face turned redder than mine. “Why, that's an insult to your honor—I won't stand for it, I'll...”
“You will do nothing!” I caught his arm, holding him back. “The last thing I need right now is for someone to imply that I lied to a police inspector in the middle of an investigation!”
“But...” He sighed, calming down under my watchful eye. “Right.”
“Thank you.” I gave him a brief smile, before glancing back down the lane towards the inn. “But now he's looking for my supposed brother—he wants to interview him about where he was and what he was doing last night.”
“Oh.” Charles stood thinking for a moment and running a hand through his hair. “Well, that is troublesome.”
“Extremely.”
“I don't suppose you have a plan to divert them?”
“Not as of yet, no.” I sat down on the little bench with a sigh, momentarily stymied. “I've really gotten myself in deep this time.”
“No joke.” He sat next to me, thinking, before he suddenly stood again. “I've got it!”
“Got what?” I inquired, staring up at him.
“I'll masquerade as your brother!” he said triumphantly.
“Charles, we look nothing alike!” I objected.
“Well, not naturally, no.” he admitted. “But you've caught me before in disguise—I bet I could fool that police inspector!”
“But...” I trailed off. “I don't like it.”
“It's the only plan we've got.” He sat again, shrugging his shoulders. “Unless you've got a better one.”
“Unfortunately, I don't.” I sighed again, brushing the dirt off my skirts. “But do you really think you could pull that off?”
“I said you've caught me before.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke. “I didn't mention the times you haven't caught me.”
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
More bits of stories
The nightmares came suddenly, violently, in the midst of what was otherwise normal sleep. There was never a hint of warning beforehand—she always, always went straight into them, breaking the dreaming silence with a world-shattering scream. And she would fight. She would fight the air and the thin blanket, thrashing in an attempt to escape an invisible danger, so violent sometimes that he was afraid she would hurt herself. He always dropped out of the network when it happened, into his body to climb up the little tunnel into the cockpit and hold her, whether to keep her from hurting herself or simply because he didn't know what else to do. And he would stay with her, wrapping her in his arms, until the nightmare subsided from screams to whimpers, from sobs to heavy breathing and a tearstained face. And then he would lay her back down in the pilots seat, gently as ever, more gently than he ever did anything else, more than he ever let her know he could do, and watch, just for a moment, just to be really, truly sure she was fine. And he would climb back down the little tunnel and head back into the network, where he would wait. He would wait until she awoke again. They would both pretend that nothing was wrong.
In the forest there is a ruin, and in the ruin there is a clock tower. And in the clock tower, there is a man, barely a man, more a boy who's rather surprised to find himself taller; but he lives in the clock tower and sometimes, on clear days, he plays the bells. There is only one song he ever plays, and it is the only song that he knows. But he rings the bells, loud and clear, and the one and only song echoes over the ruins, through the forest, and barely, just barely, into the world beyond.
He came from nowhere, the boy-turned-man, who rings the bells on clear days. He flew in on silver wings, in silver fog, and no one saw him but the doves who lived in the clock tower, who live there still. Perhaps he lives off of pigeon's eggs. Nobody knows, really. Nobody talks to him. Nobody has ever talked to him, out of those few that have seen him. He fled from the few that tried. But perhaps he was only afraid, and not a hermit like they think he is, for if you get close enough to see him, (which is very hard, and not many people can), he looks downcast always, like a lonely man.
There are letters that they, those who pass by, have found in hollow trees and the dry places of the ruin. The writing is neat, round, childlike, but readable. The sentences are short and to the point.
Dear you, they say, If you met me, would you remember me? Because if you would not, then I would be glad to meet you. I am alone.
They vary from letter to letter in what words they use, the number of sentences, the greeting and occasionally the end. But they are never signed.
Nobody sees him leave these letters, but they all know it's him, those few who are so downcast to live in the ruins and find them. Nobody else is quite so alone.
The song he plays is an old one, one of those odd songs that everyone knows but no one can remember the words. Sometimes he makes up little variations, playing chords with the bells. Sometimes he gets so far into this experimentation that the song is hardly recognizable, but it is always the same song, the only song he knows. But the last bell—the bell that would be the very last note of the very last verse, the one that's supposed to echo out so the listeners can breath again—is cracked, right down the middle. The last note is never played.
“I refuse to believe it.” Her voice was only half firm, wavering slightly with emotion. “He's not dead. I've heard him, and I can still see him when I'm asleep. He's... stuck, I guess. In the earth's magnetic field.”
“Sam...” Gabe shook his head, putting the mop back in the closet. “I know you've never been wrong before. You were right about Dr. Sarin, and the Puppetmaster, and everything. And we all owe our lives to you. But still...” He trailed off. “His body was destroyed, Sam. There is literally nothing left.”
“So? He's still alive. I know he's alive. I...” She trailed off, sinking down against the locker and putting her arms on her knees. “I can't tell Timothy. It'd hurt him too much. But... I had to tell someone. Seth's alive. I don't understand it, but he is. Maybe I'm really crazy this time.”
“I doubt that.” Gabe said, leaning up against the lockers next to her. “I believe you. If you say he's alive, you've never been wrong.”
“Really?” She looked up at him, disbelieving.
“Yeah.” He pulled the box cap over his eyes. “Don't expect me to back you up on that, though. I'm crazy enough to believe you, but not that crazy.”
“Psh.” She turned away again, smiling faintly. “Didn't figure.”
Again, just some little things I've written recently. I really like them, but didn't really think they were enough to post on their own. Tell me what you think!
In the forest there is a ruin, and in the ruin there is a clock tower. And in the clock tower, there is a man, barely a man, more a boy who's rather surprised to find himself taller; but he lives in the clock tower and sometimes, on clear days, he plays the bells. There is only one song he ever plays, and it is the only song that he knows. But he rings the bells, loud and clear, and the one and only song echoes over the ruins, through the forest, and barely, just barely, into the world beyond.
He came from nowhere, the boy-turned-man, who rings the bells on clear days. He flew in on silver wings, in silver fog, and no one saw him but the doves who lived in the clock tower, who live there still. Perhaps he lives off of pigeon's eggs. Nobody knows, really. Nobody talks to him. Nobody has ever talked to him, out of those few that have seen him. He fled from the few that tried. But perhaps he was only afraid, and not a hermit like they think he is, for if you get close enough to see him, (which is very hard, and not many people can), he looks downcast always, like a lonely man.
There are letters that they, those who pass by, have found in hollow trees and the dry places of the ruin. The writing is neat, round, childlike, but readable. The sentences are short and to the point.
Dear you, they say, If you met me, would you remember me? Because if you would not, then I would be glad to meet you. I am alone.
They vary from letter to letter in what words they use, the number of sentences, the greeting and occasionally the end. But they are never signed.
Nobody sees him leave these letters, but they all know it's him, those few who are so downcast to live in the ruins and find them. Nobody else is quite so alone.
The song he plays is an old one, one of those odd songs that everyone knows but no one can remember the words. Sometimes he makes up little variations, playing chords with the bells. Sometimes he gets so far into this experimentation that the song is hardly recognizable, but it is always the same song, the only song he knows. But the last bell—the bell that would be the very last note of the very last verse, the one that's supposed to echo out so the listeners can breath again—is cracked, right down the middle. The last note is never played.
“I refuse to believe it.” Her voice was only half firm, wavering slightly with emotion. “He's not dead. I've heard him, and I can still see him when I'm asleep. He's... stuck, I guess. In the earth's magnetic field.”
“Sam...” Gabe shook his head, putting the mop back in the closet. “I know you've never been wrong before. You were right about Dr. Sarin, and the Puppetmaster, and everything. And we all owe our lives to you. But still...” He trailed off. “His body was destroyed, Sam. There is literally nothing left.”
“So? He's still alive. I know he's alive. I...” She trailed off, sinking down against the locker and putting her arms on her knees. “I can't tell Timothy. It'd hurt him too much. But... I had to tell someone. Seth's alive. I don't understand it, but he is. Maybe I'm really crazy this time.”
“I doubt that.” Gabe said, leaning up against the lockers next to her. “I believe you. If you say he's alive, you've never been wrong.”
“Really?” She looked up at him, disbelieving.
“Yeah.” He pulled the box cap over his eyes. “Don't expect me to back you up on that, though. I'm crazy enough to believe you, but not that crazy.”
“Psh.” She turned away again, smiling faintly. “Didn't figure.”
Again, just some little things I've written recently. I really like them, but didn't really think they were enough to post on their own. Tell me what you think!
Monday, February 15, 2010
It was raining
Raining. It was raining.
He hardly noticed anymore.
The battered leather overcoat had once been fairly waterproof, but age and use and use and use had reduced it to nothing, and water soaked through like sound. He plodded onwards, heading into nowhere, across the wastes. He moved not so much forwards as away.
Mud caked the old trousers, the broken boots, the blistered feet inside. The rivulets of water running down his face ran into his open mouth, and he thought without thinking that he should swallow, and save what little water he carried for later. He stumbled, catching himself half-inches above the ground. The world was mud, and what wasn't was pain, and what wasn't was water and tiredness mixed into more mud, just like the stuff on his trousers.
He didn't know where he was going. He'd never known, not since he set out. He knew precisely, though, where he'd been.
The smell of woodsmoke drifted through the rain, suffering a thousand battle wounds from the piercing drops, but still there. He almost, almost woke up from the trance of one-foot-forward at that, lifting his eyes from the broken, muddy ground to stare blankly at the forest around him, not sure what he intended to see. Nothing, nothing, ever nothing, and he looked back down.
His pack was heavy, slung over one shoulder. It didn't hold much; a little food, a little water, a lot of rain. Two books, soaked through and useless. A needle, black thread. Nothing.
He thought, his mind fighting against the stupor, that he could hear children laughing—somewhere, elsewhere, probably only in his memories. There was little enough laughter there, maybe it could use a little more.
He stumbled again, as his exhausted feet lagged behind where his mind said they should be, and fell this time. He pushed himself back up, wiping the mud from the scarlet mark on his face with a sleeve so dirty it hardly made a difference before he plodded onward, upwards, away.
Always away.
This isn't exactly finished, but I like this part. It's a lot shorter than most of my stuff, but hey.
He hardly noticed anymore.
The battered leather overcoat had once been fairly waterproof, but age and use and use and use had reduced it to nothing, and water soaked through like sound. He plodded onwards, heading into nowhere, across the wastes. He moved not so much forwards as away.
Mud caked the old trousers, the broken boots, the blistered feet inside. The rivulets of water running down his face ran into his open mouth, and he thought without thinking that he should swallow, and save what little water he carried for later. He stumbled, catching himself half-inches above the ground. The world was mud, and what wasn't was pain, and what wasn't was water and tiredness mixed into more mud, just like the stuff on his trousers.
He didn't know where he was going. He'd never known, not since he set out. He knew precisely, though, where he'd been.
The smell of woodsmoke drifted through the rain, suffering a thousand battle wounds from the piercing drops, but still there. He almost, almost woke up from the trance of one-foot-forward at that, lifting his eyes from the broken, muddy ground to stare blankly at the forest around him, not sure what he intended to see. Nothing, nothing, ever nothing, and he looked back down.
His pack was heavy, slung over one shoulder. It didn't hold much; a little food, a little water, a lot of rain. Two books, soaked through and useless. A needle, black thread. Nothing.
He thought, his mind fighting against the stupor, that he could hear children laughing—somewhere, elsewhere, probably only in his memories. There was little enough laughter there, maybe it could use a little more.
He stumbled again, as his exhausted feet lagged behind where his mind said they should be, and fell this time. He pushed himself back up, wiping the mud from the scarlet mark on his face with a sleeve so dirty it hardly made a difference before he plodded onward, upwards, away.
Always away.
This isn't exactly finished, but I like this part. It's a lot shorter than most of my stuff, but hey.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Beautiful
“Karen?” His voice was unsure, for once, and she dropped lightly to the ground, listening to the distinctive sounds that her boots made on the pavement.
“I'm here.”
“Good.” He breathed out, relaxing his grip on the railing. “I was worried...”
“Why?” She didn't mean to sound as startled as she did. “Did something happen?”
“Oh, no. Just something I heard on the bugs.”
“What?” She put a hand to his shoulder. “Tell me.”
“Oh, one of the delve guessed you were a girl.”
“What?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What did he say—should I do something?”
“It wasn't serious—I think he was drunk, actually.” Jay almost laughed. “Nobody took him seriously.”
“Heh.” She relaxed. “So only drunk people and blind men can tell I'm a girl.”
“Oh, I'm sure I could tell anyway.” The smugness crept back into Jay's voice. “Even if I could see you.”
“You sure?” Karen shook her head slowly. “People have made the mistake before...”
“No, really?” He turned towards her. “They can't have really...”
“They have!” she insisted. She expected him to make some comment on that, but he was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.
“...Karen.” He finally spoke. “What do you look like?”
“Why?” She shifted nervously.
“Just curious.” He shrugged, turning away again. “I just don't know, is all.”
“I...” She hesitated. “I have brown hair and hazel eyes.”
“And?”
“And... and I'm kinda pale and I'm shorter than you by about five inches and my dad says I'm too muscular for a girl.”
“And?”
“I don't know,” she turned away. “What do you want me to tell you?”
“I don't know.”
There was a moment of silence between them, as Karen stared out at the winter skyline, and Jay listened to the dull roar of the monorail tracing it's way through the city.
Jay worked up his courage at last. “Can... can I touch you?”
“...What?” She took a step back. “Why?”
“It's... it's the only way I can tell what you look like. Just your face. I'll be gentle.”
“...Alright.” She swallowed hard. He held out a hand to her, and she very slowly guided his hand up to her face, and let him go. She shut her eyes.
“You're shaking.” His voice held something different in it now. “I don't have to...”
“No. No, go ahead.” She spoke quickly, trying not to turn away.
His fingertips rested lightly on her cheek for what felt like forever before they finally started to move. He traced the line of her jaw with four fingers, leading down towards her mouth. He brushed it lightly with his thumb, and moved upwards, gently running his fingers across her skin. She barely noticed that she was clenching her fists so hard that her short nails bit into her skin. His fingertips glided along her forehead, pausing for a second at the base of her hair, then down again, following the curves of her eyebrows and onto her eyes.
“Why are you crying?” His fingers stopped.
“I'm...” She started to deny it, but the crack in her voice defied her. “I didn't want you to...”
“I didn't have to, you could have said...” He sounded genuinely concerned. “I'm sorry.”
“I didn't want you to know...” She tried to keep from sobbing. “I didn't want you to know how ugly I am.”
There was a silence that felt like it lasted for forever, with his fingertips still resting on her face. Then Jay pulled away, for only half a second.
And then he embraced her.
She almost tried to struggle, but he didn't let her, strong arms holding her still against him. “Don't say that,” he whispered. “Don't.”
“But..”
“You're beautiful, Karen. Who told you...”
“I'm not—I'm really..”
“Don't say that.” He cut her off again, pulling her closer. “You're beautiful,” he breathed into her ear. “I checked.”
Normally, I wouldn't post stuff this sappy on my blog, but hey, it's valentines day. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
“I'm here.”
“Good.” He breathed out, relaxing his grip on the railing. “I was worried...”
“Why?” She didn't mean to sound as startled as she did. “Did something happen?”
“Oh, no. Just something I heard on the bugs.”
“What?” She put a hand to his shoulder. “Tell me.”
“Oh, one of the delve guessed you were a girl.”
“What?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What did he say—should I do something?”
“It wasn't serious—I think he was drunk, actually.” Jay almost laughed. “Nobody took him seriously.”
“Heh.” She relaxed. “So only drunk people and blind men can tell I'm a girl.”
“Oh, I'm sure I could tell anyway.” The smugness crept back into Jay's voice. “Even if I could see you.”
“You sure?” Karen shook her head slowly. “People have made the mistake before...”
“No, really?” He turned towards her. “They can't have really...”
“They have!” she insisted. She expected him to make some comment on that, but he was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.
“...Karen.” He finally spoke. “What do you look like?”
“Why?” She shifted nervously.
“Just curious.” He shrugged, turning away again. “I just don't know, is all.”
“I...” She hesitated. “I have brown hair and hazel eyes.”
“And?”
“And... and I'm kinda pale and I'm shorter than you by about five inches and my dad says I'm too muscular for a girl.”
“And?”
“I don't know,” she turned away. “What do you want me to tell you?”
“I don't know.”
There was a moment of silence between them, as Karen stared out at the winter skyline, and Jay listened to the dull roar of the monorail tracing it's way through the city.
Jay worked up his courage at last. “Can... can I touch you?”
“...What?” She took a step back. “Why?”
“It's... it's the only way I can tell what you look like. Just your face. I'll be gentle.”
“...Alright.” She swallowed hard. He held out a hand to her, and she very slowly guided his hand up to her face, and let him go. She shut her eyes.
“You're shaking.” His voice held something different in it now. “I don't have to...”
“No. No, go ahead.” She spoke quickly, trying not to turn away.
His fingertips rested lightly on her cheek for what felt like forever before they finally started to move. He traced the line of her jaw with four fingers, leading down towards her mouth. He brushed it lightly with his thumb, and moved upwards, gently running his fingers across her skin. She barely noticed that she was clenching her fists so hard that her short nails bit into her skin. His fingertips glided along her forehead, pausing for a second at the base of her hair, then down again, following the curves of her eyebrows and onto her eyes.
“Why are you crying?” His fingers stopped.
“I'm...” She started to deny it, but the crack in her voice defied her. “I didn't want you to...”
“I didn't have to, you could have said...” He sounded genuinely concerned. “I'm sorry.”
“I didn't want you to know...” She tried to keep from sobbing. “I didn't want you to know how ugly I am.”
There was a silence that felt like it lasted for forever, with his fingertips still resting on her face. Then Jay pulled away, for only half a second.
And then he embraced her.
She almost tried to struggle, but he didn't let her, strong arms holding her still against him. “Don't say that,” he whispered. “Don't.”
“But..”
“You're beautiful, Karen. Who told you...”
“I'm not—I'm really..”
“Don't say that.” He cut her off again, pulling her closer. “You're beautiful,” he breathed into her ear. “I checked.”
Normally, I wouldn't post stuff this sappy on my blog, but hey, it's valentines day. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
Monday, February 08, 2010
The Shattered Mirror
The old door didn't so much creak open as it banged, and Alice practically lunged inside with the heavy box of decorations. She dropped the box with a relieved sigh. The thick dust that covered everything poofed out in all directions as the cardboard met the wooden planks of the attic, catching the golden light that filtered through the dirty windows. Alice shoved the box up against the wall with her foot, and stood, surveying the scene for a moment.
Janice hadn't been kidding when she'd said they didn't come up here much. The dust now swirling around the air clung to everything, and abandoned spiderwebs glittered in every corner. The ceiling sloped inwards, peaking above the door, with three great beams that corresponded to the big pillars in the library below. A series of boxes much like the one she'd just dragged up the long staircase lined the walls, some with an old copy of a ruined book gracing the top of the pile, and others with less natural adornments, like old tinsel, or buckets. The warm yellow light of the summer afternoon suffused the room, and for a moment, she felt a strange nostalgia, like she was hiding in grandma's attic until far after she should have gone home.
That feeling snapped abruptly as her eyes rested on the floor at the center of the room.
