Light of the Letters

Script Frenzy - Day 3

2011-04-03T11:11:00.000-04:00

Here's a piece of what I've been writing, and a very silly scene at that. Hope you enjoy.

INT. ACADEMY OF NEW HEIGHTS - TEACHER'S LOUNGE - LAST PERIOD

MR. DE BLANC rests on the couch in the teacher's lounge, his head in MRS. BERETTA's lap. He sighs effeminately and looks up at her.

MRS. BERETTA

You do realize that you have to actually try to be put on educational probation, right?

MR. DE BLANC

Rub. It. In.

MRS. BERETTA

Well, at least you didn't yell at them, or do anything stupid to tarnish your reputation.

MR. DE BLANC

Mhm.

He looks away ashamedly.

MRS. BERETTA

Oh... Oh you've got to be kidding me.

MR. DE BLANC

It's not that bad. It's not that bad!

CUT TO: INT. HALLWAY - A PERIOD EARLIER

The camera focuses on a hallway, the long way. There is a door on either side of the hall within ten feet of the camera. The camera cuts to a view of the door on the right, with the words "MR. KLYDE'S OFFICE - DEAN OF FACULTY" written on it. The camera returns to the view of the hallway.

Suddenly, MR. DE BLANC explodes from the office and propels himself down the empty hallway just as the bell rings. The students begin to come out just as he rounds a turn into a staircase. MR. KLYDE and MR. COLE peer out the door as the sound of a man falling down multiple flights of steps is heard.

MR. DE BLANC (O.S.)

Shit shit shit shit!

RETURN TO: INT. TEACHER'S LOUNGE - LAST PERIOD

MRS. BERETTA stares on in disbelief. MR. DE BLANC refuses to look at her, now sitting up with a space in the sofa between them.

MRS. BERETTA

You ran away from the Dean of Faculty?

MR. DE BLANC

Not really.

MRS. BERETTA

How is this a "not really" situation, Julian?!

MR. DE BLANC

Okay fine, I did it! But my nose was bleeding and I forgot my handkerchief in my room!

He crosses his arms. MRS. BERETTA sighs and shakes her head.

MR. DE BLANC

I just can't believe he put me on probation for that.

MRS. BERETTA

...You mean you weren't on probation before that?

MR. DE BLANC

I don't know. I might've been. But he only told me after he followed me back to my room.

MRS. BERETTA

Oh my god.

The bell rings.

END SCENE 3

APRIL FOOLS!

2011-04-01T19:30:00.001-04:00

And it's here. And I FOOLED YOU ALL. I'm not doing Majora's Mask! That would be simply SILLY!

Okay, here's the real deal:

I decided at the last minute not to do Majora's Mask because I did not foresee it going anywhere. Instead, I'm going to be writing a pilot for a show that I actually foresee working in my future. It's a lot different than Majora's Mask, so here goes a brief synopsis.

"A dark, dramatic comedy about a group of people in a city in the sky."

Lawrence Raleigh is attending one of the most prestigious schools in East Fuselight, The Academy of New Heights, but as it turns out, the only friend he has is Korinna Nikitas, an abusive girl who secretly loves Lawrence.

At the same time, Mr. Julian De Blanc, a young man teaching at the academy goes under heavy scrutiny by the board of education for his teaching methods, and is put under probation. His affair with Mrs. Beretta, a married woman, is not helpful in his high blood pressure, and as a result (seemingly) suffers from chronic epistaxis (nose bleeds).

Enter Sable Dahlstrom, a first year at the academy, three years younger than Lawrence, who instantly catches his eye. And as the two slowly start a relationship (very, very slowly), various things are set into motion.

Set in 1999, in East Fuselight (a city-state floating high off the coast of North America).

We will meet again.

Script Frenzy Eve

2011-03-31T10:22:00.000-04:00

Alright, I for one am super psyched for Script Frenzy. I have a feeling that this is going to be my event. I have faith in myself that I can write 100 pages.

As far as the script goes, I've decided against the movie, but instead am doing a TV mini-series adaptation of Majora's Mask, because otherwise I would have had to condense a 30+ hour game into 2 hours. I'm thinking anywhere between 8 and 12 hour-long episodes, but to be honest, I only have to write about one and a half of them for Script Frenzy and the rest is on my time.

Let me take a moment to revel in the light that is Majora's Mask for a second. It is a *great* game. It's in my Top 5 Games of all time, hands down. Then again, my taste in games is kind of weird (Shadow of the Colossus and Black and White) but you have to know that what I think of this game is that it is phenomenal in every possible way.

Let's start out with the basic premise. Hero goes into a parallel universe where nobody knows who he is, and furtthermore only has three days to save the world from a moon crashing into the city. The catch? He has the ability to go back in time and restart the three-day period as many times as he likes.

The gameplay is divided into what I like to call two parts, constants and variables. The constants are what happen every three day cycle without your interrupting them. If you interrupt a key point in the cycle though, you might branch off into a different path. Like the most famous side-quest in the Legend of Zelda series, the Kafei and Anju quest. It's long and arduous, but it has a clear path, and that is one that closes other paths. This means nothing to you if you haven't played the game, but you cannot save the Old Lady at the Bomb Shop if you elect to try and reunite Kafei and Anju (you'll see what I mean when I write it).

I'll try to write 100 pages of my favorite scenes (I've already outlined) and then post them on here when they're ready for presentation.

We will meet tomorrow.

What The... (Script Frenzy Initiative)

2011-03-26T20:48:00.000-04:00

Alright, so that was confusing. I never did end up writing what I promised to write, which gives me good reason never to promise to write something again (and just write it, damnit!). Instead, I wrote something really dreadful that does not really represent me, so instead of posting that, I'll make a promise to you to update all throughout April with various posts on Script Frenzy.

What is Script Frenzy but NaNoWriMo in April, and with scripts? What script will I be doing? I'm glad you asked.

The Four Titanic Watchers

Eight Words Gamers Know by Heart

I will be adapting one of Nintendo's classics, Majora's Mask, into a movie. The current projected length of this project is 110 pages, which contends with the 100 page minimum of Script Frenzy. Anyway, I'll be posting snippets of my favorite parts throughout the month, and hopefully I'll have good news for you in May!

We will meet again!

Sorry

2011-01-18T12:41:00.002-05:00

My apologies. I was unable to crank out a sizeable chunk of writing in between studying for exams and reading on my new eReader. So excuse me as I take another week (or less) to finish writing. It may be different than I originally planned, so be patient, and be willing to accept change.

We will meet again.

Updates

2011-01-11T20:27:00.003-05:00

So in the interest of giving some time for me to build up to my strange work I alluded to in my last post, I will be doing something a bit different for the next several weeks. Earlier in my blogging career, I created two characters that have always been very special to me. I've always wanted to return to that universe, and maybe try something a bit different.

The two characters I'm talking about are, of course, Lawrence and Korinna, the pseudo-couple from the story Christmas Angel, which I seperated into four parts for your viewing pleasure during the 2009 holiday season. Moreover, I will be returning to their little corner of the world for a brief alternate reality. Let's say, for example, Korinna and Lawrence never got together on Christmas that year. Well let's skip to, now, the days preceding Valentine's Day!

This story (or set of stories) will revolve around Lawrence this time. Don't worry, Korinna gets her share in this story, and will get her own major protagonist spot sometime later in the calendar. In an experimental work I am calling at the moment "Love is in the Air" I will be dragging Lawrence along for a ride in which he falls in love with three different girls by taking three different paths all over the same three day period. It might seem slightly misogynistic at first glance, but look at it through a slightly more literary perspective, and understand that Korinna will definitely get her own story, probably similar to this, in my blogging future.

If you don't remember (or never read the original) I suggest you get aquainted with my characters by reading Christmas Angel.

Each girl's "love sequence" will be two installments, with the update schedule starting this Thursday, then proceeding every Monday, and concluding on Valentine's Day itself.

And just for your own entertainment, I came up with the title for the story I spoke of in my last update. As of right now, it shall be known as Legerdemain, Royalty. That will begin updating as soon as Love is in the Air completes its rounds.

Thanks for reading. We will meet again.

Untitled Work/Undefined Genre - Mass Confusion

2011-01-09T11:57:00.007-05:00

What happens when you put a bunch of weird characters in a story together and decide that they're going to have to create a plot? Well, I'll tell you, it does not work out the way you want it to more than half the time. That's essentially what I did for NaNo this past year, and it failed miserably. I attempted to write a story, tentatively titled something idiotic, and watched characters flop about anxiously until one of them died and so did the story. And if you know me at all, I hate killing characters more than anything. It's not me.

