Made

“The universe was made by an artist.” Joey stared upwards at the stars. “Who else would have put so much beauty in the trees? There are patterns sculpted into rocks, colors painted on sunsets. Every flower is beyond what I could imagine on my own. It was the artist who made them.”
“Might as well say it was an engineer, cause everything works.” Rona argued tiredly. “If the universe was made by an artist, then nothing should work.”
“If the universe was made by an engineer, nothing would be beautiful,” Joey pointed out.
“Who says the universe was even made?” asked Finnian, glancing from one to the other.
They looked at him simultaneously, with almost identically incredulous expressions.
“Well, duh,” Rona muttered. “What, you think all this just happened?”

Random snippets

“There are so many strange things in the dark,” she said quietly, her weak grip on him tightening in fear. “I saw you, and the children, so many times—I saw you die, and I saw you alive again—My mother was there, sometimes. I wanted so badly to go to her but my hands were tied down—but they aren't tied down now. But you're dead, so I must be hallucinating—where is my mother?”
“I am alive, Theia,” Bird repeated, sprinting through the town's darkened streets. “I am alive—please, believe me.”
“But I always believe you—I always do, and you never are!” She sobbed. “And in two days the guard will come by and it will all break—break into pieces, and I'll still be in the dark alone and you'll still be dead!”
“In two days you will still be free, and your fever will be gone, and I will still be alive,” he promised. “In two days, I will be by your side, and there will be no guards, and no chains, and there will be light.”
“You promise?” she asked brokenly.
“I do.” He nodded. “I cannot lie to you, Theia. I will bring you a light, in two days, if there is none in the house—I will be with you, and you will not be alone—and as long as I still can protect you, I will never be dead.”
He rounded the corner onto the dirt pathway up the ridge, and she buried her face in the back of his neck. “I wish I could believe you.”
“You can,” he repeated earnestly.
“But the dead ones always lie.”


---------------------


“You are different, little one, but I still know what you want.” The story keeper turned her around. The empty hallway was full of light, streaming from crooked windowpanes and catching the light of a thousand motes of dust. Faded flowers sat on a windowsill, the blue glass vase thick with dust. Wooden doors were scattered down the hallway, opening by cracks into rooms that held just a glimpse of mystery; strange things that felt familiar and so alien at once. The room was warm, and yellow, and everything she wanted. “You wish for the old things, the mystery and magic you knew when you did not understand. The brilliance of jewels means nothing to you, nor the transient life of flowers. This hallway leads to your dreams; mystery that cannot be exhausted, a world where there is always more to explore—a world where mystery lives on without uncertainty or danger. Listen to my stories, tell me your own, and I will give you this.”


---------------------


“I... I couldn't feel safe.” She looked down, ashamed. “Not like that.”
“Anastasia,” he growled quietly. “You're an idiot if you think I would ever hurt you.”
“You would,” she whispered. “You wouldn't mean to. I know you wouldn't mean to hurt me, but you... you would.”
“I would not,” he argued, taking her hands in his own with less than his usual roughness. “I couldn't. I won't.”
“I'm sorry.” She put her head on his shoulder, taking in the synthetic warmth. “I want to trust you. But...”
“But I left you,” he finished bitterly, dropping her hands to wrap his arms around her body and entwining his fingers in her hair. “So you can't.”
“It's more than that,” Anastasia admitted as she pulled herself closer to him. “You just... It's not even you.” She ducked her eyes away, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “I can't trust. I never could. I'm sorry.”
He let his face soften, if only for a moment, as he held her so closely that he thought his skin might burn. His fingers ran gently through her hair, combing out the small tangles that plagued it, and Casey wanted so badly to do something, anything, anything he could to comfort her.
“Learn,” he finally whispered.