There was a mirror. At least, there had been a mirror—what remained was a mess of fragments, scattered across the floor almost up to the door where she stood. The remains of the frame were missing. But the oddest thing was the total lack of dust on the mirror—even the floor it sat on was coated, but the mirror itself was completely clean. No footprints led up to it, or away from it.
Alice, quite suddenly, had to get back downstairs right this second.
She turned, but the door had closed behind her. She grabbed the handle, trying to open it until she remembered Janice's warning about the sticky lock. She bit her lip, trying to fight down the panic as she twisted the doorknob this way and that to no avail. She was stuck.
“What, leaving so soon?” A voice she knew from bad memories echoed out from behind her. “Alice, I thought we were better friends than that.”
She swallowed hard. “You... are not real.”
“Am I?” She refused to turn around and see him standing there, rising from the mirror like she would rise from a pool of water. “Then why, my dear Alice, are you so afraid of me?”
“You're a bad memory. A figment of my imagination. I'm not crazy anymore, darnit, and I know that you are not real!”
“Of course you're not crazy, Alice. You were never crazy.” His voice was smug, smooth, intoxicating, the perfect gentleman that he wasn't, he wasn't, she knew he wasn't. “But do you really have to take it out on me? I'm hurt.”
“You're a fictional character. I thought you up when I read Alice in Wonderland when I was seven. You don't exist. I know that.”
He laughed, like bells. “Alice, you know I was there before that.”
“So I was crazy before that. I'm not crazy now. Go away.” She clamped her eyes shut, keeping her hand on the doorknob as an anchor to reality. “You're not real.”
“Alice...” His voice was pleading in a way that already had what he wanted, the way he always had. She could feel him stepping across the fragments of the mirror, flickering in and out of reality as he touched them. “What happened? It used to be so easy for you to believe in me—all you needed was a book. Just that, one book, one afternoon—and you knew I was there.”
“I was crazy.” The words came in a half-sob. “Go away. Wherever you've been for fifteen years.”
“I never went away, Alice. You stopped believing, but I never went away. The others did, but you know...”
“Go away!” she shouted, finally whirling to face him. “I'm not crazy, I refuse to be crazy! I'm imagining you because of the mirror and the stress and I must be panicking, that's it, I'm panicking because the door won't open and oh no don't come any closer...”
“Shush.” He put a hand over her mouth, balancing precariously on a shard of mirror. “Now, Alice, dear, won't you calm down? This does neither of us any good.”
He was different than she'd remembered him. The parts were all there—the long curly hair barely held back in a ponytail, the well tailored suit jacket, the ridiculous top hat and white porcelain teacup in one well-manicured hand. But he was different—his eyes were darker, though still half hidden in shadow; his hair was brown now, instead of white, rich and dark like coffee or dark, expensive chocolate, shining like silk as it curled around his half-smiling face. The hat was even more ridiculous, if that was even possible—it had gained bits and pieces of belts and metal and a clock, stitched in to the grey fabric with black as night thread. The coat was a different cut, with flaired sleeves and a tie wrapped around one arm. And the ace of spades winked at her, tucked into his hat band, just as it had been when she had last seen him fifteen years ago.
He removed his hand from her mouth as her breathing returned to normal. “There, that's better.”
“You've changed,” she said breathlessly, trying very hard not to believe her eyes.
“You've changed, and so I have too.” He smiled a little at that, ducking his eyes beneath the dark brim of the top hat. “I am whatever you need me to be.”
“Gone?” She quipped, trying to regain her courage.
“Hah, no, not today.” His smile was a little more forced. “You can see me now. That's a start.”
“I'd rather not, thank you.”
“I'm just going to pretend you didn't say that.” He took a step back onto a different shard of mirror, moving like a dancer. “And enjoy my brief time with you. This, after all, is a rare opportunity.”
“If you so much as touch me...”
“You know me better than that,” he admonished gently. She hated to admit that she did. “We could have tea, Alice, what would you say to that? Just how we used to.” He gestured with the teacup.
“Not happening.” She swallowed. “I'm supposed to be working. As soon as Janice notices I'm not back, she'll come upstairs, and find that the lock stuck. And then she'll let me out, and I'll be fine, because there's no mirrors down there, so you can't follow me.”
“A shame.” He sighed. “My one lucky chance, and it has to be ruined completely by your lovely friend downstairs. Perhaps my friend the cat could distract her for a while.”
“Cat wasn't real either, don't you try to trick me like that.”
“I assure you, Alice, Cat is just as real as I am.” He turned, moving back towards her across the shattered glass. “Would you like to...”
“No. You're not real, he's not real, and you stay away from me!” She flattened herself against the door again as he stepped closer. He sighed again.
“You wound me, Alice, you really do. When have I ever hurt you?”
“Let's see, how about when you made me crazy.” She meant for that to sound exactly as bitter as it did, aiming the words like bullets.
“You were never crazy,” he replied placidly.
“Don't you go trying to trick me like that, I was crazy. I know I was crazy. I have to watch out or I'll go crazy again, and so help me if you take one step closer I will go straight back to that psychiatrist and have you medicated out of existence for good!”
“Rather drastic, don't you think?” He stood a few feet away, seemingly lost in thought. “But you would never do that, Alice. You wouldn't give up your imagination for the world.”
“Try me.”
“I'd rather not.” He spun on one foot, pacing back across the mirror shards. “So you won't have tea, and you won't be civil, and you won't let me bring the cat to see you even. What a disappointingly boring adult you've grown up to be.”
“I'm sane. That's what counts.”
“Oh, Alice, I would so disagree.” He stopped again, then motioned to her with the teacup. “Well, if I can't come to you, why don't you come to me? If you are so sure that I am not real, then show me you have nothing to fear. Three steps.”
“This is a trick.”
“What would I gain by tricking you?” he asked patiently, hands outstretched pleadingly. “Three steps. That's it”
“You're going to pull me through the mirror or... or something, I don't know. No.” She shook her head violently. “I'm not coming over there.”
“Both you and I know that's not possible. If I'm not real, and you're not crazy, then show me that you are not so afraid of a broken mirror. Three steps, Alice. It's not too far.”
“No!” She finally broke down, sobbing. “No, no, no! I don't want to have to do this! It's my first day, and I don't know anyone, and I just moved in and I have no friends and now You, of all people have to show up and I...”
“Shh, shh, I'm sorry.” He moved quickly over to her again, wiping her tears with his purple handkerchief. “Don't cry. I just wanted to talk, is all.”
“Why are you doing this...” she whispered, her words half broken by the intermittent sobs.
“I'm not going to answer that until you can stop crying. Chin up, Alice.”
“Why are you doing this?” She choked back the tears, trying to look him in the eye. “Why trap me here, with the sticky lock and the broken mirror, and on my first day? Why are you even here; I mean, don't you have someone else to drive insane?” Her voice cracked again, and he smiled weakly.
“Come now, come now. Every hatter must have his madness.” He put a hand to the doorknob, leaning in close to her as he balanced on the last shard of the mirror. “It's just that you, dear Alice, are mine.” With that, the door clicked open, she stumbled backwards into the stairwell, and the hatter-the Mad Hatter, her hatter, the one she'd created and played with and loved and gone insane for-vanished into thin air.
It's not Alice in Wonderland fanfiction, I swear. It very heavily references that book, but it's not--the book is a book in this story just as much as it is in real life. Which also implies that this Hatter is not that hatter. He's a little bit... different.
Janice hadn't been kidding when she'd said they didn't come up here much. The dust now swirling around the air clung to everything, and abandoned spiderwebs glittered in every corner. The ceiling sloped inwards, peaking above the door, with three great beams that corresponded to the big pillars in the library below. A series of boxes much like the one she'd just dragged up the long staircase lined the walls, some with an old copy of a ruined book gracing the top of the pile, and others with less natural adornments, like old tinsel, or buckets. The warm yellow light of the summer afternoon suffused the room, and for a moment, she felt a strange nostalgia, like she was hiding in grandma's attic until far after she should have gone home.
That feeling snapped abruptly as her eyes rested on the floor at the center of the room.
There was a mirror. At least, there had been a mirror—what remained was a mess of fragments, scattered across the floor almost up to the door where she stood. The remains of the frame were missing. But the oddest thing was the total lack of dust on the mirror—even the floor it sat on was coated, but the mirror itself was completely clean. No footprints led up to it, or away from it.
Alice, quite suddenly, had to get back downstairs right this second.
She turned, but the door had closed behind her. She grabbed the handle, trying to open it until she remembered Janice's warning about the sticky lock. She bit her lip, trying to fight down the panic as she twisted the doorknob this way and that to no avail. She was stuck.
“What, leaving so soon?” A voice she knew from bad memories echoed out from behind her. “Alice, I thought we were better friends than that.”
She swallowed hard. “You... are not real.”
“Am I?” She refused to turn around and see him standing there, rising from the mirror like she would rise from a pool of water. “Then why, my dear Alice, are you so afraid of me?”
“You're a bad memory. A figment of my imagination. I'm not crazy anymore, darnit, and I know that you are not real!”
“Of course you're not crazy, Alice. You were never crazy.” His voice was smug, smooth, intoxicating, the perfect gentleman that he wasn't, he wasn't, she knew he wasn't. “But do you really have to take it out on me? I'm hurt.”
“You're a fictional character. I thought you up when I read Alice in Wonderland when I was seven. You don't exist. I know that.”
He laughed, like bells. “Alice, you know I was there before that.”
“So I was crazy before that. I'm not crazy now. Go away.” She clamped her eyes shut, keeping her hand on the doorknob as an anchor to reality. “You're not real.”
“Alice...” His voice was pleading in a way that already had what he wanted, the way he always had. She could feel him stepping across the fragments of the mirror, flickering in and out of reality as he touched them. “What happened? It used to be so easy for you to believe in me—all you needed was a book. Just that, one book, one afternoon—and you knew I was there.”
“I was crazy.” The words came in a half-sob. “Go away. Wherever you've been for fifteen years.”
“I never went away, Alice. You stopped believing, but I never went away. The others did, but you know...”
“Go away!” she shouted, finally whirling to face him. “I'm not crazy, I refuse to be crazy! I'm imagining you because of the mirror and the stress and I must be panicking, that's it, I'm panicking because the door won't open and oh no don't come any closer...”
“Shush.” He put a hand over her mouth, balancing precariously on a shard of mirror. “Now, Alice, dear, won't you calm down? This does neither of us any good.”
He was different than she'd remembered him. The parts were all there—the long curly hair barely held back in a ponytail, the well tailored suit jacket, the ridiculous top hat and white porcelain teacup in one well-manicured hand. But he was different—his eyes were darker, though still half hidden in shadow; his hair was brown now, instead of white, rich and dark like coffee or dark, expensive chocolate, shining like silk as it curled around his half-smiling face. The hat was even more ridiculous, if that was even possible—it had gained bits and pieces of belts and metal and a clock, stitched in to the grey fabric with black as night thread. The coat was a different cut, with flaired sleeves and a tie wrapped around one arm. And the ace of spades winked at her, tucked into his hat band, just as it had been when she had last seen him fifteen years ago.
He removed his hand from her mouth as her breathing returned to normal. “There, that's better.”
“You've changed,” she said breathlessly, trying very hard not to believe her eyes.
“You've changed, and so I have too.” He smiled a little at that, ducking his eyes beneath the dark brim of the top hat. “I am whatever you need me to be.”
“Gone?” She quipped, trying to regain her courage.
“Hah, no, not today.” His smile was a little more forced. “You can see me now. That's a start.”
“I'd rather not, thank you.”
“I'm just going to pretend you didn't say that.” He took a step back onto a different shard of mirror, moving like a dancer. “And enjoy my brief time with you. This, after all, is a rare opportunity.”
“If you so much as touch me...”
“You know me better than that,” he admonished gently. She hated to admit that she did. “We could have tea, Alice, what would you say to that? Just how we used to.” He gestured with the teacup.
“Not happening.” She swallowed. “I'm supposed to be working. As soon as Janice notices I'm not back, she'll come upstairs, and find that the lock stuck. And then she'll let me out, and I'll be fine, because there's no mirrors down there, so you can't follow me.”
“A shame.” He sighed. “My one lucky chance, and it has to be ruined completely by your lovely friend downstairs. Perhaps my friend the cat could distract her for a while.”
“Cat wasn't real either, don't you try to trick me like that.”
“I assure you, Alice, Cat is just as real as I am.” He turned, moving back towards her across the shattered glass. “Would you like to...”
“No. You're not real, he's not real, and you stay away from me!” She flattened herself against the door again as he stepped closer. He sighed again.
“You wound me, Alice, you really do. When have I ever hurt you?”
“Let's see, how about when you made me crazy.” She meant for that to sound exactly as bitter as it did, aiming the words like bullets.
“You were never crazy,” he replied placidly.
“Don't you go trying to trick me like that, I was crazy. I know I was crazy. I have to watch out or I'll go crazy again, and so help me if you take one step closer I will go straight back to that psychiatrist and have you medicated out of existence for good!”
“Rather drastic, don't you think?” He stood a few feet away, seemingly lost in thought. “But you would never do that, Alice. You wouldn't give up your imagination for the world.”
“Try me.”
“I'd rather not.” He spun on one foot, pacing back across the mirror shards. “So you won't have tea, and you won't be civil, and you won't let me bring the cat to see you even. What a disappointingly boring adult you've grown up to be.”
“I'm sane. That's what counts.”
“Oh, Alice, I would so disagree.” He stopped again, then motioned to her with the teacup. “Well, if I can't come to you, why don't you come to me? If you are so sure that I am not real, then show me you have nothing to fear. Three steps.”
“This is a trick.”
“What would I gain by tricking you?” he asked patiently, hands outstretched pleadingly. “Three steps. That's it”
“You're going to pull me through the mirror or... or something, I don't know. No.” She shook her head violently. “I'm not coming over there.”
“Both you and I know that's not possible. If I'm not real, and you're not crazy, then show me that you are not so afraid of a broken mirror. Three steps, Alice. It's not too far.”
“No!” She finally broke down, sobbing. “No, no, no! I don't want to have to do this! It's my first day, and I don't know anyone, and I just moved in and I have no friends and now You, of all people have to show up and I...”
“Shh, shh, I'm sorry.” He moved quickly over to her again, wiping her tears with his purple handkerchief. “Don't cry. I just wanted to talk, is all.”
“Why are you doing this...” she whispered, her words half broken by the intermittent sobs.
“I'm not going to answer that until you can stop crying. Chin up, Alice.”
“Why are you doing this?” She choked back the tears, trying to look him in the eye. “Why trap me here, with the sticky lock and the broken mirror, and on my first day? Why are you even here; I mean, don't you have someone else to drive insane?” Her voice cracked again, and he smiled weakly.
“Come now, come now. Every hatter must have his madness.” He put a hand to the doorknob, leaning in close to her as he balanced on the last shard of the mirror. “It's just that you, dear Alice, are mine.” With that, the door clicked open, she stumbled backwards into the stairwell, and the hatter-the Mad Hatter, her hatter, the one she'd created and played with and loved and gone insane for-vanished into thin air.
It's not Alice in Wonderland fanfiction, I swear. It very heavily references that book, but it's not--the book is a book in this story just as much as it is in real life. Which also implies that this Hatter is not that hatter. He's a little bit... different.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Power in a name
“...That's your name, isn't it.” He cradled the small body in his arms as he made his way across the rocky field. “Your name is Christofori.” The boy started glowing again, and cringed in pain. “I didn't mean anything, don't try!” he said quickly. The glow faded as quickly as it came. “And that's why you did... all that, because you have to grant a wish when someone says your name. You don't have a choice, do you?”
The boy shook his head, the movement barely visible in his exhaustion. Marcus bit his lip, then stumbled, barely catching himself in time to avoid dropping his young friend.
“I'm sorry.” He made his way carefully down the rocky slope. “I... I'm so sorry.”
Christofori didn't respond, shivering in his arms.
“I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have come here. My research—I'm so sorry.” Marcus fought against his own exhaustion as he struggled to get them both back to the cabin. “I didn't realize it would...” He fell silent, contemplating the full meaning of what he'd learned, as he trudged over the barren landscape.
Chris began coughing, prompting Marcus to speed up. A few of the little glowing stars shot up the slope to meet them, circling around Christofori in a panic. Marcus didn't say anything, just kept moving. Not much further to go.
The cabin finally came into sight, and Marcus almost smiled. “Hang on, Chris, we're almost there.” The stars shot to the door, whirling around the knob as they waited for him to arrive and let them in. He very slowly put Christofori down on a patch of clear ground by the cabin wall. The freezing metal of the doorknob stung his hands, and he bit his lip again as he fiddled with the key. The door finally swung open, and he picked the boy up again and brought him inside.
The cabin was warm, luckily. Close to thirty Wishes rushed around him as he carried Chris across to the small bed and wrapped the boy in the thick blankets. Some of them circled around his hands, unsure, and he spoke very quietly, trying not to disturb his young patient.
“He granted too many wishes.” Half true. For all he knew, the Wishes knew the entire story already. “He is exhausted, but I think he will be fine.”
This seemed to comfort the little stars, and they flew back up to near the cabin roof, watching from the ceiling beams as Marcus cared for their young prince. The boy's heartbeat was still strong, and his breathing was fine, though he wasn't responding. Marcus smiled, halfway. At least the kid was finally getting some sleep.
He moved off, leaving the boy exhausted in the too-big bed. Marcus shifted through the cabinets as quietly as he could, looking for something to eat. A can of soup came to hand, and he examined it, checking the expiration date. Close enough. He grabbed the can opener out of the drawer, and as he prepared the soup he watched the little stars circling the boy, unafraid to get too close now that Marcus was out of the way. They darted quickly through his hair, across every inch of exposed skin, trying to see if he was alright. Marcus would have smiled at their concern had it been unwarranted.
After about an hour, the soup was finally ready. He poured a bowl for himself, and one for Chris. What remained he poured into a wider bowl that he set on the small wooden table, waving some of the wishes over with a small motion. Only a few came, as the rest remained around the white-haired boy.
They cleared out quickly enough as he approached, and he shook the boy's shoulder gently. “Wake up, Chris. You need to eat something.”
The boy made a soft, protesting noise, but obeyed, sitting up in the cocoon of blankets. He looked up at Marcus with tired eyes,
“Here.” He handed Chris the soup, along with a spoon. “Eat that.”
Chris obeyed, though Marcus saw a tired tremor in his hands as he held the spoon. “You can go back to sleep once you're done.”
The boy nodded, and continued eating. Marcus looked up to the wishes that resided once more in the rafters. “There's some for you lot on the table.”
The little swarm descended on the bowl, trying the salty broth experimentally. They seemed to like it, and within a few moments the bowl was empty. A few began circling around what remained of his bowl, and with a sigh he surrendered it, watching the tiny stars as they ate.
Chris ate maybe half his bowl before he was too tired to hold the spoon anymore. Marcus took the bowl, rubbing an affectionate hand through the boy's hair. “Go back to sleep. You had a long day, you know.”
Chris nodded wearily, then collapsed again on the bed. The wishes once again conducted their examination of his hair and skin, then, satisfied, they attacked the remains of his food.