So now I'm stuck, because on the other hand, when I write a fully-fledged outline of the story, and dictate to the characters exactly what is going to happen beforehand, I get absolutely bored with the process because there's nothing to discover. I end up erasing the plotline and getting new ideas and adding those ideas and making the story a mess of strange contrivances and utter humiliation for myself.

So I ask you, what is the perfect balance between discovery writing and outline writing? I have yet to find out. But I'm attempting to bridge the gap for myself in this new story I am writing, that is sans title and genre at the moment. If I had to classify it, it would be a mystery/drama type-o-thing, but I don't to label it yet. As my Philosophy teacher (quoting Nietszche) once told me, when you label something, you henceforth define what it is *not*, and I'm not willing to do that yet.

So here goes my silly attempt to do the impossible; that is, solve my biggest writing problem once and for all. In my next post, I will update with a piece of that story.

We will meet again.

In Search of Happinesss - Prologue

2010-06-28T10:14:00.004-04:00

Hey all, it's been a while since I've posted anything. Not that anyone really reads this yet. But regardless, I'll post something today.

Here's a piece I've been working on for a couple weeks now. It's called In Search of Happiness, and it's about a boy's maturation into adulthood, told through a metaphor of... well, you'll just have to see for yourselves.

In Search of Happiness

The city was crumbling under the weight of its own people.

“Whose eyes scan the clockwork?
The docile are the few.
The broken shall again be made.
The old shall become new.”

Francis Alucard sat up, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the sun above him. Aching bones accompanied the feeling of being completely unaware of his surroundings. The unknown vexed him in a way that he was partially unaware of until now, but now, being… on cobblestone… in the middle of a foreign city… he was completely sensitive of this fact.

The city was dreadfully silent. There were sounds, of course, but they were mostly unconventional city sounds. And the city itself seemed slightly outdated. He did not know why, but Francis had the distinct feeling he had gone back in time, like a dream. Yes, perhaps he was dreaming. That may have accounted for his limited memory.

“Pardon me, sir.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked to his left. There, standing just a foot away, leaning down so that their faces were just slightly apart, was a man. He smiled, and Francis, confusedly, inched away. The man offered a hand to help him up, and Francis warily took it.

“Right, thanks,” Francis said. He brushed off his pants and looked at the man with some confusion.

He was wearing a blue blazer, with a white button down shirt and khaki pants. Atop his head was a black fedora with a white feather in it, and he was wearing sunglasses shading his eyes from view. But he was smiling. That was perhaps the most distinctly potent of his attributes. His smile was radiant, but not quite contagious. It was not cocky, but Francis could barely resist punching the man regardless. There was something about the man, something he could not quite place a finger on.

“You don’t know where you are, do you?”

Francis snapped back and shook his head. He had no clue where he was, or when he was.

“I would love some assistance in that respect.”

The cheerful man’s smile widened. “I’d love to help. Now, follow me a moment and a few of your questions may just be answered, provided you’re asking the right ones…”

They began to walk. The cheerful man led them around a corner and begun to walk down a street. The street lamps were gas powered, and there was no sign of electricity anywhere. Most of the buildings weren’t that tall, but they were still bunched together in groups, and a few of them were a few stories tall. The streets were paved with cobblestone, and Francis thought he heard the clopping of horse hooves behind him. He turned around and saw the passing visage of a horse-drawn buggy disappear behind a building.

“You have been placed in charge of this world, Francis Alucard. As it is scheduled for demolition in accordance with the passing of time,” the cheerful man said, leading Francis outwards a bit. They paused at the corner of the sidewalk and then continued to walk. “This city is completely contained, and the residents will never walk outside its limits. Soon, it will begin to rain. When that time comes, there will be no turning back.”

Francis saw what he meant. There was a wall, several stories tall now standing between him and whatever was on the other side. It was made of white bricks, several sizes larger than the standard, and when he reached out to touch it it was rough to the skin. He opened his mouth to speak, but the cheerful man continued his one-sided conversation.

“You must find the fifteen… the fifteen who live here, who make their residences in the various houses around the city. They are your responsibility. You must find them, and save them, Francis. For if even one of them drowns in the coming rain, you too will perish in the waters.”

“I don’t understand,” Francis said, interjecting finally. “How am I supposed to save them? Can’t they just leave the city?” He was confused, obviously. “Why am I in charge of this world?”

“Because it is your city.”

“But why is it my city?”

“Because it is yours.” The man cocked his head to the side. “You certainly ask a lot of questions with obvious answers.”

“Fine.” Francis sighed. It was a dream, after all. He would wake even if he failed… wouldn’t he?

He began to think, and the more he thought the more worried and anxious he became. What if it was not a dream? What if it were real? What if he would truly die if he did not save these people?

He scratched his head, and the cheerful man remained, looking on. There had to be some meaning to this all. He was alone in a foreign city, with no true memories of, well, anything, but a knowledge that he was supposed to have memories. He also had knowledge of the nature of dreams, but no memory of any. The anxiety swelled within him, and the world around him seemed to stop.

“How am I to go about this? How do I save them?”

The cheerful man flashed his teeth. “You must fulfill their wishes.” The cheerful man moved some ways away. “Each and every one of them is unresolved in some way. Find what that one thing is, that one thing they need to do, to accomplish, to find out, and make sure they do.” The cheerful man looked up at the sky. Francis followed suit. It did seem like it was beginning to get cloudy.

“You are your own most precious treasure, Francis. Remember that.”

Madness, The Prologue (sort of)

2010-03-08T06:49:00.002-05:00

Here's the story I referred to earlier with the Characters post. It's just an excerpt from Chapter One, but it sort of serves as a prologue, so I'll just call it that. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the fact that my writing style has probably improved in jumps from my last work to this.

Madness

The room smelled of stale bread and garlic, and the darkness impeded all sight. All Eckhart saw in front of him were the chains shackling him to the floor. The room was dead silent with the exception of a lone frog croaking just outside the room. Or perhaps it was in the room with him. He huddled against the back wall, his arms hugging his knees, awaiting his impending torture to return.

The sound of footsteps echoed outside in the hall. Eckhart raised his chin. “Subject K,” he heard a voice say as a slit opened in the door opposite him and light flooded a small section of the room. “Location acquired: classified,” the voice continued as a pair of eyes looked through the slit in the door, “Fears: being alone, religion. Necessary precautions: none.” The slit closed and Eckhart closed his eyes and lowered his chin again.

The door opened inward and two men in white lab coats came into the room, followed by who Eckhart assumed was the one talking outside. However, the lab coats the men wore were anything but pristine; they were disgusting. They carried what looked like puke, puss, and blood on their sleeves. “Subject K,” the man in the back said as Eckhart was released from his shackles by one of the lab technicians, “it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance; allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Edward Hyde, and I will be administering your medicine today.” The man grinned with his head tilted slightly the side, and then closed his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll find me much more agreeable than most other doctors you may know.”

Eckhart allowed himself to be dragged to his feet and cuffed in new shackles, joining his hands together. “Well, let’s go then. Better get a head start,” Dr. Hyde said, allowing the lab technicians to guide Eckhart out the door before following them and locking the door behind them.

The hallway no longer gave Eckhart the impression of rampant garlic use, but it still smelt of something foul. Though to be fair, this smell was much more tolerable. It was almost cinnamon-like in flavor, and inhaling deeply gave him the impression of choking. The hallway itself was as bare as the room though, with tile floors rubbing badly against his bare, calloused feet, and the white walls sporting bizarre smudge stains, some brown, some red, all screaming “wash me.”

“Almost there, Subject K,” Dr. Hyde told him. Eckhart lazily twirled his head over his shoulder to get a better look at the man.

He too had on a white lab coat, but this one was immaculate. He was looking at a clipboard, flipping papers up over the top every once in a while and glancing up to see where he was going. After a minute or so, they turned a corner, and the man put his clipboard near his waist and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small I.D. card and proceeded to the front of the procession. Eckhart watched him the whole time. He had on glasses, and was overall incredibly pale. Something about him was just excruciatingly awkward as well.

The man arrived at a door on the right wall with a card reader beside it. He swiped his I.D. and the door slid open into the room. Eckhart was dragged inside, and as he passed Dr. Hyde he was given the most cynical smile he had ever received from anyone in his life. It sent Eckhart from his stupor into a mode of shock, his eyes glued wide, and he moved to inspect the rest of the room out of paranoia.