----------------------


“She will never be happy in darkness, Spirit!” The rebel drew his sword. “You know that as well as I do.”
“My darkness is less painful than that which you offer her.” The Dead Spirit looked down on him, black cloak swirling around dramatically in the flickering light. “Mine is only a physical darkness—to return with you will sentence her to a hidden life, always watching, always silent.”
“Because she is yours?”
“No, because she was yours,” the Spirit shot back. “She is innocent. Your sin has doomed her. If she returnsss they will take her again, and all will be lost. No, she will not return with you.”
“Then where will she go?” the rebel challenged.
“There are pathsss.” The Spirit circled on the other side of the pond, as if searching for a way across. “I offered you a choice, Fire-bonesss. I offer her the same.”
“She will choose to return to me.”
“Then it will be her choice; I will warn her and protect her if need be. But she is not such a fool as you think—she may leave you yet.” The skull dropped to Paul's level but the shadowy figure still stood tall above him. “You have given her little enough cause to ssstay.”
“You really think she would choose death?” Paul drew his sword with a metallic sssshk. “Enough of you is flesh for me to cut, Spirit!”
“I have never offered death!” The skull rushed back up to where it belonged, and the white bone hands appeared, tense and curled like claws. “She is safe, Fire-bones; safe with me! I am under no obligations to you. Your price will be high if she chooses to return—and I will collect it.” The dark figure leaned over the pond, the beak of the skull inches from Paul's face. “Your ssssoul is not so uninteresting as it once wasss.”
With an angry cry, he swung his sword, aiming for the painted face beneath the skull. The Spirit was too fast, and shot back, out of his reach. Before he could swing again, the skull had vanished, and the shrine was empty once again.

Shorts

More random shorts. These are shorter than the last ones, but I still like them all. Maybe not together, but oh well.


“But...” Emily hesitated for a long moment before continuing. “Some people are good.”
“Not all good.” He smiled thinly. “You'll see it more when you get older. But I've never met someone who was all good—and the ones who seemed it at first sometimes turn out to be the worst of the lot. The prince who smiles and laughs and keeps peace with everyone seems good, but he will send a man to his death for nothing, should that man cross him.” The wizard paused for a long moment, clasping his hands in front of his face, his mask of a smile for the moment gone. “They do evil in the name of good. Those are the worst of them; who believe they are righteous. At least a highwayman admits he is stealing.”

-----

Adara paused, watching him carefully. “Why does a spirit of darkness look to the light?”
“We all are attracted to that which we do not have,” The Dead Spirit replied quietly as he washed the dirt out of the wound, letting her blood stream away into the blackness of the cavern beyond. “The moth emerges from its dark cocoon to seek the flame.”
“You could have light,” Adara murmured.
“As the moth can,” the Spirit said. “And it is destroyed.”

-----

“You idiot!” Chester thundered, huge voice defying his small frame. “He's dying for you, and you still can't believe him? He's never wanted to hurt you, Alice!”
“How would you even know?” she sobbed, jerking away. “You've never been there!”
“I've always been there!” Chester caught her again, and she could've sworn his skinny fingers were claws. “As much as he has. And let me tell you something, Alice. If he dies, you're going to die, whether at the hands of the queen and her lot or when that medicine 'saves' you. He's Quinn, he's Hatter, and he has never hurt you.” Chester forced her to look at the fading, stumbling, dying warrior still in the street. “She's not the one killing him, Alice! You are!”

-----

Sometimes, only sometimes, she would see him once more, through the half-conscious fog of the sticky medicine Malise gave her, right before she fell asleep. He would come up the stairs quietly, appearing in the darkness like a ghost with a scarlet mark, so that neither Malise nor Kalida nor Eldon nor their master would know he was there. He would sit with her then, far closer than he did in the mornings or the afternoons—he would touch her hair, and hold her head in his lap, and she would smile up at him in a daze, and when he thought she was asleep, he would whisper things that she could never remember but loved so much to hear. But the feeling of his touch and his quiet voice would send her to sleep again, and when she awoke he'd be far away again, in the wooden chair that seemed a million miles from her bed.
She wanted to call him over to her again, to make him repeat the words that she could never remember until they were burned into her mind, tattooed onto her memories like the scarlet bird. But she didn't. She couldn't. It wouldn't mean anything if she did.