“Heh.” Marcus watched them tiredly. “Have to make another pot...” He trailed off, nodding off to sleep in the chair by the little heater. A few of the wishes examined him, though not with the same intimate care that they had their prince, then shot back up to the rafters.
Wrote this in December, and just now got around to posting it. I don't know if I've posted much of this story before, but it's been around for a while. It's not the sort of thing I normally post, mainly because it doesn't have the same sort of emotional power as most of my stuff. Also, the title is lame, I know. Anyway, let me know what you think!
The boy shook his head, the movement barely visible in his exhaustion. Marcus bit his lip, then stumbled, barely catching himself in time to avoid dropping his young friend.
“I'm sorry.” He made his way carefully down the rocky slope. “I... I'm so sorry.”
Christofori didn't respond, shivering in his arms.
“I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have come here. My research—I'm so sorry.” Marcus fought against his own exhaustion as he struggled to get them both back to the cabin. “I didn't realize it would...” He fell silent, contemplating the full meaning of what he'd learned, as he trudged over the barren landscape.
Chris began coughing, prompting Marcus to speed up. A few of the little glowing stars shot up the slope to meet them, circling around Christofori in a panic. Marcus didn't say anything, just kept moving. Not much further to go.
The cabin finally came into sight, and Marcus almost smiled. “Hang on, Chris, we're almost there.” The stars shot to the door, whirling around the knob as they waited for him to arrive and let them in. He very slowly put Christofori down on a patch of clear ground by the cabin wall. The freezing metal of the doorknob stung his hands, and he bit his lip again as he fiddled with the key. The door finally swung open, and he picked the boy up again and brought him inside.
The cabin was warm, luckily. Close to thirty Wishes rushed around him as he carried Chris across to the small bed and wrapped the boy in the thick blankets. Some of them circled around his hands, unsure, and he spoke very quietly, trying not to disturb his young patient.
“He granted too many wishes.” Half true. For all he knew, the Wishes knew the entire story already. “He is exhausted, but I think he will be fine.”
This seemed to comfort the little stars, and they flew back up to near the cabin roof, watching from the ceiling beams as Marcus cared for their young prince. The boy's heartbeat was still strong, and his breathing was fine, though he wasn't responding. Marcus smiled, halfway. At least the kid was finally getting some sleep.
He moved off, leaving the boy exhausted in the too-big bed. Marcus shifted through the cabinets as quietly as he could, looking for something to eat. A can of soup came to hand, and he examined it, checking the expiration date. Close enough. He grabbed the can opener out of the drawer, and as he prepared the soup he watched the little stars circling the boy, unafraid to get too close now that Marcus was out of the way. They darted quickly through his hair, across every inch of exposed skin, trying to see if he was alright. Marcus would have smiled at their concern had it been unwarranted.
After about an hour, the soup was finally ready. He poured a bowl for himself, and one for Chris. What remained he poured into a wider bowl that he set on the small wooden table, waving some of the wishes over with a small motion. Only a few came, as the rest remained around the white-haired boy.
They cleared out quickly enough as he approached, and he shook the boy's shoulder gently. “Wake up, Chris. You need to eat something.”
The boy made a soft, protesting noise, but obeyed, sitting up in the cocoon of blankets. He looked up at Marcus with tired eyes,
“Here.” He handed Chris the soup, along with a spoon. “Eat that.”
Chris obeyed, though Marcus saw a tired tremor in his hands as he held the spoon. “You can go back to sleep once you're done.”
The boy nodded, and continued eating. Marcus looked up to the wishes that resided once more in the rafters. “There's some for you lot on the table.”
The little swarm descended on the bowl, trying the salty broth experimentally. They seemed to like it, and within a few moments the bowl was empty. A few began circling around what remained of his bowl, and with a sigh he surrendered it, watching the tiny stars as they ate.
Chris ate maybe half his bowl before he was too tired to hold the spoon anymore. Marcus took the bowl, rubbing an affectionate hand through the boy's hair. “Go back to sleep. You had a long day, you know.”
Chris nodded wearily, then collapsed again on the bed. The wishes once again conducted their examination of his hair and skin, then, satisfied, they attacked the remains of his food.
“Heh.” Marcus watched them tiredly. “Have to make another pot...” He trailed off, nodding off to sleep in the chair by the little heater. A few of the wishes examined him, though not with the same intimate care that they had their prince, then shot back up to the rafters.
Wrote this in December, and just now got around to posting it. I don't know if I've posted much of this story before, but it's been around for a while. It's not the sort of thing I normally post, mainly because it doesn't have the same sort of emotional power as most of my stuff. Also, the title is lame, I know. Anyway, let me know what you think!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Jack's Secret Studio
“Jack?” Amy called, poking her head into one of the multitude of small, messy rooms the lab boasted. “I need you to sign something! Jack!”
There was no reply, and similarly no sign of her employer. She sighed. Typical him, to spend the whole day in one place exactly until she needed him. She straightened a pile of papers on one of the old file cabinets out of habit, not even glancing at what they said, then picked up her clipboard again and resumed her search.
“Jack?” She called again. “Security system says you're in the building somewhere!”
“Toasterhead is missing again?” Crash leaned against one of the doorways, watching her from behind. “Surprise surprise.”
“He's gotta be around somewhere. He never leaves unless he need supplies, and last I checked we...”
“Maybe something happened.” The hired hand peeled himself off the doorway, following her down the hall. “Some kind of teleporter incident or something. What's that?” He gestured to the clipboard in her hand. “Important?”
“Just an order contract. I've reviewed it, but it needs his signature before I can fax it.”
“Sheesh.” Crash ran a hand through his spiked hair. “He goes missing at the worst times.”
“No kidding,” she agreed. “Well, tell me if you see him.”
“Will do.” Crash glanced down another hallway. “Here, I'll check that way. I'll call you if I find him.”
“Would you do that?” She smiled. “Thank you, Crash.”
“No trouble.” He grinned. “Catch you in a bit, then!” With that, he broke off, headed down the other hallway. She watched him go for a few seconds before turning her attention back to the task at hand.
After ten more empty rooms, though, she was about ready to give up. “Jack, if you want a new order of sheet aluminum, you need to sign this!” she called, exasperated. “I've already read it and cleared it with accounting, you just have to sign!”
Still no response. She sighed, putting her free hand up against the wall. He wasn't anywhere, as far as she could tell. It was entirely possible that the security system was wrong...
And quite suddenly, the wall she was leaning on opened.
She nearly fell, catching herself only just in time. Amy stared into the little room, which was much darker than the rest, trying to make out whatever was inside. Several thick stack of something like light wood lined the walls. It took her a moment to realize that they were stretched canvasses. Some of them even had been painted—and whoever had done it was quite good. She moved closer, curious.
A canvas on the top of the other stacks caught her eye. It was a smaller painting, almost the size of her clipboard, but very beautifully done. The scene portrayed a little blue house, very simple in it's design, caught in the light of a late fall afternoon. She examined it for a moment longer. No signature. Maybe it wasn't finished.
She set it down and moved on. Three or four easels stood around the room, in varying states of dilapidation. Amy ran her fingertips along the side of one, frowning at the dust that had accumulated. She needed to clean in here.
Only one of the easels seemed to have been used recently. Unsurprisingly, it was the one that rested by the room's sole window. There was a canvas sitting on it, and she could smell the fresh oil paint on it. She took a few steps towards it, but halted at the sudden feeling of a hand on her shoulder.
“You're not supposed to be in here, you know.” Crash's voice was low. “He doesn't like people to know... this.”
“Jack painted these?” She glanced back at the canvasses stacked against the walls. “He's really good!”
“He'll never admit it.” Crash whispered. “He's good, I'll grant you that, but he's still Jack. He doesn't want anyone to know.”
“But they're beautiful—he should really...”
“Amy,” Crash cut her off. “Listen to me. You can't tell him you've been in here. Don't mention secret rooms, paintings—anything. You know him, he's paranoid. If he finds out you know... if he even thinks you might possibly ever even suspect, he will freak out. Trust me on that one.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Right.”
“Good.” Crash looked relieved. “Come on, let's get out of here before he shows up.”
There was no reply, and similarly no sign of her employer. She sighed. Typical him, to spend the whole day in one place exactly until she needed him. She straightened a pile of papers on one of the old file cabinets out of habit, not even glancing at what they said, then picked up her clipboard again and resumed her search.
“Jack?” She called again. “Security system says you're in the building somewhere!”
“Toasterhead is missing again?” Crash leaned against one of the doorways, watching her from behind. “Surprise surprise.”
“He's gotta be around somewhere. He never leaves unless he need supplies, and last I checked we...”
“Maybe something happened.” The hired hand peeled himself off the doorway, following her down the hall. “Some kind of teleporter incident or something. What's that?” He gestured to the clipboard in her hand. “Important?”
“Just an order contract. I've reviewed it, but it needs his signature before I can fax it.”
“Sheesh.” Crash ran a hand through his spiked hair. “He goes missing at the worst times.”
“No kidding,” she agreed. “Well, tell me if you see him.”
“Will do.” Crash glanced down another hallway. “Here, I'll check that way. I'll call you if I find him.”
“Would you do that?” She smiled. “Thank you, Crash.”
“No trouble.” He grinned. “Catch you in a bit, then!” With that, he broke off, headed down the other hallway. She watched him go for a few seconds before turning her attention back to the task at hand.
After ten more empty rooms, though, she was about ready to give up. “Jack, if you want a new order of sheet aluminum, you need to sign this!” she called, exasperated. “I've already read it and cleared it with accounting, you just have to sign!”
Still no response. She sighed, putting her free hand up against the wall. He wasn't anywhere, as far as she could tell. It was entirely possible that the security system was wrong...
And quite suddenly, the wall she was leaning on opened.
She nearly fell, catching herself only just in time. Amy stared into the little room, which was much darker than the rest, trying to make out whatever was inside. Several thick stack of something like light wood lined the walls. It took her a moment to realize that they were stretched canvasses. Some of them even had been painted—and whoever had done it was quite good. She moved closer, curious.
A canvas on the top of the other stacks caught her eye. It was a smaller painting, almost the size of her clipboard, but very beautifully done. The scene portrayed a little blue house, very simple in it's design, caught in the light of a late fall afternoon. She examined it for a moment longer. No signature. Maybe it wasn't finished.
She set it down and moved on. Three or four easels stood around the room, in varying states of dilapidation. Amy ran her fingertips along the side of one, frowning at the dust that had accumulated. She needed to clean in here.
Only one of the easels seemed to have been used recently. Unsurprisingly, it was the one that rested by the room's sole window. There was a canvas sitting on it, and she could smell the fresh oil paint on it. She took a few steps towards it, but halted at the sudden feeling of a hand on her shoulder.
“You're not supposed to be in here, you know.” Crash's voice was low. “He doesn't like people to know... this.”
“Jack painted these?” She glanced back at the canvasses stacked against the walls. “He's really good!”
“He'll never admit it.” Crash whispered. “He's good, I'll grant you that, but he's still Jack. He doesn't want anyone to know.”
“But they're beautiful—he should really...”
“Amy,” Crash cut her off. “Listen to me. You can't tell him you've been in here. Don't mention secret rooms, paintings—anything. You know him, he's paranoid. If he finds out you know... if he even thinks you might possibly ever even suspect, he will freak out. Trust me on that one.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Right.”
“Good.” Crash looked relieved. “Come on, let's get out of here before he shows up.”
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The Everyone Star
New story, again. This one is about crazy people, namely, Frankie, an insane genius who's spent his whole life in an asylum, and Molly, a girl who was sent to the asylum for attacking people who said her imaginary friends weren't real. For some reason, they are friends. Enjoy!
Molly found him nearly an hour later, sitting in the patch of tall grass that the lawnmower always missed next to the gray stone wall of the asylum. He'd gotten his arms free again, and he wrapped them around his knees as he stared up at the sky. He looked sad, almost, but smiled as she approached.
“Hello!” He said brightly, sitting up and dropping his knees into a cross-legged position. “Did you find the unicorn?”
“No, but I found you!”
“I'm a unicorn?” Frankie looked confused. “I thought I was a wombat.”
“No, you're Frankie, silly.” She giggled
“Oh!” he looked relieved. “That's what I normally am.”
“Yep.” She sat down next to him. “What'cha lookin' at?”
“Oh, the uplights. Things. The little bright things, what with the twinkling and what?” He struggled for the word, gesturing upward. “Those.”
“Stars?”
“Yeah!” He nodded vigorously. “Stars, yep!”
“Oh, ok.” She stared at the sky for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. “There sure are a lot of them.”
“There has to be,” said Frankie.
“Why?”
“To look at.”
“..Oh.” She stared at him for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the sky. “They're pretty. Which one is your favorite?”
“That one.” He pointed without a moments hesitation. “See, right between those two trees, above the north gate?”
“It's the north star, isn't it?” Molly looked at her companion with wide eyes. “Sailors used it to find stuff.”
“Not just sailors!” Frankie laughed. “That's the everyone star.”
“The everyone star?”
“Yeah, everyone has a star, you know. That's why there are so many.”
“Oh, ok.” She stared upwards as he continued.
“The everyone star is for everyone. That's why it doesn't move, and the rest do. Cause, see, my star moves a bunch, so I can't always see it. So the everyone star stays there, and I know I'm not alone. That's why it's my favorite.”
“But you're not alone!”
“Not as long as I have a star!” Frankie laughed again, and leaned back against the wall. “Sometimes, I wonder...” he trailed off. “Am I crazy because my star moves so much?”
Molly found him nearly an hour later, sitting in the patch of tall grass that the lawnmower always missed next to the gray stone wall of the asylum. He'd gotten his arms free again, and he wrapped them around his knees as he stared up at the sky. He looked sad, almost, but smiled as she approached.
“Hello!” He said brightly, sitting up and dropping his knees into a cross-legged position. “Did you find the unicorn?”
“No, but I found you!”
“I'm a unicorn?” Frankie looked confused. “I thought I was a wombat.”
“No, you're Frankie, silly.” She giggled
“Oh!” he looked relieved. “That's what I normally am.”
“Yep.” She sat down next to him. “What'cha lookin' at?”
“Oh, the uplights. Things. The little bright things, what with the twinkling and what?” He struggled for the word, gesturing upward. “Those.”
“Stars?”
“Yeah!” He nodded vigorously. “Stars, yep!”
“Oh, ok.” She stared at the sky for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. “There sure are a lot of them.”
“There has to be,” said Frankie.
“Why?”
“To look at.”
“..Oh.” She stared at him for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the sky. “They're pretty. Which one is your favorite?”
“That one.” He pointed without a moments hesitation. “See, right between those two trees, above the north gate?”
“It's the north star, isn't it?” Molly looked at her companion with wide eyes. “Sailors used it to find stuff.”
“Not just sailors!” Frankie laughed. “That's the everyone star.”
“The everyone star?”
“Yeah, everyone has a star, you know. That's why there are so many.”
“Oh, ok.” She stared upwards as he continued.
“The everyone star is for everyone. That's why it doesn't move, and the rest do. Cause, see, my star moves a bunch, so I can't always see it. So the everyone star stays there, and I know I'm not alone. That's why it's my favorite.”
“But you're not alone!”
“Not as long as I have a star!” Frankie laughed again, and leaned back against the wall. “Sometimes, I wonder...” he trailed off. “Am I crazy because my star moves so much?”
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Amnesia dreams
The smell of fish, faint in the air, draws him onward down the white hallway. He's not sure where he is, or who he is, or even what he is, but he smells fish, and that's enough.
He recognizes the room at the end of the hallway, from half a dream like this one, perhaps something more, and the warm bed with the blue cover is soft beneath him, and he sits, sits and watches, and half-dreams fly by in the cold whiteness from the light with no switch. There is a beanbag, and a picture of a stern man with glasses, and a table with a chair. Flickering ghosts of memory fly around the room, from the door to the table to the bed that he knows is his, like glass butterflies. He feels no need to chase them.
One of the ghosts is the man with glasses, another is a woman with grey hair and soft eyes. The man is angry, they are both angry, and for half a moment he is afraid before they both vanish. But other ghosts are coming and going, and he is sure they all have names, and for a moment he wonders what his is. And he can't remember, can't remember anything, and again he is afraid.
He looks away from the ghosts, into the white corners of the room with no light switch, and stares there for a moment, lost in thoughtless until he sees the book. He recognizes it. But when he moves to touch the blue cover, the letters change, and become something he can't recognize, and this scares him, more than anything before, and he remembers this dream from a thousand nights ago and wakes up, eyes wide.
Cee takes a moment, staring and breathing hard at the darkness in the room without ghosts, until he remembers where he is, and who he is, and almost sort of what he is. His hand brushes a book, and he looks down, startled, but the cover does not change. The soft sound of Lynn's breathing comes from the other room, and there is a light switch, illuminated by the rays of moonlight that fight through the windowpanes onto the soft colors of the walls. He breathes out.
Cee is alright.
Ok, so I wrote this in like, August. But I just realized that I had never posted it, and I still like it, so... Yeah. Enjoy.
He recognizes the room at the end of the hallway, from half a dream like this one, perhaps something more, and the warm bed with the blue cover is soft beneath him, and he sits, sits and watches, and half-dreams fly by in the cold whiteness from the light with no switch. There is a beanbag, and a picture of a stern man with glasses, and a table with a chair. Flickering ghosts of memory fly around the room, from the door to the table to the bed that he knows is his, like glass butterflies. He feels no need to chase them.
One of the ghosts is the man with glasses, another is a woman with grey hair and soft eyes. The man is angry, they are both angry, and for half a moment he is afraid before they both vanish. But other ghosts are coming and going, and he is sure they all have names, and for a moment he wonders what his is. And he can't remember, can't remember anything, and again he is afraid.
He looks away from the ghosts, into the white corners of the room with no light switch, and stares there for a moment, lost in thoughtless until he sees the book. He recognizes it. But when he moves to touch the blue cover, the letters change, and become something he can't recognize, and this scares him, more than anything before, and he remembers this dream from a thousand nights ago and wakes up, eyes wide.
Cee takes a moment, staring and breathing hard at the darkness in the room without ghosts, until he remembers where he is, and who he is, and almost sort of what he is. His hand brushes a book, and he looks down, startled, but the cover does not change. The soft sound of Lynn's breathing comes from the other room, and there is a light switch, illuminated by the rays of moonlight that fight through the windowpanes onto the soft colors of the walls. He breathes out.
Cee is alright.
Ok, so I wrote this in like, August. But I just realized that I had never posted it, and I still like it, so... Yeah. Enjoy.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Assorted writing-bits
Some short things I've written recently. They're not connected. Other than that, no context for you!
I am gathered here today
To let you know that you are not forgotten
that I still think of you—frequently
though I may not speak of you so often as I wish.
And to bring you flowers,
Like I used to, long ago,
seeing as the last ones I brought you have wilted.
“This?” The young man's voice was hollow, an empty vessel lined with bitterness. “This is my punishment for sins never committed.”
He wrapped the crystal shard in a thick black cloth, and placed it in a pocket inside his coat. For a moment he stood motionless, letting the anger run out of him for the thousandth time before he finally turned back to them, his face completely still again.
“Was that all you required of me?” The harsh, clipped accent did nothing to make him seem more human.
“No.” She dragged herself upwards, out of the smoking ruins of the machine, ignoring the broken glass that cut into her hands. The villain took a step back, gaping, as she made her way to her feet.