It was a small room reminiscent of a dentist’s office, with a single chair leaning back in the center of the room, with several surgical tools and other interesting devices on either side. Before he knew what was happening, he was being strapped into the chair with leather belts on his arms, wrists, ankles and legs. He began to shake with fear; what was about to happen? What did they want with him? He was just a-

“-…typical high school senior,” Dr. Hyde said, finishing his train of thought, “You think you’re not special? Well, my boy…” he leaned in closer, his breath stinging Eckhart’s eyes, “…you are correct.” He pulled back, taking a knife from the surgical table and twirling it in his right hand. “Most people when they are abducted start to think, ‘Oh, I must be special, that’s why they want me above all other people. I must be different.’ Heh.” At the word ‘different,’ he stopped twirling the knife and slammed it down into Eckhart’s shoulder, blade first, making Eckhart cry out in immense and sudden pain.

“But we’re not looking for people who are different,” he repeated the action, “We’re trying to find average, ordinary people.” With each accented word, he stabbed the shoulder harder than the last until finally Eckhart was numb with pain. “People with problems. People with fears.” He pulled back with the knife, its blade sullied with blood, and with it raised above his head he dropped it to the ground.

Dr. Hyde let out a deep breath he had been keeping in and wiped at his brow with his gloved hand. “You have fears, don’t you Subject K?” He paused. “Do you ever dream that you wake up in the morning and no one is around? That’s because it’s going to happen one day, Subject K. Dreams are one of the ways your subconscious says what you fear most.” Eckhart bit his lip and turned his head the opposite way, to face away from Dr. Hyde. The man was insane. His shoulder still throbbed in pain, but the rest of his body felt numb.

“Feel it, Subject K. Your body is tensing up because it is what you fear most in life. You hate the idea of being alone. It is the most terrifying thing to you because you have issues with the unknown. You probably fear death too.”

Eckhart could feel the heat rising in his face. His blood was pumping fast. His heart was racing. His breathing was becoming erratic. Everything was going white. Dr. Hyde was slowly disappearing from view, and the last things he heard before completely blacking out were one of the lab technicians saying, “He’s gone mad,” and Dr. Hyde replying, “Excellent.”

Characters

2010-03-02T21:28:00.002-05:00

So I was thinking to myself the other day; hey, how do I make my characters, and how do I make them (what I like to think as) good characters. Well, I took a look at my process, and noticed several patterns. Since I have nothing really to show this week except another excerpt of Darryl which I am hesitant to post due to a possibility at entering the Glimmer Train Press Contest, I am going to divulge my meager secrets of how to create kick-ass characters.

To illustrate this, I will use a character from my newest piece, entitled Madness, whose name is aptly Dr. Edward Hyde. No this is not a pun. 50% of my characters are homages to real life people, and so I guess around 5% are homages to fictional people. Other names I thought of were Joseph Tesla and Nicholas Mengele, but decided to stick with Hyde because it was short, awesome, and fitting.

So here's my process:

1. Purpose - Hmmm, I need a foil for my main character, as well as the villain, so why don't I make them the same person. Let's try that out, and since the main character is an ethically driven, meek lab rat, let's make this foil a mad scientist who's life's goal is to acquire fame and fortune, perhaps via a philosopher's stone.

2. Names - I need a name. I can't just refer to him as "foil". So, mad scientist. Instead of Dr. Jekyll, he could be Dr. Hyde. Doctor Edward Hyde to be precise. (Usually I use the website: behindthename.com to look up names, but this worked well too).

3. Alignment - He's going to be aligned chaotic good.

4. Characteristics - He's going to be consistently smiling. In a state of perpetual bliss. The sun never sets on Dr. Hyde. He doesn't like the moon. He's got a fear of being sad (does not put himself in "sad" situations). Hates sarcasm. Hates poetry. Loves chemistry. Great fighter.

5. Other Notes - Maddener power: manipulation of his own blood.

And that's essentially it. Then I create a sheet which look similar to this but a bit different, with a bit more information like the quote I like most from this character as well as the song which needs to be playing in my head when I'm writing his or her dialogue. Anyway, have fun with that. Hope that you have fun with characters!

Short Satire - Darryl, Part Two

2010-02-22T06:44:00.003-05:00

Feel free to go back and read the first installment of Darryl to acquaint yourself with the story again. Here's part one of Chapter Two, though, for your reading pleasure.

Darryl

Chapter Two

“A fact is a simple statement that everyone believes. It is innocent, unless found guilty. A hypothesis is a novel suggestion that no one wants to believe. It is guilty, until found effective.” -Edward Teller

My daughter is not like most girls her age. Or people for that matter. She was a rather distinctive voice in an unwelcoming crowd. She did fit in well in Eureka Valley, but not for the reasons one might think. She was rather introverted, loved reading and nature and still is a very sweet, down-to-earth girl. Of course, to live in Eureka Valley, you’ve got to have a strong willpower, and a lot of hard work and determination.

I named her Kanaan, after the Promised Land. But she left Eureka Valley to live with her mother when she was very young. So when she came back unexpectedly to work on my farm with me, I was surprised. But to say the least, Darryl was astonished.

He came to me one day while my daughter was working in the fields, pointed her out to me and asked if that was my daughter. I said yes, of course, incredibly proud of her. He turned toward her, for a split second looked wistfully into the wind, and then turned and went back home.

A few days later, Darryl returned to the farm. Once again, Kanaan was working in the fields, and I happened to be resting by the fence. He came over to me from the other side of it, toting some bizarre piece of junk in a wagon he was dragging behind him. He called it a “super-sickle” and claimed it could be used for pruning and cutting weeds and harvesting plants. I won’t even begin to describe it to you. He told me that it was a gift for my daughter, and at that moment I knew that Darryl, the eccentric that he was, had fallen for my daughter.

He delivered gifts like this on a weekly basis. We got the “super-sickle”, the “power-pump”, the “horticulture-hose” and the “power-planter.” Darryl would create the weirdest stuff for my daughter, but I have to tell you, the more stuff he gave to me, the less I would want to give it to her. He was certainly past the word ‘creepy’ and ‘eccentric’ and into the realm of ‘schizotypal.’

One day, he arrived with something he called the “seed replicator,” which worked as follows. You put in a fruit or veggie, and it produces twice as many seeds as you would normally collect from that plant. This was the first time I was ever legitimately impressed by this man. I mean, wow. What a great idea, and it worked! This was the first time I gave the gift to Kanaan, who appreciated it, but was a bit disappointed by the idea of having to give up seeding fruits herself. But sometimes you have to pave way for invention, correct?

Well, not in this case.

So I sent Kanaan over to Darryl’s house to thank him. She stayed over there for a pretty long time too. When she got back home, the dinner was cold, and when I asked her what happened she had this glazed over look in her eyes and said, “he’s the strangest man I’ve ever met.”

Over the next few days, I saw Darryl walking around outside much more often. He would pass by the farm twelve to fourteen times a day, his PDA in hand, obviously looking for/at Kanaan. Kanaan of course would run for the hills whenever she saw him coming. She had been severely broken by the man. She was scared for her life. I could not even begin to imagine what they talked about when she went over that one day.

What happened soon after was a disaster. The seed-a-majig thing broke.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but it was a lot less serious that it sounds. I just made it into a big deal because Kanaan got hurt. It pretty much exploded in her face one day and gave her cuts all up and down her arms. I flipped out. I marched over to Darryl’s house and demanded he come out and see me. I told him what happened, his face went pale, and he slammed the door in my face screaming a thousand apologies.

I could not sleep that night.

Poetry - Elegy of a Writer

2010-02-08T06:39:00.001-05:00

I don't have a really real update for you today, so instead I'll post this poem. I hope you enjoy it.

Elegy of a Writer

Beyond a tomb of secret success,
A doom of tales to lightly dress,
To make them beautiful and regress,
But not to you, for I digress,

A stone cold tomb of winter knights,
Of braver wars and colder fights,
With slavery and sodden sights,
Though lacking now his rumpled rites,

His fingers chilled, his mind defrosted,
Nothing less his steam exhausted,
Never a moment had he rested,
Had his friends not left him tested,

All alone in a blinking room,
Left to write away his doom,
With his lone typewriting loom,
He weaved his art, and with his heart,
He made it his everlasting tomb,

Heaven told the knights their duties,
They would fight for God; his armies,
They reaped rewards in feathered dowries,
Living with their flowered beauties,

For seven long and grueling days,
They defended a church,
Kept them at bay,
But when one knight fell astray,
The enemy set the chapel ablaze,

The knights fell in, all disheveled,
Neither one the least bit reveled,
They had failed, they’d been bedeviled,
Would they see their chapel leveled?

All around them knights of fortune,
The best among them, Will the Tribune,
Many of them lost to commune,
Willard spoke up, his old same tune,

“We shall never lose this fight!”
He shouted out, “We’ll match their might,
And when they’re beaten, off in flight,
We’ll win the day, and make it right!

