Story bits again

“Eli, think about it.” The man's smooth voice carried almost effortlessly across the scarred remains of the arena. “Control over your own life. Remember how it was? When you could hide your shell where nobody could see it, where nobody could find it. You wouldn't have to worry about it getting into trouble, would you—it stays where you left it, right where you want it. It doesn't have those notions of kindness, empathy, dignity. It doesn't get itself into danger and need you to get it out.”
Eli was silent, watching the man with emotionless black eyes. Young watched nervously from her cell.
“And she... What is she to you but a prison? Don't do this, don't do that, peace, compassion, mercy. How much easier would your life be if you simply took what you wanted again, without that weak human stopping you?” He held out the pristine shell towards Eli. “Take it, Eli. It is your freedom, your right as one of your kind. I offer you new life!”
He stood for a moment longer without speaking. The entire arena seemed to fall silent, waiting for the enormous creature to make his decision.
Eli reached out one three fingered hand towards the sphere. The robed man grinned, and held the sphere high.“This is your right, Eli. Be your own once more.”
Then all at once white energy sparked from nowhere and everywhere, shooting out from Eli's hand to shatter the sphere completely. The confident grin suddenly fell to an expression of shock, and the hooded man took a step back, only to find his feet bound in place by the same power that had shattered the sphere. The shock turned to fear as Eli approached, rising up to his full height.
“I would be a fool.” The massive hand wrapped around the strange man's neck, lifting him helplessly off the ground. “Do not question that you will die today. Make it easier by telling me where you have hidden her.”



“Everything I've built my life on is changing. There's nothing to hold on to anymore; I can't... I can't deal with this!”
“It's terrifying, isn't it?” he asked quietly, without any of his usual exuberance. He sat next to her, calmly folding his thin hands in his lap. “Like the whole world is falling through your fingers.”
“I can't deal with this,” she repeated, a little more quietly as she felt the tears begin to come. “I can't believe... Can't believe he would really do that. Any of that—I mean, I've known him since forever, and...”
“Shh.” He put a hand to her shoulder, snapping her out of the panic she was descending into. “I know.”
“How could you know?”
He smiled thinly. “Some things are better left unsaid.” He sighed. “But you can't let it break you. It only feels like the world is falling apart—you have to know it isn't.”
“What isn't?” She whirled on him, tears in her eyes. “My brother is dead, my fiancee killed him, my home is gone and everything I've ever believed in was a lie!”
“Not everything.” He cut her off, taking her hand gently in his own. “The basics are still there. There is still enough truth in the world to hold it together, you know.”
“Like what?” She asked, sniffling.
“Well, to start with...” he pulled her hand up to match his own. “You have five fingers on each hand, and so do I. So did Eric, and he loved you.” He moved his hand away, and pulled a dove from nowhere. “Gravity is strong, and always goes the same way, but even doves can beat it. Feathers,” here he placed the dove in her outstretched palm, “are softer than bones, but you still need both to fly.” He looked her in the eye. “There are still truths to the world, you see, even when everything else turns out to be a lie. Remember these and it will be a bit easier.”
“Just a bit?”
“Yes.” He nodded quietly. “It will still be hard, and it will still hurt for a long time—probably forever. But you have to remember that there is still ground beneath you and a sky above you; you are not falling, and you are not helpless, and someday, eventually, you will be alright again.”



Joey pulled Finnian forcibly to his feet. “I refuse to let you kill yourself like this!”
“Why should you care?” Finnian looked away again. “I betrayed you. I betrayed your whole world. I'm s'kiav, untrustable! Worthless!”
“I care because you are my friend, Finnian! It does not matter what you have said is truth and what is lie now. Your actions are more proven than your words.” The illican knelt so they were finally on eye level with each other. “If this is unacceptable, then I shall be nicadahne instead of friend, and care for you as I care for all. But that is a lie to myself and to you. You are my friend. I will not allow you to die.”
They were silent for a moment longer, Finnian still refusing to meet Joey's gaze.
“There is a word the outsiders use. If you do not understand why I wish to care for you, perhaps you will understand Forgive.” Joey spoke very quietly, never letting up on his grip. “Because I have not understood it before now. It is a giving up of hurts to free us both. So I forgive you, Finnian. Do you understand this?”
“I don't deserve it.”
“You don't need to.”