“But.. you...” he stammered, glancing around for something, anything to defend himself with.
“Not like this.” Her voice was cracked with emotion, pouring sorrow and anger like a thundercloud. “I didn't live for a thousand years, save the world, fight off apocalypses with my two hands to die like this, at the hands of some fool who thinks he knows a thing or two. Did you really think,” she moved forwards as she spoke, forcing him back, “that I would just let you kill me? That I would truly be that desperate to end it?” He suddenly found his back to the wall, and her in front of him, hazel eyes glowing with a desperate rage. “I do want to die.” She raised her weapon. “But never like this.”
“Take two steps further into my lab,” Jack's voice was level, and perfectly calm, “And I can practically guarantee that you will die.”
The robot's controller twitched, just barely, and Jack caught it, spotting the robot's weakness in that one move. With a sharp laugh, he jumped at a keyboard, and after a few short strokes he grinned menacingly.
“Ok.” He took up his position again between the robot and the door, crossing his arms. “Take two steps further, and I can definitely guarantee that you will die.”
“Now see, that's just the problem! You see fireflies, and you think, 'Oh, they're just fireflies,' and go looking for magic somewhere else! You can't see what's right in front of you because you believe it to be ordinary!”
“It IS ordinary!”
“Almost all magic is.”
A pause filled the little room.
“The best disguise any magic could have, I think,” the little man said slowly, as he cradled the dove in his hands, “is itself, for nobody keeps looking once they see what something is.”
He clutched his head desperately as the memories assaulted him from the inside out, lying twisted on the floor and unable to move. “I... No, please, make it stop!”
“Do you know you're seeing?” The doctor knelt by him, staring into the white eyes. “It took over 50 tries to create you. That pain, that shame, that terror—that's what they felt. That's what it took to make you, the one, single success.”
“No...” He tried to stand again, but fell, crying out in pain.
“So tell me, Hybrid. Why did they have to die?”
“I don't know.” He clutched his skull with the three-fingered hands, white eyes wide. “I don't know.”
“They died so you could be born. So you could go out, learn what you can, and tell us what you know. The weight of their lives is yours.” He cringed as a particularly horrible death flashed through his mind. “They died for you. Why did they die?”
“They died for me.” He repeated blindly, willing to do anything to make it stop.
“Did they all die for nothing?”
“They died for me.”
“So did they die for nothing? Are you going to live for nothing?” The doctor stood over him as he writhed. “Fail your purpose, your creators, them? Well?”
That's all for now!
I am gathered here today
To let you know that you are not forgotten
that I still think of you—frequently
though I may not speak of you so often as I wish.
And to bring you flowers,
Like I used to, long ago,
seeing as the last ones I brought you have wilted.
“This?” The young man's voice was hollow, an empty vessel lined with bitterness. “This is my punishment for sins never committed.”
He wrapped the crystal shard in a thick black cloth, and placed it in a pocket inside his coat. For a moment he stood motionless, letting the anger run out of him for the thousandth time before he finally turned back to them, his face completely still again.
“Was that all you required of me?” The harsh, clipped accent did nothing to make him seem more human.
“No.” She dragged herself upwards, out of the smoking ruins of the machine, ignoring the broken glass that cut into her hands. The villain took a step back, gaping, as she made her way to her feet.
“But.. you...” he stammered, glancing around for something, anything to defend himself with.
“Not like this.” Her voice was cracked with emotion, pouring sorrow and anger like a thundercloud. “I didn't live for a thousand years, save the world, fight off apocalypses with my two hands to die like this, at the hands of some fool who thinks he knows a thing or two. Did you really think,” she moved forwards as she spoke, forcing him back, “that I would just let you kill me? That I would truly be that desperate to end it?” He suddenly found his back to the wall, and her in front of him, hazel eyes glowing with a desperate rage. “I do want to die.” She raised her weapon. “But never like this.”
“Take two steps further into my lab,” Jack's voice was level, and perfectly calm, “And I can practically guarantee that you will die.”
The robot's controller twitched, just barely, and Jack caught it, spotting the robot's weakness in that one move. With a sharp laugh, he jumped at a keyboard, and after a few short strokes he grinned menacingly.
“Ok.” He took up his position again between the robot and the door, crossing his arms. “Take two steps further, and I can definitely guarantee that you will die.”
“Now see, that's just the problem! You see fireflies, and you think, 'Oh, they're just fireflies,' and go looking for magic somewhere else! You can't see what's right in front of you because you believe it to be ordinary!”
“It IS ordinary!”
“Almost all magic is.”
A pause filled the little room.
“The best disguise any magic could have, I think,” the little man said slowly, as he cradled the dove in his hands, “is itself, for nobody keeps looking once they see what something is.”
He clutched his head desperately as the memories assaulted him from the inside out, lying twisted on the floor and unable to move. “I... No, please, make it stop!”
“Do you know you're seeing?” The doctor knelt by him, staring into the white eyes. “It took over 50 tries to create you. That pain, that shame, that terror—that's what they felt. That's what it took to make you, the one, single success.”
“No...” He tried to stand again, but fell, crying out in pain.
“So tell me, Hybrid. Why did they have to die?”
“I don't know.” He clutched his skull with the three-fingered hands, white eyes wide. “I don't know.”
“They died so you could be born. So you could go out, learn what you can, and tell us what you know. The weight of their lives is yours.” He cringed as a particularly horrible death flashed through his mind. “They died for you. Why did they die?”
“They died for me.” He repeated blindly, willing to do anything to make it stop.
“Did they all die for nothing?”
“They died for me.”
“So did they die for nothing? Are you going to live for nothing?” The doctor stood over him as he writhed. “Fail your purpose, your creators, them? Well?”
That's all for now!
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
The Dragon is Revealed
The lower council chamber was huge, perhaps three times as big as the upper one. High stone arches concealed shadowed chambers from which emerged the members of the elders council, all stone faced and robed in black. They took their seats in polished pews around an immense stone circle, at one end of which sat Master Solun, hands clasped and head bowed. His robes were black, like the rest, but edged in brilliant gold in thin, swirling patterns that she could have sworn were glowing. The sight was unnerving, to say the least. K hesitated.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“It will be fine.” He took her hand, leading her forward to the edge of the circle opposite Master Solun. “The council does nothing without reason.”
“If their reason is to look scary as all get out, I'd say it's working,” she muttered as she took her place beside him. “What's wrong with the upper chamber?”
“I don't know.” He whispered. “But shh, the last of them are taking their seats.”
The murmur of the elders quieted down as the last of them took his place, leaving the room in a deafening silence for a moment as all eyes fell to them. K glanced around, nervous, but Ryven tightened his grip on her hand reassuringly. Finally, Master Solun stood.
“Ryven of the northern edge, welcome.” He spoke with a full, resounding voice that echoed through the chamber and belied his age. “You have completed your task?”
“I have.” Ryven dropped her hand as he responded, stepping forward into the light of the circle.
“Then this is the child of Kolina, a thousand years gone?”
“She is.”
“Welcome, then, Destined one.” Master Solun bowed slightly, and Ryven motioned for her to come forward. She stepped hesitantly into the stone circle, and the rest of the council bowed from their seats. “We have long awaited your arrival.”
“...Thank you.” she said, glancing to Ryven, who nodded. “I have been told that you know what I must do.”
“We do.” Master Solun sank back into his chair, face still stone. “The darkness has invaded our lands, and even now encroaches further. I am sure you have encountered it—yes, you have already begun to fight. This is good.”
“I fought some.” She nodded. “But Ryven told me about a dragon; I'm supposed to find it before I can defeat the darkness?”
“Yes.” Master Solun nodded. “But that is another matter altogether. And that, my brothers,” he adressed the elders council, standing and motioning to them all, “is why we are gathered.”
“So, then, you know where it is?” She looked almost hopeful. “I was afraid we would have to spend a lot of time looking for it...”
“You have already found it. The dragon has been with you all along.”
“What do you mean?” Ryven started, eyes wide. “the prophecy clearly stated...”
“Exactly what we said, Ryven.” Master Solun spoke again. “The dragon has been with you all along.”
“But we haven't seen it!” K objected. “It's kinda hard to miss that!”
“It will be made clear.” One of the elders moved to K's side, and drew her back. “You must leave.”
“But...” Ryven attempted to follow, but Master Solun's voice held him there.
“You are to stay.”
“But it's my sacred duty, to...” Ryven held out his hands as he spoke, again moving after K.
“Do not move, child of destiny!” Master Solun's voice resonated around the chamber. “All will be made clear.”
The floor suddenly became lit in harsh red lines with the power of a spell. Ryven stared around him at the sealing circle he found himself imprisoned in. “Master Solun, what... What's happening?” He bashed against the edge of the circle, attempting to get out.
K stood at the edge of the chamber, staring. “What's going on?” she demanded. “What did Ryven do?”
“This is not a punishment, child.” The elder that had lead her from the circle stood behind her, watching impassively. “This is destiny.”
“Destiny my foot, let him out of there!”
A slow, melodious chant began to fill the chamber, echoing out of nowhere. Ryven bashed against the circle again and again, shocked back every time by the power it held. Master Solun looked away.
“When this one was but a child, we found him.” He spoke softly.
“We found him.” The rest of the council repeated.
“We took him, raised him, and tested him.”
“We have.”
“He has never known the truth.”
“He has never known the truth.”
“What truth?” Ryven shouted. “Master Solun, please, what's going on?”
“When this one was but a child, there was another spell.”
“We found him.”
“We bespelled him.”
“You what?” Ryven's shout carried over the murmur of the elder council, piercing through the near-deafening chanting.
“And now, by the power of the destined...”
“By her power.”
“We remove this spell.” This last invocation was spoken by all, unified. The chamber resounded with the words as they cut through the chanting like an arrow.
The sudden silence after went unnoticed as K stared, shocked, at the transformation overtaking Ryven. He fell to his knees, his head in his hands, as he began to glow with the same terrible red light that trapped him there. His body seemed to buckle as if under some enormous strain; his back bent unnaturally and his shoulders began to swell. K threw herself forwards to help him, only to be thrown back by the outer circle, hitting hard against a wall. Ryven's hands were changing now; a brilliant blue was winding it's way across his skin, engulfing the red light as it went- and he seemed to be growing.
Wings suddenly exploded from his swollen shoulders, bursting out all at once, tearing through his white shirt. Not those of an angel—more like the wings of a bat, and that same brilliant blue. The sealing circle that bound him suddenly expanded, tainted with that same sapphire color that was overtaking him. The wings fell to his sides as if broken, and the change continued to wind it's way through him. His hands were claws, now. Along his twisted spine scales began to appear, and a wild, black mane shot down his back. He tried to stand, to fight his way out of the circle. Horns twisted out of his skull, and he fell again, lying prone under the weight of his wings.
The blue color finally made it up to his face. He tried to cover his features with one hand-now-claws, trying to stop the change, but his features began to melt away, elongating and changing uncontrollably. He gave one short, sharp cry, and the last recognizable part of him was gone. He was something else now, something bestial—K suddenly understood.
“He's the dragon.”
The transformation continued unchecked. His neck grew longer, arms thicker. The last remains of his clothing fell to the ground as his body continued to grow. He'd gained a tail at some point. His feet and legs no longer resembled their human counterparts. Rows of shining scales ran down his back, down his arms and legs and tail. She bit her lip as she watched him writhe. The transformation was almost complete now; the red of the sealing circle had been almost completely extinguished by the blue.
One final burst of light ran through the circle and through Ryven, and the room fell completely dark. Every candle had been extinguished by the spell. The only sound was the rough, heavy breathing of something huge and inhuman, tinged with the smell of smoke and the sharp, bitter aftertaste of magic.
One by one, the lamps were relit, shining pinpoints of light in the infinite dark of the chamber. K stood from where she'd fallen against the wall, staring hesitantly at what had been her friend. He wasn't moving, save for the rise and fall of his breathing as he lay in the center of the chamber. She moved hesitantly towards him, half afraid that this might not be Ryven after all.
“Ryven?” She kneeled by his head, staring into one of the heavy-lidded blue eyes that roamed the chamber. He didn't respond. She moved a little closer, reaching out to touch him. His scales were cool to the touch, but she could feel a heat beneath them, barely kindled yet. She ran a hand down his neck. “Ryven, talk to me.”
The blue eye focused on her for a moment, then looked away, in something she could have sworn was shame.
“He cannot speak.” Master Solun's voice came from behind her. “You will learn to communicate with him, but not in words. That is lost to him now.”
“What did you do to him?” She stood to face him, angry.
The old man held up his hands, attempting to calm her. “We have only restored him to his natural form. This is how he was always intended to be.”
“But...” She trailed off, glancing down at Ryven-what had been Ryven-as he lay upon the floor. “I thought you cared for him.”
“It was destiny.” Master Solun's words were forced and hollow, and for a moment she almost believed that he hadn't wanted this either. “It had to be done.”
“Why?”
“You'll understand eventually.” He put a hand to her shoulder, and tried to lead her away. “Let him rest now. The worst is over with, but the coming weeks will be hard.”
“I want to stay with him.” Her voice was resolute. “I'm not leaving him here like this.”
“Fine.”
I'm not sure if this is a new story. It's been around for a few years, but I might not have posted from it before. In any case, wrote this a few days ago while practicing being descriptive. I like it, I think.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“It will be fine.” He took her hand, leading her forward to the edge of the circle opposite Master Solun. “The council does nothing without reason.”
“If their reason is to look scary as all get out, I'd say it's working,” she muttered as she took her place beside him. “What's wrong with the upper chamber?”
“I don't know.” He whispered. “But shh, the last of them are taking their seats.”
The murmur of the elders quieted down as the last of them took his place, leaving the room in a deafening silence for a moment as all eyes fell to them. K glanced around, nervous, but Ryven tightened his grip on her hand reassuringly. Finally, Master Solun stood.
“Ryven of the northern edge, welcome.” He spoke with a full, resounding voice that echoed through the chamber and belied his age. “You have completed your task?”
“I have.” Ryven dropped her hand as he responded, stepping forward into the light of the circle.
“Then this is the child of Kolina, a thousand years gone?”
“She is.”
“Welcome, then, Destined one.” Master Solun bowed slightly, and Ryven motioned for her to come forward. She stepped hesitantly into the stone circle, and the rest of the council bowed from their seats. “We have long awaited your arrival.”
“...Thank you.” she said, glancing to Ryven, who nodded. “I have been told that you know what I must do.”
“We do.” Master Solun sank back into his chair, face still stone. “The darkness has invaded our lands, and even now encroaches further. I am sure you have encountered it—yes, you have already begun to fight. This is good.”
“I fought some.” She nodded. “But Ryven told me about a dragon; I'm supposed to find it before I can defeat the darkness?”
“Yes.” Master Solun nodded. “But that is another matter altogether. And that, my brothers,” he adressed the elders council, standing and motioning to them all, “is why we are gathered.”
“So, then, you know where it is?” She looked almost hopeful. “I was afraid we would have to spend a lot of time looking for it...”
“You have already found it. The dragon has been with you all along.”
“What do you mean?” Ryven started, eyes wide. “the prophecy clearly stated...”
“Exactly what we said, Ryven.” Master Solun spoke again. “The dragon has been with you all along.”
“But we haven't seen it!” K objected. “It's kinda hard to miss that!”
“It will be made clear.” One of the elders moved to K's side, and drew her back. “You must leave.”
“But...” Ryven attempted to follow, but Master Solun's voice held him there.
“You are to stay.”
“But it's my sacred duty, to...” Ryven held out his hands as he spoke, again moving after K.
“Do not move, child of destiny!” Master Solun's voice resonated around the chamber. “All will be made clear.”
The floor suddenly became lit in harsh red lines with the power of a spell. Ryven stared around him at the sealing circle he found himself imprisoned in. “Master Solun, what... What's happening?” He bashed against the edge of the circle, attempting to get out.
K stood at the edge of the chamber, staring. “What's going on?” she demanded. “What did Ryven do?”
“This is not a punishment, child.” The elder that had lead her from the circle stood behind her, watching impassively. “This is destiny.”
“Destiny my foot, let him out of there!”
A slow, melodious chant began to fill the chamber, echoing out of nowhere. Ryven bashed against the circle again and again, shocked back every time by the power it held. Master Solun looked away.
“When this one was but a child, we found him.” He spoke softly.
“We found him.” The rest of the council repeated.
“We took him, raised him, and tested him.”
“We have.”
“He has never known the truth.”
“He has never known the truth.”
“What truth?” Ryven shouted. “Master Solun, please, what's going on?”
“When this one was but a child, there was another spell.”
“We found him.”
“We bespelled him.”
“You what?” Ryven's shout carried over the murmur of the elder council, piercing through the near-deafening chanting.
“And now, by the power of the destined...”
“By her power.”
“We remove this spell.” This last invocation was spoken by all, unified. The chamber resounded with the words as they cut through the chanting like an arrow.
The sudden silence after went unnoticed as K stared, shocked, at the transformation overtaking Ryven. He fell to his knees, his head in his hands, as he began to glow with the same terrible red light that trapped him there. His body seemed to buckle as if under some enormous strain; his back bent unnaturally and his shoulders began to swell. K threw herself forwards to help him, only to be thrown back by the outer circle, hitting hard against a wall. Ryven's hands were changing now; a brilliant blue was winding it's way across his skin, engulfing the red light as it went- and he seemed to be growing.
Wings suddenly exploded from his swollen shoulders, bursting out all at once, tearing through his white shirt. Not those of an angel—more like the wings of a bat, and that same brilliant blue. The sealing circle that bound him suddenly expanded, tainted with that same sapphire color that was overtaking him. The wings fell to his sides as if broken, and the change continued to wind it's way through him. His hands were claws, now. Along his twisted spine scales began to appear, and a wild, black mane shot down his back. He tried to stand, to fight his way out of the circle. Horns twisted out of his skull, and he fell again, lying prone under the weight of his wings.
The blue color finally made it up to his face. He tried to cover his features with one hand-now-claws, trying to stop the change, but his features began to melt away, elongating and changing uncontrollably. He gave one short, sharp cry, and the last recognizable part of him was gone. He was something else now, something bestial—K suddenly understood.
“He's the dragon.”
The transformation continued unchecked. His neck grew longer, arms thicker. The last remains of his clothing fell to the ground as his body continued to grow. He'd gained a tail at some point. His feet and legs no longer resembled their human counterparts. Rows of shining scales ran down his back, down his arms and legs and tail. She bit her lip as she watched him writhe. The transformation was almost complete now; the red of the sealing circle had been almost completely extinguished by the blue.
One final burst of light ran through the circle and through Ryven, and the room fell completely dark. Every candle had been extinguished by the spell. The only sound was the rough, heavy breathing of something huge and inhuman, tinged with the smell of smoke and the sharp, bitter aftertaste of magic.
One by one, the lamps were relit, shining pinpoints of light in the infinite dark of the chamber. K stood from where she'd fallen against the wall, staring hesitantly at what had been her friend. He wasn't moving, save for the rise and fall of his breathing as he lay in the center of the chamber. She moved hesitantly towards him, half afraid that this might not be Ryven after all.