“And what of this place,” Martin basked,
“When we’ve beat the evil masked,
This place, to defend, we’ve been tasked,
To save this place is all I ask.”

But no one saved the day that time,
For in that hour died the rhyme,
With all the power so sublime,
The writer fell during the climb,

The climax didn’t yet begin,
The falling action never been,
And our heroes never win,
They were eaten out from within,

Falling faster to the floor,
Leaving readers wanting more,
Reaching outward for the door,
Falling faster to the floor…

Short Satire - Darryl

2010-02-01T06:56:00.002-05:00

Here's something I whipped up over the week for a creative project for school. It's a satire. Enjoy.

Darryl

Prologue
“There is something fascinating about science. One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a trifling investment of fact.” -Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi, 1883

In the remote setting of Eureka Valley was a set of steel double doors, so perpetually locked together that one would imagine them welded that way. But no, within those two doors was a German scientist; physicist, botanist, psychologist. His house was the eighth wonder of the world, and so peculiarly placed on a plateau half-way down a hill, facing a road that ran up and down the face of the hill. At the base of the hill was a watermill in a dried river; at the summit, a small village.

The scientist’s name was Dietrich, but many called him Darryl. The name on his mailbox read Darryl due to a miscommunication after he bought the house. The mayor of Eureka Valley, Duke Albor, still believed that the man’s name was Darryl, and as a result, many of the townspeople had come to address the recluse as simply, “Darryl.”

His house, aside from being aesthetically… different, was run on solar power (now that the river was dry), and was quite small. This did not make it any less amazing, however. It was octagonal in shape, with a dome roof, and several bizarre instruments attached and projecting from the top of the edifice, as well as a telescope for assumed astronomical observations, though he was certified in neither astronomy nor astrology.

But up until the day he died, Darryl certainly was an interesting specimen.

Chapter One
“I think science has enjoyed an extraordinary success because it has such a limited and narrow realm in which to focus its efforts. Namely, the physical universe.” -Ken Jenkins

Loneliness certainly is an illness. What’s worse is the loneliness of a laboratory, no?

Sorry, I speak to myself. Standing out here in front of this house makes me reminiscent.

Well I’ve certainly never seen you around here before; where are my manners? My name is Livingstone; that’s what most people call me. You can call me Eric if you really want, but nobody else does. If you don’t want to stand out like you already do in those clothes, please, call me Livingstone.

This house? This is just Darryl’s. Darryl’s old house, I should say. Who’s Darryl? He’s the man who used to live here. In this house, right here. There’s a lot to say about him, now that you mention it. I’ve got the time, of course; who doesn’t in this town? I work down at the Liberty Farm, so I’ve literally got all the time in the world. I’m just waiting for my greens to shoot up. You’ve got time? You’re in town for a while? Oh, good then. Let’s walk.

Darryl smelt pretty awful most of the time. It was like he was bathing in motor oil. Greasy too, but I don’t really want to talk about what he looked like or smelt like. I don’t even know why I said that. He was a scientist; there, I can say that about him. I can talk about some of his experiments too. He worked with colors, how chromatic differentiation affected certain plants and movement patterns. It was not terribly interesting work, if I do say so myself.

I do not know exactly how he made his living. He grew his own vegetables, though. He raised some chickens for a while, so that may have been how he kept strong. Legumes were his favorite. Beans, yes, he was always growing beans. His house is so small, though. He kept the chickens outside in a pen, but the stuff he does grow grows on the inside so that he could keep watch over it. With his bizarre light color studies, to me it was becoming increasingly obvious that the man was insane.

He attended certain festivals, though. He came down to the waterfire once or twice, before the river dried up. But that was back when he was still somewhat happy. That was before he used to use a ladder to reach the roof of his house and sit up there throughout the night to make sure no one was going to try to break into his house and steal his research.

It was not strictly paranoia though. He was also starting to lose his touch with the world around him. Let me tell you this stranger, Eureka Valley is a tremendously beautiful town, inside and out. No one in their right mind who lives here would try anything on poor Darryl. He was such the sad sort, the kind that you would think about at night and sort of pity before realizing you were too tired to pity anything anymore. But ultimately, I’m not sure if Darryl considered himself to be all too much the sort to be pitied. That may have been due to his rampant schizophrenia, but I don’t doubt that… well, I don’t really know.

I remember one of his experiments quite clearly. He lit one of his plants on fire and, once it was fully burnt, tested different color lights on the ashes and soil. It was peculiar, and when I first heard about it from my daughter, I was so confused that for the longest time I wanted nothing more than to go down to see the man and ask him what the hell was going through his head. Of course, when I did end up learning more about it, it made my brain hurt even further. Apparently, the man was trying to figure out whether or not he could revive plants by casting certain colored light on them.

I shudder at the thought.

But… anyway, Darryl was always the kind of person who you would see walking around town with his PDA out, bumping into stuff because his head would be down in his work. His house used to be powered by the river, you know. That was before the river went dry. Then he ordered these solar panels from the city, and I mean, they’re neat and all, but honestly solar power is not really all that efficient. He’s just trying to cheat the bill, though. He recharges so much shit in that house of his; from gadgets to computers to powering an aquarium where he keeps stuff he fishes from the basin. It sort of makes sense that he’d want some way to cut down on the electric bill.

But at least he was happy until my daughter came home one summer. Then everything went to hell.

Leo's Orchids - Chapter One, Part One

2010-01-25T11:37:00.004-05:00

Hi all, I'm back from my short hiatus with another story that I've been working on. I recently finished Dead Moon Rising and in the process of revising it for submission into publication, so I probably won't be posting too much more of that. In compensation for that, this month I'll give you another piece I've been working on, called Leo's Orchids. The premise is that there's this small island nation that has been cut off from the rest of the world for approximately eighteen, I think, years, and is suddenly thrust back into world politics and other things when workers on the other side finally succeed in blasting the strait that leads them to the sea open.

Leo's Orchids

A leader is best when people barely know he exists,
when his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say:
we did it ourselves.
- Lao-tzu

The land of Acardelm stretches from the furthest reaches of the Narneg Desert to the Maranus Territory; throughout that many races and cultures thrive under a banner of exclusivity: the Delmian Government. The mountainous Darsaya race responds to the bloodline of the Delmian kings and queens, and will respect their authority but show resilience to their culture and their pride. The proud Marani, although reluctant, are an ever growing community that also must show reverence for their Delmian leaders. It is no surprise that Delmians, being so dominant in their culture, began to think they were are the top of the food chain, so to speak.

The new Delmian generation was born after the Great War against Ralios and his Fascist army from the reaches of Gibralan, a place where most new generation scholars do not even know of. If it weren’t for word of mouth, we would have forgotten all about the avalanche of about twenty years. The one that sealed away the Delmian Strait, which led straight out from Lake Delmia, right into the mouth of the Great Sea. Lands like Altail, Gibralan, and even Lyran had been erased from known history, and as the youth of the world became more ignorant, and the elders were becoming too old to remember… something happened. Something that wasn’t expected at all and in fact many believed that it would never happen in their lifetime.

The Delmian Strait, with the combined might of the Lyranese and Orchidian laborers was cleared.

Chapter One - Three Visits

With a loud horn blowing in the distance, six large wooden ships pulled into the small Lake Delmia… rather; it used to be Lake Delmia.

A small settlement, it was fully equipped with Delmian guards and shops and domestic residences. With a cobblestone square, a common’s house, and near a hundred citizens, Lake Delmia Town was one of the most flourishing towns in Acardelm.

Now, the town guard had been on alert since nights before, with huge rumbling heard from the furthest reach of the mountains surrounding the lake, which was quite a surprise. The assumption was that the Darsaya stayed on their mountain range on the other side of Acardelm, and therefore something strange was happening in the mountains surrounding the Lake Delmia. But at this point, the sound was gone, and replaced by drums, horns and fanfare, along with cheering which came from the huge ships.

Guards and citizens alike stopped everything they were doing in order to wade knee-deep into the water to see the massive ships closer, surprised as anything by this. With the horns dying down the ships spun mid-harbor, and began throwing dinghies down. What the citizens saw amazed them; the far mountain wall had been broken down, now revealing a huge strait, possibly sixty meters wide.