-----

“Well, you have to fix it then.” Emily ventured cautiously. “You keep telling me everyone needs to be responsible for what they do, but if the good man being gone is bad than you need to be a good man too.”
“I could never be him.” The wizard shook his head. “I had too much darkness in me for too long.”
“But you don't have half as much darkness now,” she pointed out. “You do all sorts of nice things.”
“Just because I'm not lost right now doesn't mean I have a map.” He looked up at her with that same false smile. “But I'm alright, I swear. I just don't like to think about it much.”
She examined him. “You're lying.”
“Only halfway.” The smile faltered a little, but then he turned away. “But it's almost dinner. Come help in the kitchen.”

More story bits

“Because, I mean, it seems so indefinite, really.” He gestured vaguely off to one side, floppy sleeve almost totally covering his hand. “You say you've grown up, you say I haven't. You're probably right, you know, but really, if it's so necessary you'd think I'd have got the hang of it by now.”
“You are grown up. You just refuse to admit it; you see the world like a kid and you refuse to believe anything else!”
“And is that really so terrible?” The magician stopped. “I do believe in other things. I know bad things happen. I know the lies. I know the truth. But I don't have to believe that all the good things are gone either.” He looked away, out the tiny windows. “Grown-up, I think, is when you decide to stop believing that things can be amazing. Maybe not big things, but little things. You stop seeing things as beautiful, and just start seeing things as there. You don't think it matters anymore.”
“It doesn't.” The inventor stopped as well, finally turning to face the magician.
“Why not?” He spread his hands, palms up. “It mattered then. It was beautiful then. Does the magic of the world really have to die that quickly?”
“It's just... not anymore.” The inventor leaned against the doorway, really thinking about it now. “Things just aren't amazing, and aren't beautiful.”
“Not anymore.” The magician sighed, taking off both top hats and closing his eyes in the afternoon sunlight. “Do you know, it's so much easier to grow up than it is to grow back down? I did grow up, you know. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and it was so hard, so very hard to grow back down. I had to choose to believe in the magic, every day. I had to look for it.”
“You can't grow back down. Not once you've grown up.” The inventor shook his head. “It's impossible.”
“No.” The magician smiled, then put his hat back on. “Just hard.”



He was a secret, once, before. A real secret, like between two lovers, whispered quietly or not at all, and for no one else, no one, not ever. He was hidden well, hidden perfectly. He may have been loved, he may have been hated. It didn't matter. He was simply secret.
But she, she is the child, who looks in at the wrong moment and sees. Only a child, knowing not what she's found, not what it means or what desperate lovers will do to take their secret back. She only knows that she has found it, and she likes it. And it is her secret too, now. He is her secret, not hidden so well, but still hidden. Better loved, at least.
But she is a child, and children cannot keep secrets. She may whisper it to one, perhaps only to herself, but the other children will hear. And whispers, only ever whispers, spread like fire. The whole world will burn before too long, but she doesn't know that yet, for she is a child. He is still secret, now and for as long as she can keep him. But her parents will whisper, and her neighbors will whisper, and whispers echo and burn. The secret will be a secret to all of them, until he is a secret to none.
And then the world will burn, and he will burn, and be gone. Ashes.




“You amaze me.” Crash shook his head. “What, did you trade the part of your brain that handles emotions for a double dose of mechanical knowledge?”
“I guess.” Jack shrugged, blandly trying to explain himself. “I can't see any other reason I could be this bad at this.”
“Lack of practice would be my guess.” Crash looked his employer over skeptically. “Though I honestly can't say I was ever as bad as you.”
“Whatever,” Jack sat against the wall with a sigh. “She's not mad at me, I think.”
“There is absolutely no way you can be certain about that.” Crash warned. “She is still a woman.”
“What if I'm 75% certain, based on a number of different variables, that she is not mad at me?”
“Then she's mad at you.”
Jack swore softly. “I said I was sorry...”
“Then she won't be mad at you for as long. Maybe. I don't really know.”
“Whatever.” Jack pulled his mask off, setting it aside as he pulled his knees into his body. “I tried, at least. That should count for something.”
“It doesn't.”
Jack swore again.

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!

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!

A few random shorts

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



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



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



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



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