“Ryven?” She kneeled by his head, staring into one of the heavy-lidded blue eyes that roamed the chamber. He didn't respond. She moved a little closer, reaching out to touch him. His scales were cool to the touch, but she could feel a heat beneath them, barely kindled yet. She ran a hand down his neck. “Ryven, talk to me.”
The blue eye focused on her for a moment, then looked away, in something she could have sworn was shame.
“He cannot speak.” Master Solun's voice came from behind her. “You will learn to communicate with him, but not in words. That is lost to him now.”
“What did you do to him?” She stood to face him, angry.
The old man held up his hands, attempting to calm her. “We have only restored him to his natural form. This is how he was always intended to be.”
“But...” She trailed off, glancing down at Ryven-what had been Ryven-as he lay upon the floor. “I thought you cared for him.”
“It was destiny.” Master Solun's words were forced and hollow, and for a moment she almost believed that he hadn't wanted this either. “It had to be done.”
“Why?”
“You'll understand eventually.” He put a hand to her shoulder, and tried to lead her away. “Let him rest now. The worst is over with, but the coming weeks will be hard.”
“I want to stay with him.” Her voice was resolute. “I'm not leaving him here like this.”
“Fine.”
I'm not sure if this is a new story. It's been around for a few years, but I might not have posted from it before. In any case, wrote this a few days ago while practicing being descriptive. I like it, I think.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Throne room
“And welcome, dear Ellie, to the brightest room of my home...”
The light nearly blinded her as they stepped through the doorway. This room was not dark like the others had been; rather, it was surrounded by immense stained glass windows. Patterns of white and blue and blue ran throughout the room, interspersed by the black silhouettes of a thousand crows in flight, all heading for the center, the opposite end of the room from where she stood. Against the opposite wall stood the room's lone piece of furniture; an odd sort of chair. It appeared to be-or had been, in some past life- a cast-iron gate, with swirling patterns of blackened metal around stiff bars that stabbed upwards into the air. The seat was stitched together with the same bright-blue thread that held everything else in the castle together, made of mismatched patches of leather and cloth.
She felt him enter behind her, and the shimmering brightness in his hand vanished as soon as it the beams of stained light touched it. He chuckled at her amazement.
“Do you like it?”
“It's beautiful.” She admitted. “What is it?”
“It's the throne room, of course.” He lead her across the spiral pathways tiled into the floor to the cast-iron chair, running a hand down the black metal of it's back. “I am a king, you know.”
“It doesn't look very comfortable,” she mused.
“It's not,” he admitted. “But it serves it's purpose.”
“Do you have a court?”
“Look up.”
She glanced upwards, and her eyes met an enormous white window, somehow contrived so the crows could come and go as they pleased, and hundreds of them lined the circles of the ceiling, staring down in silence.
“Your crows?”
“They aren't my crows.” He stared up with her. “They are their own. Whether they listen to me is their choice entirely.”
“But they always do.” She looked down at him. “Don't they?”
“Mostly.” He met her gaze with eyes bluer than blue, and smiled. “But they are as much mischief as I am. If they choose otherwise, I cannot control them.”
“But you are their king,” she ventured. “So it seems like...”
“Haven't we already learned,” he said with a smile, “that nothing is ever as it seems?” He gestured upwards, and the crows flew from their perches, swooping down around them in a black swarm. She gasped, and he pulled her close, as the crows circled fast, closer and closer with every pass. She felt the tickle of wingtips against her more than once as the black mass surged through the room. It was terrifying, but more, it was beautiful. The Crow King pulled her closer, and laughed amidst the deafening roar of wings meeting air.
“But they do obey me,” he whispered, “as long as I am what I am. But it is not my choice that they do.”
New story, for the millionth time. I don't even know where I'm going with this one, but enjoy anyway.
The light nearly blinded her as they stepped through the doorway. This room was not dark like the others had been; rather, it was surrounded by immense stained glass windows. Patterns of white and blue and blue ran throughout the room, interspersed by the black silhouettes of a thousand crows in flight, all heading for the center, the opposite end of the room from where she stood. Against the opposite wall stood the room's lone piece of furniture; an odd sort of chair. It appeared to be-or had been, in some past life- a cast-iron gate, with swirling patterns of blackened metal around stiff bars that stabbed upwards into the air. The seat was stitched together with the same bright-blue thread that held everything else in the castle together, made of mismatched patches of leather and cloth.
She felt him enter behind her, and the shimmering brightness in his hand vanished as soon as it the beams of stained light touched it. He chuckled at her amazement.
“Do you like it?”
“It's beautiful.” She admitted. “What is it?”
“It's the throne room, of course.” He lead her across the spiral pathways tiled into the floor to the cast-iron chair, running a hand down the black metal of it's back. “I am a king, you know.”
“It doesn't look very comfortable,” she mused.
“It's not,” he admitted. “But it serves it's purpose.”
“Do you have a court?”
“Look up.”
She glanced upwards, and her eyes met an enormous white window, somehow contrived so the crows could come and go as they pleased, and hundreds of them lined the circles of the ceiling, staring down in silence.
“Your crows?”
“They aren't my crows.” He stared up with her. “They are their own. Whether they listen to me is their choice entirely.”
“But they always do.” She looked down at him. “Don't they?”
“Mostly.” He met her gaze with eyes bluer than blue, and smiled. “But they are as much mischief as I am. If they choose otherwise, I cannot control them.”
“But you are their king,” she ventured. “So it seems like...”
“Haven't we already learned,” he said with a smile, “that nothing is ever as it seems?” He gestured upwards, and the crows flew from their perches, swooping down around them in a black swarm. She gasped, and he pulled her close, as the crows circled fast, closer and closer with every pass. She felt the tickle of wingtips against her more than once as the black mass surged through the room. It was terrifying, but more, it was beautiful. The Crow King pulled her closer, and laughed amidst the deafening roar of wings meeting air.
“But they do obey me,” he whispered, “as long as I am what I am. But it is not my choice that they do.”
New story, for the millionth time. I don't even know where I'm going with this one, but enjoy anyway.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The Interview
Jack's main lab was even more impressive than he had described it in the email. The ceiling was more than four stories high, though the sheer dimension of the room made it impossible to tell. The room was at least half a mile wide, and maybe twice as deep, and every inch of it was covered in workbenches, tools, shelves, or massive, inexplicable inventions. The powerful canister lights supplemented standard grocery-store fluorescent lighting, along with smaller lights on the workbenches of every shape and size, from typical desklamps, to floor lamps, and on one a blue-green lava lamp, which illuminated blueprints for some kind of odd gun.
The walls were solid white, or had been when they started out, at least. Now, they were pockmarked with the burnt remnants of explosions, along with a disturbing amount of what appeared to be skid marks. Some of the skid marks had even made it onto the ceiling. The only mark on the walls that she could possibly interpret as deliberate was a bright red line, perfectly straight, which ran at about head height around all four walls. The floor was mostly cement, though in places there were the remnants of a tile floor, which had for the most part been blown to pieces. Crash shut the sturdy metal door behind them as they stepped in.
“Welcome to crazy.”
“It's... big.”
“No kidding. Let me introduce you to Jack.” He motioned to a lone figure who stood atop scaffolding in the corner to their left, lost in a shower of welding sparks. “Here, helmet.” He handed one to her, a red one labeled with the rather unnerving logo “Human, Try to miss.” It might have been slightly more comforting were there not a skid mark across the top. She put it on with some trepidation.
The man on the scaffolding didn't seem to hear them as they approached. As they drew closer, Amy could see it was because of the big, black headphones he wore. For a moment, she thought that he must be wearing them to protect his hearing, but then she spotted the cord, leading down to the mp3 player in his pocket. She smiled, and folded her wings in a little tighter to get through a narrow space between two workbenches.
“Hey, Jack!” Crash shouted upwards, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Jack! Hey! Toasterface!” There was no response, owing partly to the sound of the welder, and partly to the headphones. “Yo!” Crash gave the scaffolding a stiff kick with his steel-toed boot, shaking the whole apparatus all the way to the top two stories overhead. That the man noticed, and turned rapidly, forgetting to turn off the welder as he pulled off his headphones with his free hand.
“Hey, quit it!” He yelled down, gesturing with the welding torch in one gloved fist. Amy stared. A shining metal mask covered almost almost half his face, from near the top of his forehead until halfway down his nose. Parallel red slits ran across the surface, not unlike those on a toaster. They glowed with an eerie light as he scowled at them. The rest of him was slightly more normal. His light brown hair was short enough that it naturally spiked up, and his goatee seemed well maintained. He wore a black t shirt, along with baggy cargo pants, and seemed more a college student than a famous inventor. His gloves, though, were the same shining metal of his mask, coming up his arms almost to his elbow in an odd, scaled fashion. “I'm trying to concentrate here!”
“Hey, toasterhead, you forgot your appointment!”
“What appointment?” He looked confused for a moment, then he spotted her. “Oh!” he looked embarrassed, almost, then waved with the welding torch. “Uh, sorry. I'll be down in a second.” He flipped off the torch and tossed it aside carelessly, making his way across the high scaffolding with practiced ease. He practically slid down the stepladder at the end, and brushing his gloved hands off lightly as he walked up to them, he offered one to her with a businesslike smile. “Jack Free. You're Amy?”
“Amy Casting.” She smiled, and shook his hand warmly. “You said in your email that you wanted to interview me for the position of...”
“You have wings.” He seemed almost incredulous.
“Um, yes.” She flexed them back and forth a little, careful not to knock anything over. “I did mention that in my application.”
“I, uh, rather thought you were kidding.” He stared a moment longer before finally bringing himself back to the subject at hand. “But, uh, ok. Interview.” He turned quickly and strode to one of the workbenches, sifting through the papers carelessly before finally pulling out a clipboard with about seven sticky notes of all different colors adhered to it's surface. He pulled a blue one off, muttering, “Not kidding about the wings... Ok!” He did his best impression of a good businessman, and slid a rolling stool in her direction before taking a seat atop a wooden stool. “Crash, you can go.”
“Righto, bossman.” Crash gave a mock salute, and marched off towards the door.
Amy watched him go, then smiled nervously at the inventor. “I have some experience with secretarial work, and I...”
“Um, right.” Jack examined her, then the clipboard again. “Uh, first question. Do you, uh...” he brought the clipboard closer to his face, and tilted it. “Um, like... rock music.”
She looked a little incredulous, but smiled. “I can stand it, at least.”
“That can't be what it says...” he tilted the clipboard the other way. “Um, can you use a...” He gave up, shaking his head. “Let's just improvise.” He tossed the clipboard over his shoulder, where it landed in one of the lamps. “So, uh, you can do secretary stuff? Like, organize and crap?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Free.” She nodded.
“Call me Jack.” He grabbed a new piece of paper and the stub of a pencil and began scribbling, with the paper on his leg. “Organize stuff... check. Um, ok, can you use a computer?”
“I can use most of the basic programs.”
“Mathematical background?”
She paused for a moment, thinking back. The most advanced math class she'd done had been introduction to statistics, and that she'd almost failed. “Um... Well, I'd consider it sufficient, but...”
“Nevermind.” He scribbled something. “Basic algebra and stuff?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Free.”
“Jack.” He looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember something. “Um, how are you for heights?”
She resisted a laugh. “I'm good with heights.”
“Good.” He scribbled something for a moment before it finally hit him. “Oh, right, like wings and stuff! Duh. Nevermind.”
“Yes sir, Mr...”
“Jack, for the last time!” He turned and grabbed the clipboard out of the lamp where it had come to rest. “Um...” he thought for a moment longer as he examined the cryptic sticky notes. “I think this one says something about hate.”
“May I see?” She took the clipboard from his hands. “No, that one says heights.”
“Oh, yeah!” he attempted to snap, but it didn't work with the gloves. “And that one is... uh, fences.”
“Finance.”
“Oh.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, I guess if you can read it, I'd better hire you.” He coughed. “So, uh. 9-5, Monday through Friday?”
“Sure thing.” She pulled out her little blue notebook, and wrote that down. “Um, do you have the paperwork for me to fill out?”
“Uh... somewhere.” He looked at the mess of papers on the workbench, then shrugged. “I can get new ones. Tomorrow or something.”
“And the wage?”
He clearly hadn't considered this, and stood thinking for a full moment before he finally spoke. “Um, what do people normally get paid for stuff like this?” He stood a moment longer in thought, leaning against the messy desk. “Um, what if we start at uh, 50 dollars an hour? Is that reasonable or something?”
“...Very!” said Amy in shock. “That's much more than I would've expected, sir.”
“Is it?” he looked frustrated. “Money annoys me. I don't like thinking about it.” He waved a hand. “So if that works, that works. When can you start?”
“I could start today if you needed me, sir.”
“Ok!” he shrugged. “Today!”
“Um, Ok.” She fidgeted nervously with the clipboard. “What do you need me to do?”
“Um...” he stood for a moment, trying to remember. “I guess... start organizing. I guess you could start here... and if you need a file cabinet or anything, there's one... uh, over there. Make Crash move it.” He considered this. “Unless I blew that one up. But there's an unexploded one around here somewhere, I'm sure. You'll find it.”
“Yes sir.”
“Just call me Jack.” He moved off towards the scaffolding again, pushing the headphones up over his ears again.
“Alright then.” She smiled after him. “Jack.”
The walls were solid white, or had been when they started out, at least. Now, they were pockmarked with the burnt remnants of explosions, along with a disturbing amount of what appeared to be skid marks. Some of the skid marks had even made it onto the ceiling. The only mark on the walls that she could possibly interpret as deliberate was a bright red line, perfectly straight, which ran at about head height around all four walls. The floor was mostly cement, though in places there were the remnants of a tile floor, which had for the most part been blown to pieces. Crash shut the sturdy metal door behind them as they stepped in.
“Welcome to crazy.”
“It's... big.”
“No kidding. Let me introduce you to Jack.” He motioned to a lone figure who stood atop scaffolding in the corner to their left, lost in a shower of welding sparks. “Here, helmet.” He handed one to her, a red one labeled with the rather unnerving logo “Human, Try to miss.” It might have been slightly more comforting were there not a skid mark across the top. She put it on with some trepidation.
The man on the scaffolding didn't seem to hear them as they approached. As they drew closer, Amy could see it was because of the big, black headphones he wore. For a moment, she thought that he must be wearing them to protect his hearing, but then she spotted the cord, leading down to the mp3 player in his pocket. She smiled, and folded her wings in a little tighter to get through a narrow space between two workbenches.
“Hey, Jack!” Crash shouted upwards, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Jack! Hey! Toasterface!” There was no response, owing partly to the sound of the welder, and partly to the headphones. “Yo!” Crash gave the scaffolding a stiff kick with his steel-toed boot, shaking the whole apparatus all the way to the top two stories overhead. That the man noticed, and turned rapidly, forgetting to turn off the welder as he pulled off his headphones with his free hand.
“Hey, quit it!” He yelled down, gesturing with the welding torch in one gloved fist. Amy stared. A shining metal mask covered almost almost half his face, from near the top of his forehead until halfway down his nose. Parallel red slits ran across the surface, not unlike those on a toaster. They glowed with an eerie light as he scowled at them. The rest of him was slightly more normal. His light brown hair was short enough that it naturally spiked up, and his goatee seemed well maintained. He wore a black t shirt, along with baggy cargo pants, and seemed more a college student than a famous inventor. His gloves, though, were the same shining metal of his mask, coming up his arms almost to his elbow in an odd, scaled fashion. “I'm trying to concentrate here!”
“Hey, toasterhead, you forgot your appointment!”
“What appointment?” He looked confused for a moment, then he spotted her. “Oh!” he looked embarrassed, almost, then waved with the welding torch. “Uh, sorry. I'll be down in a second.” He flipped off the torch and tossed it aside carelessly, making his way across the high scaffolding with practiced ease. He practically slid down the stepladder at the end, and brushing his gloved hands off lightly as he walked up to them, he offered one to her with a businesslike smile. “Jack Free. You're Amy?”
“Amy Casting.” She smiled, and shook his hand warmly. “You said in your email that you wanted to interview me for the position of...”
“You have wings.” He seemed almost incredulous.
“Um, yes.” She flexed them back and forth a little, careful not to knock anything over. “I did mention that in my application.”
“I, uh, rather thought you were kidding.” He stared a moment longer before finally bringing himself back to the subject at hand. “But, uh, ok. Interview.” He turned quickly and strode to one of the workbenches, sifting through the papers carelessly before finally pulling out a clipboard with about seven sticky notes of all different colors adhered to it's surface. He pulled a blue one off, muttering, “Not kidding about the wings... Ok!” He did his best impression of a good businessman, and slid a rolling stool in her direction before taking a seat atop a wooden stool. “Crash, you can go.”
“Righto, bossman.” Crash gave a mock salute, and marched off towards the door.
Amy watched him go, then smiled nervously at the inventor. “I have some experience with secretarial work, and I...”
“Um, right.” Jack examined her, then the clipboard again. “Uh, first question. Do you, uh...” he brought the clipboard closer to his face, and tilted it. “Um, like... rock music.”
She looked a little incredulous, but smiled. “I can stand it, at least.”
“That can't be what it says...” he tilted the clipboard the other way. “Um, can you use a...” He gave up, shaking his head. “Let's just improvise.” He tossed the clipboard over his shoulder, where it landed in one of the lamps. “So, uh, you can do secretary stuff? Like, organize and crap?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Free.” She nodded.
“Call me Jack.” He grabbed a new piece of paper and the stub of a pencil and began scribbling, with the paper on his leg. “Organize stuff... check. Um, ok, can you use a computer?”
“I can use most of the basic programs.”
“Mathematical background?”
She paused for a moment, thinking back. The most advanced math class she'd done had been introduction to statistics, and that she'd almost failed. “Um... Well, I'd consider it sufficient, but...”
“Nevermind.” He scribbled something. “Basic algebra and stuff?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Free.”
“Jack.” He looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember something. “Um, how are you for heights?”
She resisted a laugh. “I'm good with heights.”
“Good.” He scribbled something for a moment before it finally hit him. “Oh, right, like wings and stuff! Duh. Nevermind.”
“Yes sir, Mr...”
“Jack, for the last time!” He turned and grabbed the clipboard out of the lamp where it had come to rest. “Um...” he thought for a moment longer as he examined the cryptic sticky notes. “I think this one says something about hate.”
“May I see?” She took the clipboard from his hands. “No, that one says heights.”
“Oh, yeah!” he attempted to snap, but it didn't work with the gloves. “And that one is... uh, fences.”
“Finance.”
“Oh.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, I guess if you can read it, I'd better hire you.” He coughed. “So, uh. 9-5, Monday through Friday?”
“Sure thing.” She pulled out her little blue notebook, and wrote that down. “Um, do you have the paperwork for me to fill out?”
“Uh... somewhere.” He looked at the mess of papers on the workbench, then shrugged. “I can get new ones. Tomorrow or something.”
“And the wage?”
He clearly hadn't considered this, and stood thinking for a full moment before he finally spoke. “Um, what do people normally get paid for stuff like this?” He stood a moment longer in thought, leaning against the messy desk. “Um, what if we start at uh, 50 dollars an hour? Is that reasonable or something?”
“...Very!” said Amy in shock. “That's much more than I would've expected, sir.”
“Is it?” he looked frustrated. “Money annoys me. I don't like thinking about it.” He waved a hand. “So if that works, that works. When can you start?”
“I could start today if you needed me, sir.”