More panic ensued when the guards re-stationed their posts. The older guards seemed less shaken up than the young ones, and took to the bridge to meet and greet the visitors. Musicians disembarked behind the others, following the majestic crewmen as they strut down the newly polished and refurbished wooden viaduct, sporting very foreign and colorful vests, gowns, robes and tunics, along with capes, bonnets, necklaces with fanciful jewels and other lovely apparel. As they neared the guards ashore, the crowd began to panic a bit, the majority of them still with their feet in the lake. They backed up into the town, huddling next to the smaller fountain placed in the center of the small cobblestone town. The small buildings did nothing to hide their fright from the guards, whom were just as nervous. The guards stood triumphant at water’s edge though; ready to meet these new faces.

More trumpets sounded in the back as the group on the pier finally met with the guards on the shore, halting just out of spear’s reach. One man amidst the strangers on the ship stepped forward, wearing a bright red tunic with a purple coat, on his back hitched a huge halberd and his men similarly armed. “This looks bad,” one Delmian guard mumbled to another.

The younger guards immediately stepped into a battle stance, bringing their spears out before them and creating a wall of spikes, many in the back following suit. For a moment, a dead silence had been sprung forth from this meeting. Then, almost on cue as the dinghies hit the new sand, the man in front of the strange people smiled and began laughing. Bursting into hysterics, he bent forward and nearly took off a fellow man’s head with his the axe-head of his halberd.

“Pathway! Guards, open up!” The voice resonated from the back of the guard group. The guards quickly realized who had issued the order, and had all stood straight and created two lines straight down, forming a path for the captain stationed at Lake Delmia Town. Another guard group had run down to meet the people on the dinghies.

The guard captain, a much older man, limped his way down the lane into the common sight of all the men from the boats, who didn’t bat an eye. The large man stopped laughing as the guard captain came into view, giving him the proper respect due after wiping the tear from his eye and taking a breath. The guard captain gave them a once over, then nodded and turned to a soldier beside him. “Send word to the Queen,” he said, putting an arm on the guard’s shoulder, “Send a messenger. Tell her that that the strait’s open. Tell the council that we’re no longer alone.” The guard, confused, nodded and stumbled his way down and off the bridge, fumbling his way to the guard’s stable house.

The captain returned his gaze to the leading man, who was simply standing there at this point, proudly gazing over them. Much over them. The man was possibly half a foot to a foot taller than them. All of the visitors were. The guards seemed more like the runts of the litter than the hands of justice in Acardelm. The captain however tried to show his grit, and stood up to the colorful man.

“I haven’t seen your kind since the strait closed,” he sneered.

“I cannot even begin to imagine the reason as to why that might be correct,” the man said, his speech very sharp and accented. “We bring good tidings and well wishes from Lyran, frail Delmian. My name is Duke Jewanaz, leader of this expedition. We have brought to you the gift of the sea once more. Your navy has been… weakened, as of late.”

The guard captain blinked. “Your boys are bigger than I remembered.”

Jewanaz sneered with a half smile. “And you smaller.”

The captain stood aside. “Welcome to Acardelm once again, Lyran of the House of Jewanaz.” The duke bowed and then proceeded to strut his way past the guards with his entourage close behind in single file, all of them much taller than the guards and very intimidating. They rattled as they walked, apparently carrying mail under their robes and tunics.

A much younger fresh-faced guard turned to his captain and said under his breath “Who are they, sir?”

The captain spit on the wood the visiting party had tread on after they had all made it off the bridge, and then took a deep breath, watching the guards filing out with the exception of the one young guardsman. “The least of our worries…”

***

Diala, Queen of Acardelm, sat in the courtyard of the palace on a bench, looking out into the breeze as it swept by, knocking her loose hair back. She was wearing her elegant gown of white and a light violet, the symbol of Acardelm, a golden book and sword, embroidered on her chest. With a look of grace even as she sat, she waited in the sunlight for a certain hero to return. With a tea cup in her right hand, she pulled her hair behind her ear, closing her eyes for a moment before hearing the certain thumping of hooves in the brief distance. Soon, a horse and rider came into view.

His cloak hung behind him loosely, blown back by the wind. His head hung underneath the brown hood of his cloak, covering his green tunic. He quickly pulled at the reins, halting the horse in a series of whinnies, after which the beautiful brown mare, Elsimera, settled down. Fury removed his hood, revealing his head of blonde hair. With a stretch, he yawned and then dismounted, his equipment barely weighing him down. Bright blue eyes accompanied his regal, young features, with a sharp, sly smile on his lips.

“Hi Di,” he said, smiling. “Nice to see you again.”

Diala smiled back and stood from her seat, walking forward to greet him. “Greetings hero; nice trip?”

Fury shrugged and removed his cap courteously. “Eh, hospitality was terrible… expected though, right?”

Diala looked at him and sipped her tea. “Mmmm. Any causalities?”

Fury shook his head. “But Mathuer has been apprehended.”

She smiled. “Excellent. Please, sit with me-”

“Your Highness!” A voice shouted in the distance, barely recognizable. In a moment, another much darker mare with a Delmian messenger atop flew top speed up the garden path and ran right into the small courtyard, pulling up dust as it screeched to a stop. “Your Highness, Queen Diala, please forgive my intrusion. Word has been sent from Delma, the strait’s been reopened and… and the Lyrani led by Jewanaz are heading here, t-to the palace!”

Diala put two fingers to her forehead in frustration as Fury stood beside her less than amused.

“Lyrani led by whom,” she asked flatly, making the messenger squirm. “Jewanaz, you said?”

“Y-Yes, your high-”

“Lyrani?” Fury asked, “What in the gods’ name is a Lyrani?”

Diala turned to Fury with a patient glance. “Oh, dear, don’t call them that. Address them as the Lyrani ‘led by Jewanaz’ or ‘under Jewanaz.’ The Lyrani are, let’s just say for all intents and purposes, huge Delmians.” She smiled complacently. “They’d been at war with each other since we left them years ago at the close of the Delmian Strait. The two warring factions most prominent were the Lyrani under Lord Maric’do and the Lyrani under Duke Jewanaz.” She turned to the messenger. “You said Jewanaz arrived?”

The messenger nodded.

Diala returned her gaze to Fury. “Yes, as I recall he was the troublemaker... in my father’s regime.” With a sideways glance she stared at the messenger. “You are excused. You are to send word to the castle guards to let Jewanaz’ men through the gates. I’ll meet them at the palace wall.” She flicked her wrist and the man scuttled back down the hill to the palace gate. Reverting her attention to Fury she gave him a quick smile. “Alright, thank you for your assistance in the task Fury. I’m sure the Marani appreciate your assistance as well, those poachers are tricky business. Tricky, and… tacky.” She sighed and replaced the tea cup in her hand with a crown. “You will not want to meet Jewanaz, Fury. He’s not your type and may very well frustrate you as he did my father. You are excused so should you please. I’ll contact you about Mathuer when we’ve figured out what to do with him.”

She sighed and walked out of the garden without another sound. Fury scratched his head and put his hat back on, returning to Elsimera. He stroked the side of her face affectionately, to which she purred into his hands. “Let’s go then.” He pulled himself onto her and then began a slow trot down the hill to the castle gates. When he arrived he ducked under the rising palace gates casually, not slowing at all and continued down the dirt path to the market. By the time he made it to the market gates, Jewanaz and his men were ascending the sloped path with pride, some of them taller than Fury on Elsimera, Jewanaz barely that height.

Fury felt like an idiot staring at them, but it was something that he had never before thought of as possible, and yet something absolutely real. The Lyrani didn’t spare a passing glance as Fury stopped to wait for them to pass through the gates before leaving.

When the Lyrani followers had gotten through the gate Fury rode Elsimera into the town square, trotting around casually through the crowd, who were in an uproar about the strange giants who had just passed through. Fury heard murmurs of Hell breaking loose and other things like that. The older folks were joyfully chatting about the arrival of the Lyrani and perhaps new shipments from places Fury had never heard of. Knolis, Mantrea, Newland City, and Tunista. Stopping for water at the fountain, he heard an old couple discussing orchids. Fury tried to retrace his memory, but he had no idea what an orchid was.

And he thought he knew everything about anything… that wasn’t history of course. He was no Magistrate or scholar. He was just a… mercenary, of sorts. In truth, he was an adventurer, traveler and a simple vagabond at times. He knew of distant cultures… but he had never heard of the Lyranese, or what in the gods an orchid was.

Then a thought came to him. Liberty Tavern Ranch. Cakal was always one for big news. And Larina… well, he was always in the mood to see Larina. From what Fury gathered, something called the Delmian Strait was open. Perhaps Cakal could let loose some light on the subject of the Lyrani… and orchids.

Elsimera whinnied behind him, and he turned to her with a smirk. “You wanna go home, Elsimera?” Elsimera suddenly did a trot in place, raising her legs excitedly. He laughed and patted her head. “Good girl. We’re going, we’re going.” Once again he kicked his legs over her and without hesitation Elsimera huffed loudly enough to get the people in front of her to high-tail it out of her way and then, sans an invitation from Fury, started to walk excitedly toward the drawbridge.