Lies and Magic

“I'm not lying. I don't lie.” The magician tossed the silver rings from one hand to the other. “Or at least, I do my best not to.”
“You're a magician. Everything you do is a lie.” The inventor shook his head, watching the smaller man carefully. “By definition, I mean.”
“Not really.” The smaller man looked rueful. “Those lies are what makes it so hard for you to believe in me. But I'm not lying.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because falsehood is the death of magic. It's what makes most of us, yeah, but once you learn, just once, that the magic is a trick...” he pulled the rings apart effortlessly, snapped them back together, twisted them in and out as he spoke, “You never believe again. You find it amazing, but... you never really trust in it. Every trick is just a trick, that you're an inch away from figuring out.” He tossed the rings into the air, and they vanished. “So if I trick you again and again, then when I want to show you something real...” He pulled the rings out of his sleeve. “You won't believe me.”
“We don't believe you anyway.”
“Which is why I never lie.” The magician smiled. “So when I find some real magic...” He put a hand to the windowpane, glancing out at the darkened sky. “You'll believe it really is.”
The world outside suddenly exploded into light, as a thousand tiny lights rushed by the windows of the airship, swirling in the drafts kicked up by its wings and dancing around like an enormous ballet. Amongst the lights were doves, diving in and out of the chaos with swooping wings and snow-white feathers. The inventor's jaw dropped.
“How did you...”
“I didn't do a thing.” The magician smiled. “That, my friend, was entirely real.”
“But...”
“I think...” the magician trailed off, watching the display with hidden eyes, “The trick to magic, if you will, is believing it will be. Magic, that is. Whether you find that in one of my little tricks or in the sunset or the sea or the patterns of light coming through the trees is up to you. Or even,” he motioned to the fantastic display outside the window, “something as simple as a swarm of fireflies. There's magic in all of them, if you choose to believe it.”
“And if I don't?”
“Then there isn't. You can go on living as if magic doesn't exist.” He sighed, and began to twist the silver rings again. "But that, to me, seems like just about the worst way to live. Why not simply believe?"

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.

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!

The Magician's Grave

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


Written while listening to this song.

The Magician's Door

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


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

Too big, Too white.

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

The Magician's Stars

“Don't you see it?” The magician raised his hands and twirled around on his bare feet, dancing amid the tiny specks of light. “It's coming, it's coming! Oh, you have to see it!”
The hero watched with a skeptical eye. “It's nothing spectacular.”
“Ah, not yet! Not yet! Just wait, wait, you'll see it!” The magician laughed his beautiful, musical, weightless and worryless laugh. “I didn't see it at first, either.”
The girl ran to his side and twirled with him, her lacey skirt billowing out like his flowing sleeves. “Is it here yet?”
“Not yet, not yet! It's coming, just wait! You'll see it. I promise you will.” He picked her up in his small, skinny hands and raised her above his head as he twisted around. She laughed. “Just wait!”
The hero sighed and crossed his arms. Another one of the magician's distractions. There was no need for this...
“Ah, but where are you going, my friend?” The magician was suddenly in front of him, smiling that carefree smile that irked him so much. “You don't want to miss it. Trust me.”
He brushed past the magician without a word. The magician stared after him, and shrugged. “If you don't want to see it, I can't make you. Happiness has to be chosen, my friend.”
He snorted and walked on.
Something that he couldn't identify stopped him, just before he descended the steps to leave. He turned, to see the magician, eyes ever-hidden just as always, dancing with the girl in the specks of light. And he stood there, watching them play, and if only for a moment, allowed himself to smile at the pure lightness and color and unadulterated fun that made up the magician, so full of inexhaustible life.
The magician suddenly stopped and sat down, and motioned for the little girl to sit next to him. She obeyed, looking up at him with a question in her eyes.
“It's here. Watch.”
The tiny specks of light suddenly bloomed, expanding into miniature stars. And from each of those came a thousand other stars, smaller, burning with intense, pure color. The smaller stars darted among the bigger ones, swirling around in a dance far more intricate than that of the magician. The little girl gaped in awe, and the magician only smiled. The tiny stars ranged further and further from their parents, each venturing out a little more than the last before darting back to the inner circle, and the process repeated itself.
The magician held out his small hand, palm upward, and seven tiny stars darted over to it. They swirled around his upturned hand, an unpredictable, patternless pattern of pulsing color and light. He moved his hand, and they followed, like ducklings running after their mother. The little girl reached out her hand, and he brought them over to her. And she held out her hand, much like he'd held out his, but smaller, and more hesitant. And one little star came to her, moving from his hand to hers, slowly rotating around as she watched it, all the wonder in the world shining from her face. Then it darted away, fleeing back to it's mother star.
“Don't be afraid,” said the magician with a smile. “It won't hurt you. Just believe it, and it will come to you.” He stood, and stretched out his arms, his face turned to the sky. “This, this is life, this is love and beauty! All these must be chosen, all must be believed!” The stars rushed to him as he spoke, both the tiny ones and their mother stars, swirling around him in a vortex of light and life and joy.
And the girl stood, and laughed with him, and danced with him among the stars.
And the hero watched from a distance, and desperately wished to go closer, but didn't.


Sort of goes along with the story I posted on dA, but not half so depressing. This story happens before that one.