“Ok!” he shrugged. “Today!”
“Um, Ok.” She fidgeted nervously with the clipboard. “What do you need me to do?”
“Um...” he stood for a moment, trying to remember. “I guess... start organizing. I guess you could start here... and if you need a file cabinet or anything, there's one... uh, over there. Make Crash move it.” He considered this. “Unless I blew that one up. But there's an unexploded one around here somewhere, I'm sure. You'll find it.”
“Yes sir.”
“Just call me Jack.” He moved off towards the scaffolding again, pushing the headphones up over his ears again.
“Alright then.” She smiled after him. “Jack.”
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Springfield Halloween- When You Give a Dinosaur Sugar
In retrospect, the sundae had been a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
Timothy was normally a ball of energy, and on a good day, Seth could keep up with him without much trouble. But with sugar thrown into the mix, along with the natural high of a celebration, the second grader was practically bursting at the seams with hyper, hey look a shiny thing can we go over there please please please oh wait another one that way let's go that way come on Seth energy. The teen found himself practically running from one booth to the other, holding onto Timothy's candy with the hand that wasn't being dragged across the square. Luckily, the boy hadn't had any of that yet; that had been the deal for the sundae. He could only have the dessert if he promised not to eat any candy, at all, until tomorrow, when with any luck he'd be too tired to care.
Seth knew that was a little much to hope for. But in any case, the deal had been struck, and now Timothy was an inch away from literally bouncing off walls. He wondered, not for the first time, how the second grader seemed to have a sense for picking the food item off of any menu with the highest sugar content. It was like a superpower or something, and considering Timothy was the town's youngest superhero, it very well might have been.
“Hey Seth, facepainting! Come on come on come on!” Seth almost lost his purple wizards hat as Timothy switched directions, this time headed for the pet shop.
“Slow down!” Seth tried to reign in his charge, with little luck. “It's not going anywhere.”
“Come on!” It was like trying to stop a freight train one handed. Timothy dragged his babysitter across the street to the pet shop's multicolored windows, which this month featured a family of black cats on a series of successively smaller pumpkins, with the message “Happy Halloween” scrawled across the scene in big, jagged letters. A scarecrow with a crooked hat sat outside the door in a folding chair, holding a sign labeled “Free Face Painting” in a similar font. Timothy pulled to a stop in front of him, and glanced around. “Where's Mr. Chase?”
The scarecrow shook with silent laughter, and Seth smiled. “I see him.”
“Where?” Timothy looked around again, dragging his supervisor around in a circle as he inspected the scene. “I don't see him.”
“Miles, stop that.” Allie Chase, the town's veterinarian and co-owner of the pet shop, stood in the doorway, trying not to smile as she looked down on her husband. She was dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, with her hair pulled back in two brown pigtails on either side of her head and a blue dress that came down to just below her knees.
The scarecrow turned his head upwards to face his wife with a grin. “He would've figured it out!”
“Oh!” Timothy looked startled. “Hi, Mr Chase!”
“Hey!” Miles looked back down at Timothy, dropping the pretense of lifelessness with a smile. “Want some facepainting?”
“Yeah!” Timothy jumped up and down at the offer. “I want a dinosaur!”
“Aren't you already a dinosaur?” asked Allie, leaving a trail of red glitter from her shoes as she stepped down onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah, but dinosaurs are cool!”
Miles picked up a three ring binder full of pictures and flipped to a few. “How about that one?” he said, pointing to a yellow Stegosaurus.
“That one's better!” insisted Timothy, pointing to the T-Rex next to it. “Cause it's a T-Rex, and they were meat eaters, and the king of the dinosaurs, and they had all sorts of teeth and walked around like this!” Timothy proceeded to do his best T-Rex imitation, high stepping in a circle around Seth with his arms pulled in tight to his chest, roaring as the tail of his dinosaur suit dragged along behind him. “I'm a T-Rex!” he roared. “I'll eat you, Rar!”
“I see that!” Miles laughed. “Alright then, T-Rex it is.” He motioned to the folding chair that sat opposite him. “Have a seat!”
Timothy did as he was told, bouncing up and down until Seth put a hand on his head. “You've gotta hold still, or it'll be a zig-zag Rex.”
“That'd be cool too!”
Allie watched in amusement. “Just out of curiosity,” she remarked to Seth, “How much sugar has that one had?”
“...An entire ice cream sundae,” admitted Seth sheepishly.
Allie looked at him like he was insane. “You let him have the whole thing?”
“We made a deal,” Seth explained. “If I let him have the sundae, he won't eat any of his candy tonight.”
“Oh.” Allie watched as Timothy started bouncing again under Seth's hand. “Right.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” Miles put down the green face paint and reached under his chair. “I have candy I need to get rid of. Want some?” He pulled out an orange plastic pumpkin filled to the brim with the neon colors of candy wrappers. “I have Smores-n-more, Smackers, these really good peanut butter things...”
“Miles,” Allie scolded, taking the pumpkin out of his hand. “I'm giving out healthy food this year, you know!”
“Yeah, I know.” Miles grinned. “But I'm not!”
“Oh good grief, you silly owl...” She rustled through the pumpkin, examining the contents. “Jawbreakers, licorice bites, candy-covered-chocolate-covered-peanut-brittle-covered lollipops? Miles, can you actually eat those things?”
“They're not half bad, really.” Miles mused as he took advantage of Timothy's awestruck fixation with the pumpkin to finish painting the dinosaur's tail. “I think you'd like the peanut brittle things.”
Allie glared at her husband for a moment before taking advantage of his distraction to stuff three in her dress pocket. “Might as well call them bricks of sugar,” she muttered. “Oh good grief, this one is actually called brick-o-sugar!”
“Now those are good!”
Allie sighed. “Ok, fine.” She turned to Seth. “Here. One for you, one for Timothy.” She held out the pumpkin with a victimized air. Seth took the candies, almost feeling guilty about it, then Allie grabbed her own wicker basket off the doorstep. “And healthy food,” she said, shooting a look at her grinning husband, “for the both of you.” Seth dropped two boxes of raisins into their baskets.
Miles finally finished the dinosaur, and handed Timothy a mirror. “There you go. Pretty good dinosaur, eh?”
“Awesome!” Timothy examined the dinosaur on his cheek with a grin. “Can you make it breathe fire?”
“Um, ok!” Miles grabbed the orange facepaint and did a few quick strokes. “There. A fire breathing T-Rex.”
“Great!” Timothy hopped up from the chair, then grabbed Seth's hand again. “Thanks, Mr. Chase!”
“You're welcome!”
Miles and Allie waved at the pair as Seth was once again dragged unceremoniously across the square, headed this time for a plastic duck pond. Then Allie turned to Miles with mock severity. “So you bought candy, eh?”
“Um, yes.” Miles smiled, trying not to look guilty, but failed. “Am I in trouble?”
“Well, maybe.” Allie browsed through the pumpkin again. “That depends entirely on how much of this you're willing to share.”
A very bad idea.
Timothy was normally a ball of energy, and on a good day, Seth could keep up with him without much trouble. But with sugar thrown into the mix, along with the natural high of a celebration, the second grader was practically bursting at the seams with hyper, hey look a shiny thing can we go over there please please please oh wait another one that way let's go that way come on Seth energy. The teen found himself practically running from one booth to the other, holding onto Timothy's candy with the hand that wasn't being dragged across the square. Luckily, the boy hadn't had any of that yet; that had been the deal for the sundae. He could only have the dessert if he promised not to eat any candy, at all, until tomorrow, when with any luck he'd be too tired to care.
Seth knew that was a little much to hope for. But in any case, the deal had been struck, and now Timothy was an inch away from literally bouncing off walls. He wondered, not for the first time, how the second grader seemed to have a sense for picking the food item off of any menu with the highest sugar content. It was like a superpower or something, and considering Timothy was the town's youngest superhero, it very well might have been.
“Hey Seth, facepainting! Come on come on come on!” Seth almost lost his purple wizards hat as Timothy switched directions, this time headed for the pet shop.
“Slow down!” Seth tried to reign in his charge, with little luck. “It's not going anywhere.”
“Come on!” It was like trying to stop a freight train one handed. Timothy dragged his babysitter across the street to the pet shop's multicolored windows, which this month featured a family of black cats on a series of successively smaller pumpkins, with the message “Happy Halloween” scrawled across the scene in big, jagged letters. A scarecrow with a crooked hat sat outside the door in a folding chair, holding a sign labeled “Free Face Painting” in a similar font. Timothy pulled to a stop in front of him, and glanced around. “Where's Mr. Chase?”
The scarecrow shook with silent laughter, and Seth smiled. “I see him.”
“Where?” Timothy looked around again, dragging his supervisor around in a circle as he inspected the scene. “I don't see him.”
“Miles, stop that.” Allie Chase, the town's veterinarian and co-owner of the pet shop, stood in the doorway, trying not to smile as she looked down on her husband. She was dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, with her hair pulled back in two brown pigtails on either side of her head and a blue dress that came down to just below her knees.
The scarecrow turned his head upwards to face his wife with a grin. “He would've figured it out!”
“Oh!” Timothy looked startled. “Hi, Mr Chase!”
“Hey!” Miles looked back down at Timothy, dropping the pretense of lifelessness with a smile. “Want some facepainting?”
“Yeah!” Timothy jumped up and down at the offer. “I want a dinosaur!”
“Aren't you already a dinosaur?” asked Allie, leaving a trail of red glitter from her shoes as she stepped down onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah, but dinosaurs are cool!”
Miles picked up a three ring binder full of pictures and flipped to a few. “How about that one?” he said, pointing to a yellow Stegosaurus.
“That one's better!” insisted Timothy, pointing to the T-Rex next to it. “Cause it's a T-Rex, and they were meat eaters, and the king of the dinosaurs, and they had all sorts of teeth and walked around like this!” Timothy proceeded to do his best T-Rex imitation, high stepping in a circle around Seth with his arms pulled in tight to his chest, roaring as the tail of his dinosaur suit dragged along behind him. “I'm a T-Rex!” he roared. “I'll eat you, Rar!”
“I see that!” Miles laughed. “Alright then, T-Rex it is.” He motioned to the folding chair that sat opposite him. “Have a seat!”
Timothy did as he was told, bouncing up and down until Seth put a hand on his head. “You've gotta hold still, or it'll be a zig-zag Rex.”
“That'd be cool too!”
Allie watched in amusement. “Just out of curiosity,” she remarked to Seth, “How much sugar has that one had?”
“...An entire ice cream sundae,” admitted Seth sheepishly.
Allie looked at him like he was insane. “You let him have the whole thing?”
“We made a deal,” Seth explained. “If I let him have the sundae, he won't eat any of his candy tonight.”
“Oh.” Allie watched as Timothy started bouncing again under Seth's hand. “Right.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” Miles put down the green face paint and reached under his chair. “I have candy I need to get rid of. Want some?” He pulled out an orange plastic pumpkin filled to the brim with the neon colors of candy wrappers. “I have Smores-n-more, Smackers, these really good peanut butter things...”
“Miles,” Allie scolded, taking the pumpkin out of his hand. “I'm giving out healthy food this year, you know!”
“Yeah, I know.” Miles grinned. “But I'm not!”
“Oh good grief, you silly owl...” She rustled through the pumpkin, examining the contents. “Jawbreakers, licorice bites, candy-covered-chocolate-covered-peanut-brittle-covered lollipops? Miles, can you actually eat those things?”
“They're not half bad, really.” Miles mused as he took advantage of Timothy's awestruck fixation with the pumpkin to finish painting the dinosaur's tail. “I think you'd like the peanut brittle things.”
Allie glared at her husband for a moment before taking advantage of his distraction to stuff three in her dress pocket. “Might as well call them bricks of sugar,” she muttered. “Oh good grief, this one is actually called brick-o-sugar!”
“Now those are good!”
Allie sighed. “Ok, fine.” She turned to Seth. “Here. One for you, one for Timothy.” She held out the pumpkin with a victimized air. Seth took the candies, almost feeling guilty about it, then Allie grabbed her own wicker basket off the doorstep. “And healthy food,” she said, shooting a look at her grinning husband, “for the both of you.” Seth dropped two boxes of raisins into their baskets.
Miles finally finished the dinosaur, and handed Timothy a mirror. “There you go. Pretty good dinosaur, eh?”
“Awesome!” Timothy examined the dinosaur on his cheek with a grin. “Can you make it breathe fire?”
“Um, ok!” Miles grabbed the orange facepaint and did a few quick strokes. “There. A fire breathing T-Rex.”
“Great!” Timothy hopped up from the chair, then grabbed Seth's hand again. “Thanks, Mr. Chase!”
“You're welcome!”
Miles and Allie waved at the pair as Seth was once again dragged unceremoniously across the square, headed this time for a plastic duck pond. Then Allie turned to Miles with mock severity. “So you bought candy, eh?”
“Um, yes.” Miles smiled, trying not to look guilty, but failed. “Am I in trouble?”
“Well, maybe.” Allie browsed through the pumpkin again. “That depends entirely on how much of this you're willing to share.”
Monday, October 19, 2009
Springfield Halloween-Frankenstien's Dunk Tank
This is the first of a series of shorts that will hopefully eventually connect together into a longer story. The prompt for this one: “In retrospect, something like an astronaut might have been more impressive.” Enjoy!
Dr Jeremy Tabition, to say the least, was not amused.
Nobody ever enjoyed the dunk tank, he knew. It was only through some cruel whim of the school board that it happened every year, and despite the fact that it was one of the best fund raisers the school had, for once in his life he would like to be able to enjoy himself on Halloween as a normal, dry human being. With a special emphasis on dry.
But of course, as a teacher, he had to make sacrifices, and these included, among others, sacrificing his enjoyment of the relatively warm, but a little windy fall day in favor of sitting above a tank of water, dreading the moment one of the ragged baseballs finally hit the target hard enough to dunk him.
He fidgeted atop the plank, trying to keep up a smile as he watched another student hand over their two dollars for the three tries at dunking Dr. Tabs. Smiling was difficult at this point, as he was already soaked, and it was only through the miracles of waterproof makeup that he still resembled Frankenstein's monster rather than a melted bucket of paint.
In retrospect, something like an astronaut may have been more impressive. And smarter, too; a suit that could survive the vacuum of space might have made the water that he'd made Gabe swear he hadn't iced slightly more survivable. Maybe not more enjoyable, but Jeremy would take what he could get.
This whole situation might not have been so bad if it had actually been his turn, he mused as a ball narrowly whizzed by the target, hitting the plastic backdrop with a bang that made him flinch. It was supposed to be the turn of Brian Branch, the math teacher. Brian had always tried to get out of the dunk tank altogether, but thanks to Gabe's rigorous daily disinfecting of his classroom for the three weeks prior, along with Jeremy's insistence that he get vaccinated for everything from tuberculosis to malaria this year, Brian would not be calling in sick with pneumonia this year. Or the flu. Or a sudden allergy to water. Not that they'd bought that one the first time, but still. Brian Branch, this year, at least, had no excuse.
Except this year, they simply couldn't find the man.
He wasn't answering his cell phone, or his house phone. Nobody had seen him, not even Trudy, though Jeremy suspected she was covering for him. Gabe's hurried search had turned up nothing, and it had come down to a game of rock paper scissors as to who would take the math teacher's spot until he could be found.
And he should've known that Arnold would pick paper. He always picked paper. It was like the English teacher was obsessed with it or something.
So despite having already served one of his two slots as target, Dr Jeremy Tabition was stuck here, smiling in the way of a man that wants to murder something and dreading the approach of the sadistic gym teacher Dave Clemmence to the front of the line. If there's one thing Tabs could say in his favor, possibly the only one, it was that the man could throw a ball.
“Get me out of here,” he whispered to Gabe as the janitor, dressed as a cowboy complete with lasso, came by to collect the balls. “I can't take it anymore.”
“You've got ten minutes left before it's Arnold's turn,” Gabe whispered back, with a sympathetic look. “And if we find Brian, we'll make him take your other turn.”
“Right.” Jeremy snorted. “Sorry, but he's probably at the soda fountain, you know.”
“I told you, I looked there.” Gabe turned back to the next person in line. “Oh, hey, Mr. Meeps! Nice Watson costume.”
“I'm Winston Churchhill, actually.” The older man looked vaguely resigned, as if he'd already corrected half the town on this point, which he had. He handed over his two dollars, and received the three battered baseballs in return. “I don't suppose you could tell me when I could come back to dunk Brian,” he remarked as he wound up for the pitch.
“That would be whenever we find him.” Gabe watched as the ball slammed into the backing, two inches above the target.
“He's missing?” Oliver Meeps shook out his arm and took the second ball in hand.
“He's hiding,” responded Dr. Tabs, his voice echoing from inside the dunk tank. “I don't suppose you've seen him.”
“He's down at the soda fountain.” Oliver let loose another fast pitch, this one slightly to the left. “Tch, out of practice...”
“I told you!” Jeremy crowed. “Trudy's covering for him!”
“I looked there!” Gabe looked chagrined as he handed Oliver the last ball. Oliver went through a few warmup swings, and Gabe took another step back. “Is he in disguise or something?”
“Who isn't?” asked Dr Tabs, keeping a wary eye on the substitute as he wound up for the third time. “He's probably... Agh!” The ball found its mark, and the chemistry teacher plummeted into the water. The clear plastic tank gave a clear view of the shocked expression on the green-painted face, and by the time Jeremy surfaced, Oliver was laughing hysterically. “Good grief, man, where'd you learn to throw?” Gabe reset the tank's seat and helped Jeremy pull himself back up, trying to stifle a smile.
“Hah!” Oliver looked triumphant at his victory. “Still got it.”
“Ok, fine, good shot.” Tabs wrung the water out of the sleeve of his tattered Frankenstein shirt. “Hey, would you mind dragging Brian over here? This was supposed to be his timeslot, and he's got another one in an hour.”
“You sure? I mean, it'd be a waste of waterproof makeup...” Gabe said, laughing, before the teacher cut him off.
“I'm sure!”
“Alright, I'll get him.” Oliver picked up his cane again, still laughing. “Try to stay dry!”
“Gee, thanks.” Jeremy sulked on the plastic seat as the next person stepped up to dunk Frankenstein.
He should've been an astronaut.
Next
Dr Jeremy Tabition, to say the least, was not amused.
Nobody ever enjoyed the dunk tank, he knew. It was only through some cruel whim of the school board that it happened every year, and despite the fact that it was one of the best fund raisers the school had, for once in his life he would like to be able to enjoy himself on Halloween as a normal, dry human being. With a special emphasis on dry.
But of course, as a teacher, he had to make sacrifices, and these included, among others, sacrificing his enjoyment of the relatively warm, but a little windy fall day in favor of sitting above a tank of water, dreading the moment one of the ragged baseballs finally hit the target hard enough to dunk him.
He fidgeted atop the plank, trying to keep up a smile as he watched another student hand over their two dollars for the three tries at dunking Dr. Tabs. Smiling was difficult at this point, as he was already soaked, and it was only through the miracles of waterproof makeup that he still resembled Frankenstein's monster rather than a melted bucket of paint.
In retrospect, something like an astronaut may have been more impressive. And smarter, too; a suit that could survive the vacuum of space might have made the water that he'd made Gabe swear he hadn't iced slightly more survivable. Maybe not more enjoyable, but Jeremy would take what he could get.