***

At the palace gates, the Duke approached Diala with remarkable gall. “Greetings, your Highness,” Duke Jewanaz said with his inflection, smirking his awkward smile at the Delmian Queen. “Pray tell, where is your husband for I do desire to speak with… him.”

Diala smiled back with disapproving glance. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but there is no King as of yet. You can take anything up with me. What news do you bring from Lyran?”

Jewanaz subtly pointed toward the castle. “May we continue in the castle?”

Diala half-smirked and waited a few moments before shaking her head. Jewanaz scratched behind his ear. “Your father showed more respect.”

“My father died, as you know, while our gates were closed, of a wound inflicted while under your protection. Our alliance got us nowhere when our country was attacked.” Diala took a casual breath and as a gust came by she swept her hair back behind her ear.

Jewanaz, taken aback, looked at her with a deep throated growl ready to emerge. “With all due respect, Your Highness, you’re being unreasonable. When the Delmian Strait closed, nothing was able to be done for near fifteen years.”

“We suffered seven long years,” Diala informed him.

“We’ve battled for twelve!” Jewanaz shouted. “Maric is dead now! I am nearing the position of full control over all of Lyran, and all you can say is… is we abandoned you?”

“You poor naive soul.” Diala shook her head. “It is in Delmian nature to expect our allies to assist us in our time of need, no matter what was happening.” She smirked. “Or what had happened.”

Jewanaz eye’s flared to enormous sizes, and he slammed his fist into the palace wall, sending a huge crack issuing up the side of it. “Outrage, queen! The wall was just as tough on our side as it was on yours! The avalanche had been caused by your stupid Marani trying to extend the canal! You did nothing at all to reopen it! We, we opened the canal with our hands and seven days of hard work!” He roared into her face. “You liked the segregation! You wanted no part of our cultures! You set the avalanche, and I know this! I know this because of how you’re acting now, so proud!”

Diala never stopped smiling, and simply stretched her neck side to side. “Well then,” she said, her tone low and calm. “When my father sent to your aid the entirety of the Delmian Navy, leaving us defenseless to any retaliation for the Brinstinia crisis, I suppose that was our pride.” Jewanaz snarled. “Or perhaps when we sent food and water across the sea for your followers, who had been cut off from your main militia. If that is pride, my good sir… perhaps my loss is your gain. Perhaps our vanity is your triumph.”
She turned her head to the wall Jewanaz just ruined, and placed her hands to it gently after removing her gloves. “Thanks for opening us back up to the seas, Jewanaz. No, we will not help you to kill Maric.”

Jewanaz glared at her with fury deep within his eyes, feeling the burn and sting of her words deep within his stomach. He swallowed his spit and curled a lip, infuriated. “So, the lovely lady caught on.” She smirked. “Listen here, princess, Maric’do will come for you next now that the strait is open! Acardelm will burn, and from the smoldering ashes Maric will bring forth a legion to crush his foes.”

“He’ll come to you first,” Diala began, silencing him by stepping up to him, “and when death finds you, Jewanaz, and when Maric sends your severed head to my doorstep, then I will worry. For Acardelm is your one connection; Acardelm has only ever been the Lyrani under Jewanaz’ ally! And that tie is severed, Jewanaz. Leave my grounds immediately, or I will have the last eight men at your disposal… disposed of.”

Something Different - Shadow of the Colossus

2010-01-10T08:26:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year to all. If you're at all interested in cooking, or cooking-related... cooking, check out our New Years video, courtesy of the TGGB: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kR9ZIFXlE1A

Now onward, to the Ancient Land. I give you, the epic poem, Roar of the Earth; an adapation of Shadow of the Colossus. And because I'm updating today, I may or may not update tomorrow. I probably will, just saying, school sucks... and stuff.

Prologue to the Ancient Land
It began from the resonance of intersecting points,
Blood, young sprouts, sky, and the one who anoints,
Memories replaced by eons and naught etched into stone,
The one who controls those created from light and bone,

From the desolate sands, to the mountains of old,
Through the harshness of heat and the bitter cold,
Of the ravenous waters and deep, wooded land,
He moved for her body, her lifeless hand,

Nothing appeared on the path to the past,
The absence of fortune in this world was vast,
But wrapped in a sheet, and bound by some lace,
A woman of destiny was moved by her fate,

Atop his steed they road, in meager constitution,
A bold, intrepid pair in search of lesser destitution,
Her pale white skin, her raven locks, her lips he longed to take,
Were sullen in the resting of a fate he’d naught unmake,

The Wanderer has no urges, for his faith is still strong,
He pushes his horse for he cannot be wrong,
He will bring her back; oh it just must be so,
Otherwise fate will be laughing him home,

A bridge, built with columns, and so very high,
Beneath which, the forbidden oceans, mountains, and forests lie,
Expanse of wide plains, overlooking the land,
And to the center, lies the Shrine of No-man,

Crossing the bridge with courage ample,
Of valor and fortitude, ‘twas he the example,
But nothing would wake him from his turbulent dream,
And nothing would shield him from her last, frightened scream,

The Wanderer came to a circular stair,
Leading down into the dead man’s lair,
He circled around them a multitude time,
‘Twas the atonement for a yet undone crime,

Sixteen dark idols lined the walls of the shrine,
Eight on each side of a pathway’s straight line,
It led to a dais, an altar, overlooking the land,
So he gathered his courage, and lighted to stand,

He held close the woman, and walked rather slow,
To the altar he stumbled, but would not let go,
He laid her upon it, and gazed soft and sweet,
At the image of death he would attempt to cheat,

When suddenly, came the presence of a thousand angry eyes,
To which he bared his sword in hopes they’d fail to rise,
The eyes belonged to servants of a greater demon soul,
Whose heart was made of brimstone, with fingers made of coal,

The sword created light which swept toward the figures black,
It wiped the shadows from their hem and drove the spirits back,
And then a voice boomed from the heavens, speaking dually toned,
Of woman and a man, together, appearing jointly low,

But lo behold the spirit manifested nowhere to be seen,
And still the great lord dared to speak, threatening his mien,
“Thou possesses, the ancient sword, to you it appears loaned,
Or stolen from an ancient grasp; you are mortal, no?”

The Wanderer expected such, and from his place he nodded,
“This is the end of the world, the Ancient Land, where the Earth itself is rotted,
Are you Dormin? For I was told to find you in this place,
You are a being who controls the land, and death’s mortal face?”

“We are the one named Dormin,” the dualing voices said,
“This girl,” he said, “was sacrificed, for she had a cursed fate.”
The Wanderer, not broken down, presented the body of the girl,
“Please, I need her soul returned; she needs to live in this world.”

Dormin laughed, “A mortal law, exists in that it cannot be replaced,
That sword you have, that power you showed, that is but a taste,
A soul once lost is lost for all the time, unless of course you know,
It may not be impossible, but you must do exactly what was I pose.”

“What must I do,” The Wanderer shrieked, in tears of painless glee,
For a life for him would never be if he never came to see,
Her smiling face, her happiness, and everything incurred,
The land was bare, but so was he in lament he carried for her,

“You see the idols line the wall,
Thou art to destroy them all,
But they cannot be destroyed by hand,
They are replicas of monsters of the land,

In this land, there exist the Colossi,
Beasts of a size, of a shape and verbosity,
They are the incarnations of the idols on the wall,
Should you defeat the Colossi, the idols shall fall.”

“I understand,” The Wanderer said,
A powerful statement and task to be did,
“But heed my warning, for to do this deed,
The price you pay may be heavy indeed.”

The Wanderer shook, “That matters not.”
Then Dormin laughed, his thunder voice shot,
“Very well,” Dormin said, “If this is your will,
It shall be done if the Colossi you kill.

Now raise thy sword up by the light,
Go to where radiance and land meet,
There, thou shalt find the Colossi bright,
That thou are to defeat.”

Christmas Angel, Part Quat (Final)

2009-12-25T06:46:00.000-05:00

Bear with me if it is slightly weird. I wrote this unchronologically, so just on't be surprised if it retcons something. I tried to check it as thoroughly as possible. So, anyway...

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL! And to all a good... day.

Christmas Morning

Lawrence awoke with a sharp pain in his chest, as if he had been sleeping on something incredibly dull and long. He cringed in discomfort, and lifted his head from his arms’ makeshift pillow. Apparently, he was on the ground in the foyer of Korinna’s apartment. He rolled over onto his back, and upon opening his eyes, saw a beleaguered Korinna standing over him in her white nightdress. “What are you doing?” she asked flatly, devoid of any emotional attachment. Lawrence said nothing.