This whole situation might not have been so bad if it had actually been his turn, he mused as a ball narrowly whizzed by the target, hitting the plastic backdrop with a bang that made him flinch. It was supposed to be the turn of Brian Branch, the math teacher. Brian had always tried to get out of the dunk tank altogether, but thanks to Gabe's rigorous daily disinfecting of his classroom for the three weeks prior, along with Jeremy's insistence that he get vaccinated for everything from tuberculosis to malaria this year, Brian would not be calling in sick with pneumonia this year. Or the flu. Or a sudden allergy to water. Not that they'd bought that one the first time, but still. Brian Branch, this year, at least, had no excuse.
Except this year, they simply couldn't find the man.
He wasn't answering his cell phone, or his house phone. Nobody had seen him, not even Trudy, though Jeremy suspected she was covering for him. Gabe's hurried search had turned up nothing, and it had come down to a game of rock paper scissors as to who would take the math teacher's spot until he could be found.
And he should've known that Arnold would pick paper. He always picked paper. It was like the English teacher was obsessed with it or something.
So despite having already served one of his two slots as target, Dr Jeremy Tabition was stuck here, smiling in the way of a man that wants to murder something and dreading the approach of the sadistic gym teacher Dave Clemmence to the front of the line. If there's one thing Tabs could say in his favor, possibly the only one, it was that the man could throw a ball.
“Get me out of here,” he whispered to Gabe as the janitor, dressed as a cowboy complete with lasso, came by to collect the balls. “I can't take it anymore.”
“You've got ten minutes left before it's Arnold's turn,” Gabe whispered back, with a sympathetic look. “And if we find Brian, we'll make him take your other turn.”
“Right.” Jeremy snorted. “Sorry, but he's probably at the soda fountain, you know.”
“I told you, I looked there.” Gabe turned back to the next person in line. “Oh, hey, Mr. Meeps! Nice Watson costume.”
“I'm Winston Churchhill, actually.” The older man looked vaguely resigned, as if he'd already corrected half the town on this point, which he had. He handed over his two dollars, and received the three battered baseballs in return. “I don't suppose you could tell me when I could come back to dunk Brian,” he remarked as he wound up for the pitch.
“That would be whenever we find him.” Gabe watched as the ball slammed into the backing, two inches above the target.
“He's missing?” Oliver Meeps shook out his arm and took the second ball in hand.
“He's hiding,” responded Dr. Tabs, his voice echoing from inside the dunk tank. “I don't suppose you've seen him.”
“He's down at the soda fountain.” Oliver let loose another fast pitch, this one slightly to the left. “Tch, out of practice...”
“I told you!” Jeremy crowed. “Trudy's covering for him!”
“I looked there!” Gabe looked chagrined as he handed Oliver the last ball. Oliver went through a few warmup swings, and Gabe took another step back. “Is he in disguise or something?”
“Who isn't?” asked Dr Tabs, keeping a wary eye on the substitute as he wound up for the third time. “He's probably... Agh!” The ball found its mark, and the chemistry teacher plummeted into the water. The clear plastic tank gave a clear view of the shocked expression on the green-painted face, and by the time Jeremy surfaced, Oliver was laughing hysterically. “Good grief, man, where'd you learn to throw?” Gabe reset the tank's seat and helped Jeremy pull himself back up, trying to stifle a smile.
“Hah!” Oliver looked triumphant at his victory. “Still got it.”
“Ok, fine, good shot.” Tabs wrung the water out of the sleeve of his tattered Frankenstein shirt. “Hey, would you mind dragging Brian over here? This was supposed to be his timeslot, and he's got another one in an hour.”
“You sure? I mean, it'd be a waste of waterproof makeup...” Gabe said, laughing, before the teacher cut him off.
“I'm sure!”
“Alright, I'll get him.” Oliver picked up his cane again, still laughing. “Try to stay dry!”
“Gee, thanks.” Jeremy sulked on the plastic seat as the next person stepped up to dunk Frankenstein.
He should've been an astronaut.
Next
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Auntie Martha
“Aunt Martha?”
“Yes?” The old lady's voice crackled through her ancient phone. “A call from my favorite nephew? What have I done to deserve such an honor?”
“I'm your only nephew, Auntie. I need a bit of advice.”
“Advice? Is it something to do with a girl?”
“No! Well, um, yes, actually. I was wondering...”
“Oh, you have to tell me all about her, Jack! Is she nice- Oh, where did you two meet- have you been seeing each other for long? What's her name, Jack, oh you have to tell me. Oh, I simply have to tell everyone at sewing circle- Susan just had her third grandchild get married, did you know- and they're all asking about you, Jack! But don't let me interrupt, do go on with your question.”
“Hypothetically!” Jack stressed the word. “If I hypothetically liked this girl, who is entirely hypothetical and does not exist, and she hypothetically liked ballet, and had by some circumstance indicated that she wanted to take lessons as a child but never did, would it hypothetically be acceptable to rig a contest for which the prize was a month worth of ballet lessons, and maybe kinda fix it so she won?” He paused for breath. "And if so, how long would I have to wait if the conversation happened, say, today, to point her to this hypothetical contest, in order to divert all suspicion of rigging it from myself? Keep in mind that this is totally hypothetical."
“Oh, a dancer!” crowed Aunt Martha with pleasure, before she caught herself and giggled. “A hypothetical dancer, of course. But why not just buy her lessons, Jack? It could be terribly romantic. And maybe a nice pair of shoes, if you want.”
“Shoes! I hadn't considered shoes!” Aunt Martha giggled again as the sound of Jack's frantic scribbling reached her. After a moments pause, his voice came again. “...Hypothetically, what's the best way to ask her her shoe size?”
“Oh, that's easy! Just the next time she takes off her shoes, take a peek at the number on the sole. Don't actually ask her, though.”
“What if she doesn't take off her shoes, though?”
“Improvise, honey! Maybe go shopping with her, or spill something that sticks to shoes but not to feet. You're a clever boy.”
“Um, alright. But the first question? Would that work?” He noticed Crash waving at him frantically through the office window, and nodded cordially.
“Well, it might work, Jack, but I really don't see why you'd go through all that trouble. Just giving her the lessons would be much more romantic.”
“Thanks for your help, Auntie. I've gotta go.”
“Good luck with your hypothetical lady friend.” She stifled a giggle again, and he sighed. “Bye bye now.”
“Bye.” He hung up the phone, sighing. Crash burst into the office all at once. “Yes?”
“Jack, Fixit's on fire.”
"Again?"
One year ago, I posted the first story about Jack, as well as drawing him for the first time. So therefore, I have declared today to be his birthday. So happy birthday, Jack. May you eventually learn how people work. But not too soon; we enjoy laughing at you.
“Yes?” The old lady's voice crackled through her ancient phone. “A call from my favorite nephew? What have I done to deserve such an honor?”
“I'm your only nephew, Auntie. I need a bit of advice.”
“Advice? Is it something to do with a girl?”
“No! Well, um, yes, actually. I was wondering...”
“Oh, you have to tell me all about her, Jack! Is she nice- Oh, where did you two meet- have you been seeing each other for long? What's her name, Jack, oh you have to tell me. Oh, I simply have to tell everyone at sewing circle- Susan just had her third grandchild get married, did you know- and they're all asking about you, Jack! But don't let me interrupt, do go on with your question.”
“Hypothetically!” Jack stressed the word. “If I hypothetically liked this girl, who is entirely hypothetical and does not exist, and she hypothetically liked ballet, and had by some circumstance indicated that she wanted to take lessons as a child but never did, would it hypothetically be acceptable to rig a contest for which the prize was a month worth of ballet lessons, and maybe kinda fix it so she won?” He paused for breath. "And if so, how long would I have to wait if the conversation happened, say, today, to point her to this hypothetical contest, in order to divert all suspicion of rigging it from myself? Keep in mind that this is totally hypothetical."
“Oh, a dancer!” crowed Aunt Martha with pleasure, before she caught herself and giggled. “A hypothetical dancer, of course. But why not just buy her lessons, Jack? It could be terribly romantic. And maybe a nice pair of shoes, if you want.”
“Shoes! I hadn't considered shoes!” Aunt Martha giggled again as the sound of Jack's frantic scribbling reached her. After a moments pause, his voice came again. “...Hypothetically, what's the best way to ask her her shoe size?”
“Oh, that's easy! Just the next time she takes off her shoes, take a peek at the number on the sole. Don't actually ask her, though.”
“What if she doesn't take off her shoes, though?”
“Improvise, honey! Maybe go shopping with her, or spill something that sticks to shoes but not to feet. You're a clever boy.”
“Um, alright. But the first question? Would that work?” He noticed Crash waving at him frantically through the office window, and nodded cordially.
“Well, it might work, Jack, but I really don't see why you'd go through all that trouble. Just giving her the lessons would be much more romantic.”
“Thanks for your help, Auntie. I've gotta go.”
“Good luck with your hypothetical lady friend.” She stifled a giggle again, and he sighed. “Bye bye now.”
“Bye.” He hung up the phone, sighing. Crash burst into the office all at once. “Yes?”
“Jack, Fixit's on fire.”
"Again?"
One year ago, I posted the first story about Jack, as well as drawing him for the first time. So therefore, I have declared today to be his birthday. So happy birthday, Jack. May you eventually learn how people work. But not too soon; we enjoy laughing at you.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Meeting the Kilsinger Brothers
“I didn't know you were a student here.” A familiar voice sounded behind her, and Karen whirled, eyes wide. The voice had come from behind the neighboring bookshelf, and she glared at it menacingly.
“Blind, what are you doing here?” She hissed softly.
“I could ask you the same.” The smirk in his voice was infuriating.
“Go away.” She paused as she realized. “Wait, how did you...”
“Mostly your boots. They make a very distinct sound. Really, you shouldn't wear those around. Someone will notice.”
“Go away, Blind.”
“I have every right to be here. You go away.”
“I have a paper!”
“And I'm meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“Guess.”
She glared at his voice for a moment, then very deliberately turned back to the book she was holding, a rather dry account of first century politics.
“Come on, guess!” He sounded teasing. “Fine, then I'll guess about you. Your paper is on... History? You're in the section for it, anyway.”
She didn't respond, turning to another page of long dead idiots trying to kill each other.
“I'm pretty sure you're either a junior or a senior, so either this is an upper level class, or you're not a history major, so you've been putting your history requirement off. Given that it took you fifteen minutes to find this section, I'm guessing the second.” He paused for a moment. “So that means you're something else, then. Hm, chemistry? You do occasionally smell like laboratory.”
Karen ignored him, putting the book back where she'd found it and picking it's neighbor up, leafing through to a section on the Gaelic Wars.
“I would eliminate music, just for the fact that you don't quite seem the type, and probably English, as closely related as that class is to history. Am I getting any closer?”
“Go away, Blind.”
“I'd rather not, thank you. So, I think something with science. Your glider, for example, is a fair bit of physics that not many people would try without some calculations.” He mused for a moment, mumbling something about what majors had to take that level of physics before the senior year, when she noticed someone in a wheelchair slowly coming up the aisle.
“Oh, Good morning, Professor K.”
“Hello, ah... Karen!” He pointed at her with a smile. “I had you for Calculus One. You sat in the upper left corner, am I right?”
“Yessir!” She smiled, ignoring the now-silent man behind the bookshelf as she inwardly cursed him for learning her name.
“Hah! So Karen, what brings you to the library? Last I checked Professor Holt didn't assign too many papers for Inorganic Chemistry.”
“History, unfortunately.” She showed him the book. “What brings you here? Assigning papers to unsuspecting math classes?”
“Looking for my brother, actually.” He glanced around. “He said he'd meet me around here, but he might have gotten mixed up.”
“Your brother... Oh! You showed us pictures of him once.” She recalled the class now. The problem in question had something to do with projectile motion. “The problem with the mashed potatoes.”
“You're teaching that now?” Blind's voice came through the bookshelf in disbelief. “Oh, come on! Do you have to gloat forever?”
“Hah, knew you were around here somewhere!” Professor K pointed triumphantly at the bookshelf. “You're in the wrong aisle, Jay. Again.”
“What? Aisle 14.”
Karen glanced up at the sign above them. “This is aisle 14.”
“I counted. The sign is wrong.” Blind, or Jay, fumed as his voice moved around the end of the bookshelf.
“You forgot that aisle one is short. You never remember to count that.” Professor K laughed. “In any case, sorry I'm late.”
“Tch.” A familiar figure rounded the corner, tall and dark, with black hair that spilled like water over his face. But there were differences. Rather than the blue blindfold she knew so well, a pair of dark glasses covered his eyes, and the neat blue uniform was replaced by a dark jacket, unzipped over a white t-shirt and jeans. The calm smugness was replaced by a slightly less calm expression of disgust. But the long white cane still swept the ground in front of him, and she wondered, for half a second, what this particular one did.
“You really are blind!” She exclaimed.
“Am I?” He moved a hand to his face and waved it about. “Oh, I hadn't noticed.”
“Only way to explain that outfit,” muttered Professor K with a smile.
“What?” His hand moved to his clothing. “What's wrong? Did I...” He trailed off and glared at the other man. “Monty, you are not funny.”
“At least I don't look like a clown.”
“I do not look like a clown!” He turned to Karen. “Do I look like a clown?”
Professor K nodded enthusiastically in her direction. She barely kept from laughing. “Yep.”
“You're lying. Unless someone messed with my closet, I know exactly what I am...” He trailed off. “Monty, you messed with my closet! What am I wearing?”
“Purple jacket, orange shirt, striped pants.”
“I don't own striped pants, you liar.”
“You do now!”
“I would have noticed if you had...”
“Well, you didn't!” Professor K was laughing now. “Karen, am I right?”
“He isn't.” Jay turned to her. “He's not right. I know what I'm wearing.”
“Oh,” the paraplegic finally got control of his laughter. “Have you two met?”
“No, why don't you introduce us?” Jay smiled, and she shot him a glare over his brother's head.
If Professor K noticed, he didn't mention it. “Oh, well, Karen, this is my brother, Jay Southend Bus Stop Kilsinger.”
Jay made an exasperated noise. “My name is not bus stop.”
“Jay, this is Karen, uh, Same, one of my students. She's a...”
“Chemistry major.” He faced her with a familiar smirk.
“Not even asking how you knew that.” His brother shook his head. “Is he right?”
“No.” For once it was her turn to look smug. “Physics.”
“With a minor in chemistry,” he said without missing a beat
“...Yes.” She pouted.
“Hah.” Jay looked triumphant. “I win.”
“Second guess doesn't count, little brother.” Professor K shook his head, grinning like his brother. “Sorry about him, he ran into a wall as a little kid, and...”
“And Monty,” interrupted Jay, “thought it would be a good idea to send his wheelchair off a ramp at the bottom of a staircase, and...”
“And he,” interrupted Monty pointedly, “tried to keep a squirrel in his sock drawer, and when Mom found out...”
“And he,” Jay raised his voice a little, “wanted to send a lunch box to the moon, so he built...”
“When he was little,” Monty very subtley rolled over his brother's foot, “Mom always had to watch him, because if she took her eyes off him for one second, he'd run outside without any...”
“But Monty,” remarked Jay casually as he whacked Monty sharply with his cane in a seemingly accidental motion, “thought that the tooth fairy was real until his sophomore year of college, and tried to...”
“Regardless!” Monty shoved his brother away as forcefully as he could. “Don't mind Jay. He's a bit odd sometimes.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” muttered his brother.
“Blind, what are you doing here?” She hissed softly.
“I could ask you the same.” The smirk in his voice was infuriating.
“Go away.” She paused as she realized. “Wait, how did you...”
“Mostly your boots. They make a very distinct sound. Really, you shouldn't wear those around. Someone will notice.”
“Go away, Blind.”
“I have every right to be here. You go away.”
“I have a paper!”
“And I'm meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“Guess.”
She glared at his voice for a moment, then very deliberately turned back to the book she was holding, a rather dry account of first century politics.
“Come on, guess!” He sounded teasing. “Fine, then I'll guess about you. Your paper is on... History? You're in the section for it, anyway.”
She didn't respond, turning to another page of long dead idiots trying to kill each other.
“I'm pretty sure you're either a junior or a senior, so either this is an upper level class, or you're not a history major, so you've been putting your history requirement off. Given that it took you fifteen minutes to find this section, I'm guessing the second.” He paused for a moment. “So that means you're something else, then. Hm, chemistry? You do occasionally smell like laboratory.”
Karen ignored him, putting the book back where she'd found it and picking it's neighbor up, leafing through to a section on the Gaelic Wars.
“I would eliminate music, just for the fact that you don't quite seem the type, and probably English, as closely related as that class is to history. Am I getting any closer?”
“Go away, Blind.”
“I'd rather not, thank you. So, I think something with science. Your glider, for example, is a fair bit of physics that not many people would try without some calculations.” He mused for a moment, mumbling something about what majors had to take that level of physics before the senior year, when she noticed someone in a wheelchair slowly coming up the aisle.
“Oh, Good morning, Professor K.”
“Hello, ah... Karen!” He pointed at her with a smile. “I had you for Calculus One. You sat in the upper left corner, am I right?”
“Yessir!” She smiled, ignoring the now-silent man behind the bookshelf as she inwardly cursed him for learning her name.
“Hah! So Karen, what brings you to the library? Last I checked Professor Holt didn't assign too many papers for Inorganic Chemistry.”
“History, unfortunately.” She showed him the book. “What brings you here? Assigning papers to unsuspecting math classes?”
“Looking for my brother, actually.” He glanced around. “He said he'd meet me around here, but he might have gotten mixed up.”
“Your brother... Oh! You showed us pictures of him once.” She recalled the class now. The problem in question had something to do with projectile motion. “The problem with the mashed potatoes.”
“You're teaching that now?” Blind's voice came through the bookshelf in disbelief. “Oh, come on! Do you have to gloat forever?”
“Hah, knew you were around here somewhere!” Professor K pointed triumphantly at the bookshelf. “You're in the wrong aisle, Jay. Again.”
“What? Aisle 14.”
Karen glanced up at the sign above them. “This is aisle 14.”
“I counted. The sign is wrong.” Blind, or Jay, fumed as his voice moved around the end of the bookshelf.
“You forgot that aisle one is short. You never remember to count that.” Professor K laughed. “In any case, sorry I'm late.”
“Tch.” A familiar figure rounded the corner, tall and dark, with black hair that spilled like water over his face. But there were differences. Rather than the blue blindfold she knew so well, a pair of dark glasses covered his eyes, and the neat blue uniform was replaced by a dark jacket, unzipped over a white t-shirt and jeans. The calm smugness was replaced by a slightly less calm expression of disgust. But the long white cane still swept the ground in front of him, and she wondered, for half a second, what this particular one did.
“You really are blind!” She exclaimed.
“Am I?” He moved a hand to his face and waved it about. “Oh, I hadn't noticed.”
“Only way to explain that outfit,” muttered Professor K with a smile.
“What?” His hand moved to his clothing. “What's wrong? Did I...” He trailed off and glared at the other man. “Monty, you are not funny.”
“At least I don't look like a clown.”
“I do not look like a clown!” He turned to Karen. “Do I look like a clown?”