In fact, he could only say nothing. There was nothing to say.

Korinna stepped over him, moving into the living room, but was stalled by the bright lights that emanated from the room and invaded her eyesight. Stunned, she looked behind her at a slowly awakening Lawrence, her face expressing a single emotion: absolute delight.

“Lawrence!” she yelled, grabbing him by the arm as he stood, and dragging him into the room. “He came! He came!” The room was pristine, the decorations were wonderfully positioned again, and there was a perfectly dressed tree over in the corner of the room again.

“Well, it certainly looks like it,” Lawrence said, smiling. He closed his eyes for a moment, still recovering from his rough night of sleep on the floor, and when he was done yawning and opened his eyes, Korinna was standing in front of him, looking at him with wide eyes and an elated expression.

“He came,” she said in something above a whisper, her face beaming.

“Why don’t you check what’s under the tree,” Lawrence replied.

Korinna turned around and looked beneath the tree to see a single small, wrapped gift. Lawrence followed her as she made her way around the sofa to the tree, and then bent down and grabbed the gift. She then sat down on the sofa and, with hearty enthusiasm, began to unwrap it. Stripping it down to its bare box, she then took off the lid and peeked inside.

Inside the box was a small angelic figurine, its wings fluffed out, and its expression tranquil. She turned to look at Lawrence, who was hoping, praying that she liked it. Her face seemed to portray immense happiness, so he felt in the clear for the moment.

“It’s so cute,” Korinna said, standing up and moving toward the tree. With the utmost resolve, she stepped up onto her toes and placed it at the top of the tree, completing the design absolutely. Lawrence could feel the joy tangible in the room. He was so incredibly tired; one could not imagine just how fast his eyelids were prepared to fall down over his eyes. But he kept them open, or tried to. He wanted to be there to share the experience with Korinna.

“You’re cute,” he said absent-mindedly. Since she was still facing away from him, he could not tell if she heard him right away, but she turned around red in the face, and approached him steadily.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.

“Merry Chri-” he began, but was stopped when she ever delicately pressed her lips against his. It was small and quaint, and there was barely any contact, but it was still there. Upon release, Lawrence looked away, amazed. Had that really just happened?

“D-don’t get used to it,” he heard Korinna say, and when he looked up at her, she was terrifically scarlet. She turned on her heel and began to walk back toward her room, but stopped in the doorframe, and swung her head over her shoulder. “But… every once in a while, should be… okay.”

Lawrence smiled when she was fully gone. Touching two fingers to his lips, he imagined it over and over in his mind, like a dream. He stood there for the longest time, just with his fingers at his lips, before he realized that maybe it was over. He sighed and moved for the door, arriving at it just in time to hear Korinna’s voice right behind him.

“Hey,” she shouted, “I’m not done with you yet.”

He bit his lip, and slowly turned around. “Not done?” he asked softly.

“Nope.” She raised her hand and began to count off her fingers. “First we need you to go take a shower and get changed into something presentable. Second, you and your dad are coming with me to my parents’ house for Christmas dinner.”

“Oh really,” Lawrence said, slightly shocked.

“Yes,” she replied, “Oh really. So come on.” She took his left hand and strung her fingers betwixt his own.

“K-Korinna!”

She turned toward him, slightly irritated. “What is it? We don’t have much time before the taxi comes to pick us up.” He lifted their intertwined hands as if to make a point. She rolled her eyes. “Is it that unnatural for me to hold my boyfriend’s hand?”

“Well… not real-” He paused, biting his tongue. He stared down at her for a few seconds, completely gone in thought. What was it that she had just said that triggered such a bizarre response from him? “E-E-Excuse me?”

“What; am I speaking Esperanto here? Vi estas mia koramiko.” She blushed ever so slightly upon saying it again. “Don’t make me say it again.” She smirked at him, giving him an impression of… well, to be honest, he was not quite sure what it was. But it was nice. He had to say that.

She continued pushing him out the door. “Alright, time for you to go. I’ll pick you up in an hour; ‘kay?” She gave him a peck on the cheek for good measure and then closed the door on him.

Lawrence, visibly shaking, pressed his hand to his cheek and then turned around, humming jingle bells as he walked up the stairs to his apartment.

***

Korinna pressed her back against the door and sighed. Her face was burning red; why did she have to be so forward all the time. Wasn’t he the guy? She rolled her eyes and began to walk forward, but stopped in the doorway of the living room, where she saw the tree and the decorations she had torn down the night before so resiliently shining in their places.

She bit her lip and smiled. “Thanks… Lawrence.”

Christmas Angel, Part Trois

2009-12-22T06:19:00.000-05:00

The penultimate two days before Christmas. Remember, update on Christmas morning. Tune in!

Two Days to Christmas

“Here,” Korinna said, throwing Lawrence some clothes to try on. “These actually stand a chance of looking good, even on you.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, and entered the changing room. He deftly put on the clothes, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was not unattractive, was he? Groaning at the ambiguity of his own answer, he heard Korinna shout for him to come out. He complied.

“Very nice,” she said, giving him a thumbs up, “Approval.” She let him change back out, and then upon his return, smiled at him pleasantly. “I’ll be back in a second,” she said, “You check out. Don’t leave the store without me.” With that, she was gone.

She was an odd girl, he thought, but in a way… he liked it. He really… really… wouldn’t change a thing about her if he could. Moving to the check-out line, he thought he recognized a girl from school in front of him. A few seconds later, she had recognized him.

“Oh, hey Lawrence,” he heard her say, and looked up to see her from the front. He recognized her now. It was the girl who was throwing the party tomorrow: Jezebel.

“Hi,” he said, putting his stuff up on the counter. Grabbing her bag from the cashier, she turned toward him.

“Where’s your girlfriend,” Jessie asked.

“What? Oh no… we’re not… who are we talking about?”

Jessie smirked haughtily. “Her,” she whispered, pointing toward the bathroom. A second later, Korinna appeared alongside him. “Hello Korinna.”

“Yeah, hi,” came the response from Korinna, utterly uninterested.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you at my party,” Jessie said, “maybe we’ll even get a visit from… St. Nick.” She giggled to herself as she turned and left, Korinna’s interest peaked, but she was gone from the store before she could respond. Lawrence thought it was a bit odd that Jessie should say that… unless of course…

John and Harris did have big mouths…

He sighed. Had the word really gotten around? This could be trouble, he thought, but as they left the store after paying, something caught his eyes. A potential gift idea for Korinna passed them in a store window, and he mentally checked it. He would return later that day for it. It was cheesy, true, but… well, it fit.

“Whatcha thinking about?” she asked him.

“Oh nothing.”

One Day to Christmas

Lawrence knocked at the door to Jezebel’s house. He was a bit late; for an 11 o’clock party, was 11:30 really too late? Waiting patiently, he shivered in the cold falling snow and attempted to fix his hair. Comforted by the fact that Korinna was somewhere inside, he crossed his arms and shifted weight from foot to foot awkwardly. He knocked again, but then heard something on the roof.

Stepping back a few feet, he could have sworn he saw for a brief second the shape of a person on the roof. But he must have been mistaken. Stepping back under the canopy, he waited.

When she finally arrived at the door and opened it for him, he turned to look inside and saw Jessie in the doorframe welcoming him in. “I’m glad you could come,” she told him, very host-like, and allowed him into the house.

The house was exquisitely decorated. Teenagers swarmed the place talking, dancing, and doing what teenagers do. Lawrence looked around awkwardly, trying to find Korinna.

It had been probably near twenty five minutes since he arrived, and he had found some friends to talk to, but not her. But when he did find her, he was shocked. She stood humbly by the Christmas tree in the center of the room, waiting, it seemed. She was situated right between the chimney and the Christmas tree. “Great,” Lawrence whispered, but could not help smiling. She was wearing a beautiful white dress, completely pure, sparkling and dazzling. When she saw him, she smiled back and waved him over.

“Hey,” she said, looking at the ground awkwardly.

“H-Hey,” he responded. “You look… really nice.”

“T-Thanks.” She rubbed her hands together. “You do too.”

“You picked out my outfit for today,” Lawrence said with a smirk.

She hit his shoulder, “Yeah, I thought I’d give myself a nod there.”

Then, a miraculously horrible event began to unfold.

Korinna looked up excitedly at a sound that emanated from the rooftop. Her eyes went wide with the curiosity and wonder of a toddler experiencing his or her first Christmas morning, and then she smiled, content in what she heard being real. It was not her imagination, because Lawrence had her it too. Apparently, all of them had heard it by the looks of it. Everyone looked toward the roof awkwardly, uncomfortable in the fact that someone –perhaps a certain man in a red-suit– was up there at the moment.