Professor K nodded enthusiastically in her direction. She barely kept from laughing. “Yep.”
“You're lying. Unless someone messed with my closet, I know exactly what I am...” He trailed off. “Monty, you messed with my closet! What am I wearing?”
“Purple jacket, orange shirt, striped pants.”
“I don't own striped pants, you liar.”
“You do now!”
“I would have noticed if you had...”
“Well, you didn't!” Professor K was laughing now. “Karen, am I right?”
“He isn't.” Jay turned to her. “He's not right. I know what I'm wearing.”
“Oh,” the paraplegic finally got control of his laughter. “Have you two met?”
“No, why don't you introduce us?” Jay smiled, and she shot him a glare over his brother's head.
If Professor K noticed, he didn't mention it. “Oh, well, Karen, this is my brother, Jay Southend Bus Stop Kilsinger.”
Jay made an exasperated noise. “My name is not bus stop.”
“Jay, this is Karen, uh, Same, one of my students. She's a...”
“Chemistry major.” He faced her with a familiar smirk.
“Not even asking how you knew that.” His brother shook his head. “Is he right?”
“No.” For once it was her turn to look smug. “Physics.”
“With a minor in chemistry,” he said without missing a beat
“...Yes.” She pouted.
“Hah.” Jay looked triumphant. “I win.”
“Second guess doesn't count, little brother.” Professor K shook his head, grinning like his brother. “Sorry about him, he ran into a wall as a little kid, and...”
“And Monty,” interrupted Jay, “thought it would be a good idea to send his wheelchair off a ramp at the bottom of a staircase, and...”
“And he,” interrupted Monty pointedly, “tried to keep a squirrel in his sock drawer, and when Mom found out...”
“And he,” Jay raised his voice a little, “wanted to send a lunch box to the moon, so he built...”
“When he was little,” Monty very subtley rolled over his brother's foot, “Mom always had to watch him, because if she took her eyes off him for one second, he'd run outside without any...”
“But Monty,” remarked Jay casually as he whacked Monty sharply with his cane in a seemingly accidental motion, “thought that the tooth fairy was real until his sophomore year of college, and tried to...”
“Regardless!” Monty shoved his brother away as forcefully as he could. “Don't mind Jay. He's a bit odd sometimes.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” muttered his brother.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Sameness
Knights ride out in armor, to battle, to war; the dragon flies above the city, burning red; the world is ending faster than it can begin anew. The chosen few, the weak-made-strong and their camaraderie fight against beast and beasts and men who are worse, all beyond what could be known by the ordinary man. All blackhearted, deadly tooth and claw, dripping with acid and breathing poison, the destroyer comes forth. The world is at an end, nothing shall survive, nothing, no one. But the weak-made strong bring it all to an end, so the world can breathe, and things begin to grow, green and pure, for a few moments (days, months, years, centuries) of time until the darkness realizes it is still there. As long as there is light, there is darkness, and the darkness shall rise again.
This is a story we know.
The faces, the names of the weak-made-strong, the chosen ones, are different, perhaps, from time to time. Sometimes they are not so weak, sometimes they are misunderstood, sometimes they are mistaken for the darkness itself, for the balance is so strained within them. But they are, always are, and this is the first part of the story.
In the same way, the darkness has a thousand forms. The dragon, the wizard, the thousand year curse or the broken pieces of Armageddon; it could be any, it could be all. It could be perhaps not so dark after all, but it's light is so scattered, so faceted, that still none can see. It could be. But it is, just as the weak-made-strong is, and this is the second part of the story.
But if all can be different, save light and dark, up and down, what is same? It is not in the hero's quest, or his sword, or the laughter of the darkness or the clatter of war. The knights may be knights, but tomorrow they will be trolls, or forests come to life. The sword may break and be reforged a thousand different ways; it may not even be a sword in the end. Light and Dark, up and down, and even these, sometimes, are not sacred. Sameness is a preciously scarce commodity.
The sameness is not what matters, it seems, but in sameness, in the everyday and ordinary, lies empathy. And without empathy, the hero may slay a thousand dragons and though we would cheer him, we would forget, and he would be lost. Without empathy, he is not human, and we have no reason to remember.
So there must be sameness, the everyday, the ordinary. Something we can recognize, understand, and know. Routines and roles are what we know; from the act of cooking dinner, to raising a family, to burying a loved one; though these things might not be the same from story to story, they are the same as us, and we understand them. We know them. We can empathize. These things are life.
This is a story we know.
The faces, the names of the weak-made-strong, the chosen ones, are different, perhaps, from time to time. Sometimes they are not so weak, sometimes they are misunderstood, sometimes they are mistaken for the darkness itself, for the balance is so strained within them. But they are, always are, and this is the first part of the story.
In the same way, the darkness has a thousand forms. The dragon, the wizard, the thousand year curse or the broken pieces of Armageddon; it could be any, it could be all. It could be perhaps not so dark after all, but it's light is so scattered, so faceted, that still none can see. It could be. But it is, just as the weak-made-strong is, and this is the second part of the story.
But if all can be different, save light and dark, up and down, what is same? It is not in the hero's quest, or his sword, or the laughter of the darkness or the clatter of war. The knights may be knights, but tomorrow they will be trolls, or forests come to life. The sword may break and be reforged a thousand different ways; it may not even be a sword in the end. Light and Dark, up and down, and even these, sometimes, are not sacred. Sameness is a preciously scarce commodity.
The sameness is not what matters, it seems, but in sameness, in the everyday and ordinary, lies empathy. And without empathy, the hero may slay a thousand dragons and though we would cheer him, we would forget, and he would be lost. Without empathy, he is not human, and we have no reason to remember.
So there must be sameness, the everyday, the ordinary. Something we can recognize, understand, and know. Routines and roles are what we know; from the act of cooking dinner, to raising a family, to burying a loved one; though these things might not be the same from story to story, they are the same as us, and we understand them. We know them. We can empathize. These things are life.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
No up here
There is no up here. There is only down, and over, and further down and down and down until forever and there is never no people and no place to hide.
I need a place to hide. To hide, to not exist, unseen, unknown, and I. But there is no place to hide.
There are small, bitter places; corners, curtains, empty rooms. Unused benches on hillsides, still in view of the path for fear they could not find us, and we be lost.
(But is that not the point of hiding?)
There are woods, shallow-thick, but they are not like up. Woods do not welcome like up does; they bar the path with thick grasses and ivy, low growing bushes and the omnipresent unknown. They bar the way with look, don't touch, look, don't touch, and though they are beautiful, there is no sky. I am not welcome here, and I stand at the edge of the mown lines and go no further.
(Someday, maybe, I will.)
But up; up has always welcomed me; bare steep paths and the promise of ever-higher, ever-higher lead me on, higher and higher and away. And there are no people there, none, none but me, and I need not be one here.
And I am alone, and this is hiding. This is up.
There is no up here.
I need a place to hide. To hide, to not exist, unseen, unknown, and I. But there is no place to hide.
There are small, bitter places; corners, curtains, empty rooms. Unused benches on hillsides, still in view of the path for fear they could not find us, and we be lost.
(But is that not the point of hiding?)
There are woods, shallow-thick, but they are not like up. Woods do not welcome like up does; they bar the path with thick grasses and ivy, low growing bushes and the omnipresent unknown. They bar the way with look, don't touch, look, don't touch, and though they are beautiful, there is no sky. I am not welcome here, and I stand at the edge of the mown lines and go no further.
(Someday, maybe, I will.)
But up; up has always welcomed me; bare steep paths and the promise of ever-higher, ever-higher lead me on, higher and higher and away. And there are no people there, none, none but me, and I need not be one here.
And I am alone, and this is hiding. This is up.
There is no up here.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Love for Sale
Atticus, suffice to say, was not having a good day.
If it had just been the lawnmower breaking, it might have been fine. If it had just been the dog tracking mud across the freshly mopped floor, it might have been fine. Or if it had been the invasion of mice, or the car not starting, or having his flowers eaten by something (might have been rabbits. They will die), or blowing the back tire on his bike, or even accidentally locking himself out and having to break in through a window, it might have been fine. Well, maybe not fine. Tolerable, at least.
Atticus was not even having a tolerable day.
The small man projected a cloud of sheer frustration as he walked down the town's main street, so much so that passersby were consciously avoiding him. His fists clenched around two grocery bags filled with canned food and spaghetti (as he'd never managed to cook much else on the fickle gas stove of the little house, even after three years of trying) and the glower on his face was not offset in the least by Ben's three-year-old backpack that he'd been forced to borrow, which featured, much to both his and his charge's embarrassment, glow in the dark dinosaurs. The backpack had been full of overdue library books, was currently full of the third bag of cans, and in a moment would be full of thirty pounds of dog food, which had been eaten that morning by the mice.
He rounded the corner and stared down the block, realizing, almost too late, that he would have to walk directly by the barbershop. He turned around. An extra two blocks was not what he needed right now, but better than having to deal with Eugene.
To top it all off, the pet store was run by one of the most helpful, cheerful people Atticus knew, one Miles Chase. This of course meant that Miles was also one of the most annoying people Atticus knew. He didn't try to be, to be sure. He just was. And Atticus had no intentions of spending any longer in that shop than was physically possible.
The brightly painted windows fast approached as Atticus rounded the final corner, featuring a giant chameleon with its eyes pointed two different ways, along with some colorful birds in the foliage of a green jungle, aka series of giant leaves. “Sale on all cats and kittens!” it said, in total disregard of logical correlation. “These prices will disappear fast!” He stared disapprovingly at the big orange letters the size of his face. “Come in today!”
With a sigh, he set down the two bags of cans on the bench outside, along with the third from the backpack, and stepped in. The door jingled merrily as he stepped onto the smooth tile, glancing around for the shop's proprietor. Not in at the moment, thank goodness. He walked hurriedly to the back of the store where the bags of food were kept, ignoring the chatter of the budgies and the odd glance of the snake. The resident parrot that nobody wanted politely said “hello,” as he passed. He ignored it.
“Hey there!” Atticus flinched as Miles walked up from behind him. “How's it going?”
“Fine, thank you.” The older man turned, almost mechanically, to face the shopkeeper.
“How's Dragon doing? Still running you ragged?” Miles stopped a few feet away, smiling cheerfully.
Atticus made a rather forced. attempt at smiling back. “She's fine, thank you. I need dog food.”
“Oh, well, you know where that is! We've gotten some new stuff in that you might like to try though.. Or she might like to try, rather.” The younger man laughed. “Unless you're not telling me something.”
“What we've been getting is fine, thank you.” Atticus turned back to the shelf of dog food, trying to find a size of bag that would fit in the small backpack. “Yellow bag, yellow bag...” he muttered. Behind him, Miles turned to the rack of empty animal spaces that were normally used to house the strays people brought in to the adjoining clinic's humane society, and opened one of the little doors. Atticus ignored him mostly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Miles reached in and pulled out a tiny white ball of fur. The little ball stretched, and yawned, and as Miles massaged it with gentle hands, it opened its eyes and looked up. Atticus found that he was rather unabashedly staring, and quickly looked away.
“She's a stray.” Miles was more observant than Atticus gave him credit for. “She and her brother were found last week under someones deck. They said that the mother was hit by a car.”
“Is that so.” Atticus tried not to look back at the kitten again, and failed rather miserably. “What's her name?”
“Doesn't have one yet.” Miles rubbed the cat's ear gently, and she purred. “Do you want to hold her?”
“I, uh...” Atticus looked away, then sighed. “Well... why not.” He took a few steps over to Miles, and the younger man carefully deposited the kitten in his palm.
“Careful not to drop her. She's fragile.” Miles reached into the box and lifted out the other kitten, a little black one.
“She's beautiful.” Atticus held the kitten up near his face, and watched her as she examined him with brilliant green eyes. He was shocked to be able to feel her heartbeat through his hands. “And neither of them have names?”
“Well, they're not very old.” Miles carried the other one over to the register and set him down on a towel as he pulled a bottle of milk from behind the counter. “Only about four weeks, we think.”
“...What is that in cat age?” Atticus followed him over, still carrying the white one.
“Definitely not ready to leave their mother.” Miles held the milk away from the cat, and watched as it struggled to stand and move towards the bottle. “They can walk, barely, and they're about ready to start eating solid food, though they'll make a mess about it. Not litterbox trained, yet. And of course,” he said, as the little black one toppled over. “Their balance will be off until their tails become flexible.” He let the black one get it's feet under it again, and it once again started moving towards the food bottle.
“Goodness.” Atticus examined the little cat in his hands. “So basically, they're not cats yet.”
“Well,” Miles shrugged. “No, not really. But see her eyes?” He barely paused before continuing. “They're developing their permanent eye color right now. That one actually seems to be almost done; it hasn't changed at all over the past few days. That's the color her eyes will be for the rest of her life.”
Atticus went a long moment without saying anything, gray eyes roaming from white kitten to black kitten to brilliant green eyes that stared up at him, until the little bundle of fur in his hands started purring.
“...That sale you have on cats.” He never once looked at Miles as he spoke. “Do these two count?”
“You don't want to wait until they're a little bigger?” Miles finally let the black one get the bottle. “They'll make a mess.”
“I know.”
“They'll take a lot of looking after.”
“I figured.”
“You know...” Miles looked up at him, carefully. “Kittens need a lot of love.”
Atticus met his gaze with steel resolve, softened by a genuine smile. “I know.”
“Then yes.” Miles returned the smile. “They count.”
Atticus left the shop having a considerably better day than when he'd gone in.
After all, he'd never been able to say no to a sale.
If it had just been the lawnmower breaking, it might have been fine. If it had just been the dog tracking mud across the freshly mopped floor, it might have been fine. Or if it had been the invasion of mice, or the car not starting, or having his flowers eaten by something (might have been rabbits. They will die), or blowing the back tire on his bike, or even accidentally locking himself out and having to break in through a window, it might have been fine. Well, maybe not fine. Tolerable, at least.
Atticus was not even having a tolerable day.
The small man projected a cloud of sheer frustration as he walked down the town's main street, so much so that passersby were consciously avoiding him. His fists clenched around two grocery bags filled with canned food and spaghetti (as he'd never managed to cook much else on the fickle gas stove of the little house, even after three years of trying) and the glower on his face was not offset in the least by Ben's three-year-old backpack that he'd been forced to borrow, which featured, much to both his and his charge's embarrassment, glow in the dark dinosaurs. The backpack had been full of overdue library books, was currently full of the third bag of cans, and in a moment would be full of thirty pounds of dog food, which had been eaten that morning by the mice.
He rounded the corner and stared down the block, realizing, almost too late, that he would have to walk directly by the barbershop. He turned around. An extra two blocks was not what he needed right now, but better than having to deal with Eugene.
To top it all off, the pet store was run by one of the most helpful, cheerful people Atticus knew, one Miles Chase. This of course meant that Miles was also one of the most annoying people Atticus knew. He didn't try to be, to be sure. He just was. And Atticus had no intentions of spending any longer in that shop than was physically possible.
The brightly painted windows fast approached as Atticus rounded the final corner, featuring a giant chameleon with its eyes pointed two different ways, along with some colorful birds in the foliage of a green jungle, aka series of giant leaves. “Sale on all cats and kittens!” it said, in total disregard of logical correlation. “These prices will disappear fast!” He stared disapprovingly at the big orange letters the size of his face. “Come in today!”
With a sigh, he set down the two bags of cans on the bench outside, along with the third from the backpack, and stepped in. The door jingled merrily as he stepped onto the smooth tile, glancing around for the shop's proprietor. Not in at the moment, thank goodness. He walked hurriedly to the back of the store where the bags of food were kept, ignoring the chatter of the budgies and the odd glance of the snake. The resident parrot that nobody wanted politely said “hello,” as he passed. He ignored it.
“Hey there!” Atticus flinched as Miles walked up from behind him. “How's it going?”
“Fine, thank you.” The older man turned, almost mechanically, to face the shopkeeper.
“How's Dragon doing? Still running you ragged?” Miles stopped a few feet away, smiling cheerfully.
Atticus made a rather forced. attempt at smiling back. “She's fine, thank you. I need dog food.”
“Oh, well, you know where that is! We've gotten some new stuff in that you might like to try though.. Or she might like to try, rather.” The younger man laughed. “Unless you're not telling me something.”
“What we've been getting is fine, thank you.” Atticus turned back to the shelf of dog food, trying to find a size of bag that would fit in the small backpack. “Yellow bag, yellow bag...” he muttered. Behind him, Miles turned to the rack of empty animal spaces that were normally used to house the strays people brought in to the adjoining clinic's humane society, and opened one of the little doors. Atticus ignored him mostly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Miles reached in and pulled out a tiny white ball of fur. The little ball stretched, and yawned, and as Miles massaged it with gentle hands, it opened its eyes and looked up. Atticus found that he was rather unabashedly staring, and quickly looked away.
“She's a stray.” Miles was more observant than Atticus gave him credit for. “She and her brother were found last week under someones deck. They said that the mother was hit by a car.”
“Is that so.” Atticus tried not to look back at the kitten again, and failed rather miserably. “What's her name?”
“Doesn't have one yet.” Miles rubbed the cat's ear gently, and she purred. “Do you want to hold her?”
“I, uh...” Atticus looked away, then sighed. “Well... why not.” He took a few steps over to Miles, and the younger man carefully deposited the kitten in his palm.
“Careful not to drop her. She's fragile.” Miles reached into the box and lifted out the other kitten, a little black one.
“She's beautiful.” Atticus held the kitten up near his face, and watched her as she examined him with brilliant green eyes. He was shocked to be able to feel her heartbeat through his hands. “And neither of them have names?”
“Well, they're not very old.” Miles carried the other one over to the register and set him down on a towel as he pulled a bottle of milk from behind the counter. “Only about four weeks, we think.”
“...What is that in cat age?” Atticus followed him over, still carrying the white one.
“Definitely not ready to leave their mother.” Miles held the milk away from the cat, and watched as it struggled to stand and move towards the bottle. “They can walk, barely, and they're about ready to start eating solid food, though they'll make a mess about it. Not litterbox trained, yet. And of course,” he said, as the little black one toppled over. “Their balance will be off until their tails become flexible.” He let the black one get it's feet under it again, and it once again started moving towards the food bottle.
“Goodness.” Atticus examined the little cat in his hands. “So basically, they're not cats yet.”
“Well,” Miles shrugged. “No, not really. But see her eyes?” He barely paused before continuing. “They're developing their permanent eye color right now. That one actually seems to be almost done; it hasn't changed at all over the past few days. That's the color her eyes will be for the rest of her life.”
Atticus went a long moment without saying anything, gray eyes roaming from white kitten to black kitten to brilliant green eyes that stared up at him, until the little bundle of fur in his hands started purring.
“...That sale you have on cats.” He never once looked at Miles as he spoke. “Do these two count?”
“You don't want to wait until they're a little bigger?” Miles finally let the black one get the bottle. “They'll make a mess.”
“I know.”
“They'll take a lot of looking after.”
“I figured.”
“You know...” Miles looked up at him, carefully. “Kittens need a lot of love.”
Atticus met his gaze with steel resolve, softened by a genuine smile. “I know.”
“Then yes.” Miles returned the smile. “They count.”
Atticus left the shop having a considerably better day than when he'd gone in.
After all, he'd never been able to say no to a sale.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)