“S-S-S…” Korinna was positively beaming.

Lawrence knew something fishy was in the air. It was too perfect… even for Santa Clause. He looked beyond Korinna at Jessie, who with a bit too much feeling behind it, said to Korinna “Why don’t you go outside and check it out?”

Korinna, however, did not seem to have gotten the memo. She nodded briskly and then ran for the door. Then, everything began to click into place for Lawrence. Everything he had seen and heard in his memories locked into a single realization that Lawrence bitterly recounted before running after her, screaming her name only a second too late.

She flung open the door and ran outside, turning around on the sidewalk, and looked up at the roof of the house just in time to hear Lawrence’s voice, and felt the cold splash of reality hitting her. In fact, it was more than that. A massive pile of snow which had been accumulated on the roof was being pushed out over the side of the roof toward her, and soon enough, it was upon her. Falling hard and fast, the snow descended upon her fragile frame, knocking her down onto to the floor. Covered fully in snow, she then felt another spray, this time of frigid water, hitting her harshly. It washed away some of the snow, but was painfully cold. Confusedly she looked around.

In the windows of the house and in the doorframe, people stood there, smirking, giggling, laughing. All except for Lawrence, pushing his way through the dense crowd that had manifested at the gateway of the house. “Korinna!” he yelled out, rushing to her side. “Hey, are you alright?”

“W…” She looked down at her soaked, cold body, her ruined Christmas dress, and worst of all, felt the humiliation of being fooled year after year. Looking up at the roof, she saw more teenagers, the ones who had enacted the plan, laughing at her. And she deserved it, didn’t she. She was the one who believed.

“Oh, you can’t tell me you’re not enjoying this,” Lawrence heard Jessie say from behind him. “All year round we have to put up with the sourpuss, the smart mouthed bitch. Now, look at her. Not so tough now, is she.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Lawrence snapped, turning toward Jezebel with alacrity, surprising everyone around him, including him. Then he heard a soft whimper from behind him. Turning back around, he noticed Korinna slowly getting up from the ground, smoothing out her dress, and then looking at him with tear stained eyes. Then, swiftly, she turned and began to run away.

Lawrence, giving one final look at the party, ran after her.

They made it a block and a half before he caught up to her and grabbed her wrist. “Hey,” he said, “Wait up.”

She flung her wrist out of his grasp and turned toward him sharply, her face freely streaming tears. “Get the fuck away from me!” she cried. “I don’t need you! I don’t need fucking anyone; get the fuck out of my life!” Lawrence stood there, unable to say anything, and turning she continued to run without him. Lawrence remained.

Putting his face in his hands, he sighed. What had he allowed to happen? If he had been a bit quicker; if he had held her away from it all; if he had not gone to this stupid party and convinced her not to either; if he had just fucking told her…

If he had just told her in the first place… that there’s no such thing as Santa Clause.

“But no,” he whispered, “I’m such a dumbass.”

Walking slowly forward, he soon reached his apartment complex. It felt like he had been standing there for a half an hour since Korinna left, and it certainly was possible that that was the case. He walked up the stairs, but paused at the first level. Korinna’s door was slightly ajar. He went over to it to close it, but felt something wrong in the air. He was not about to let another bad feeling leave him without doing something about it, so he moved forward into the apartment.

It looked like a blizzard had torn it down.

All of the Christmas decorations that she had meticulously put up the nights prior were torn down and littering the floor. He wiped his face in the frustration he felt at the ridiculousness of the scene around him. Even the Christmas tree was on the floor, scattered around it various ornaments and bulbs, some broken, some still intact.

He sighed heavily, and walked forward into the apartment, past the living room and into the hall, where he peered into Korinna’s bedroom. Lying with her face in her pillow, probably having cried herself to sleep, was Korinna. He almost shed tears just thinking about the event that had taken place so recently.

But then, a thought entered his mind. At first taken as the most ridiculous thing ever thought of in the history of dumb thoughts, Lawrence reevaluated it, and soon deemed it brilliant.

What if Santa Clause… was real?

Christmas Angel, Part Deus

2009-12-15T06:53:00.000-05:00

Sorry for being a day late, I totally forgot to update yesterday. Forgiveness?

Five Days to Christmas

The following morning went incredibly similarly to the previous day, though with a significantly less peppy Korinna involved. As the pair left Lawrence’s apartment this particular morning, she seemed a bit worn down, perhaps by all the work she had done keeping up her fake profile. She walked incredibly close to Lawrence, and even leaned on him as they waited for the lights to change.

“Rough night?” he asked.

“Meh.” She yawned and nudged her head against his arm. “I stayed up all night writing the fucking English essay.” She caught herself at the last second and covered her mouth, but then sighed exasperatedly. “I mean… uhh...”

“It was awesome while it lasted,” muttered Lawrence, which he then received a slap on the arm for.

“I’m nice, dammit!” she insisted. She pulled away for a second and grabbed him by the chin, pulling him down to her level. “You think I’m nice, right?”

“That’s a trick question, I just know it.”

Her eyes narrowed instinctively. “I’d hit you, but I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be an insult or not.” She let out a humph and resumed using him as a pillow. “For being such a bitch, you’re actually not half bad as a cushion.”

They arrived at school and sat down in homeroom, Korinna collapsing into a heap on her desk. As they processed through their classes, Lawrence had a hard time concentrating on his studies. There was too much on his mind, from Korinna’s bizarre acting to just the bare essence that it was Christmas time.

At lunch time, he saw her sitting with one of her friends at one of the tables at the end of the row. Before he could even consider otherwise, she was waving over at him and beckoning him over. Not that he was one for confrontation, but he did not really mind sitting with them. He would sit with them every other day or so, or whenever his other friends were at club activities. It was not out of place for him to sit with them, he thought, but Korinna actively waving him over was.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Korinna said, pulling out the seat beside her for him. Smiling awkwardly, he sat down next to her.

Across from her, Alicia, Korinna’s friend, did not seem to see too much of a difference in Korinna’s behavior. Perhaps it was because she was used to Korinna being nice to her, so it did not really matter too much that she was nice to everyone for a change. She knew it was possible, so to speak. Regardless, Lawrence was still fascinated by the new Korinna.

“What’s up,” Alicia asked.

“Not much,” Lawrence responded offhandedly. He opened his lunch and began to eat.

Korinna punched him jovially in the shoulder and stood. “I’m gonna go get some water.” Frolicking away, Lawrence knew this was as good a time as ever to get some answers.

“Alicia,” he began, “by any chance…”

“Yeah, about that,” Alicia said, biting into a carrot, “Korinna… believes in Santa Clause.”

“But… why? How?”

“You know,” she said, leaning in close, “her family coddled her, and well, when she started living in the city by herself, she just… never had the opportunity to learn the truth.”

“But nothing ever comes every year!”

“She’s never asked for anything,” Alicia said, her eyes glazed over with quietude. “That’s her reasoning for it, at least. But it makes her happy; I’ve never had the heart to tell her… otherwise. You know?”

Lawrence looked over at Korinna, standing in line for the water fountain, so obviously humming something as she swayed side to side like a pendulum. “Yeah,” he whispered.

Then, two of Lawrence’s friends, John and Harris appeared from the lunch line, standing behind Lawrence. “Hey, you guys talking about Christmas?”

“Yeah, Korinna still believes in Santa Clause,” Alicia said casually.

“Oh my god… are you serious?” Harris smirked and rubbed his hands together maliciously. “I’ve got a great idea.”

Lawrence turned around. Glaring daggers at his two friends, he leaned in close to both of them and whispered softly, “If you ruin this for her, I swear to God I’ll end you.” They laughed nervously, and when Lawrence came back up, Korinna returned from the water fountain.

“Hey guys,” Korinna said, “Why don’t you sit down?”

“That’s okay,” John told her, worried about the wrath he may incur if he sat down, “We were just leaving.”

Three Days to Christmas

Thursday was about as lame as any other school day, but Friday was at least slightly more interesting. Rather, it seemed to set the pacing for the weekend to come.

“So are you going to the party?” Korinna asked Lawrence as they left school together, turning right at the sidewalk junction and heading toward their apartment.

Lawrence adjusted his backpack and yawned while shaking his head. “Eh? What party?”

“Jessie’s having a Christmas Eve party,” Korinna told him excitedly. He smiled reflexively. “And you’re coming, right?”

“I guess,” Lawrence responded, “if you’re going, I’ll go.”

“Success!” She pumped her fist and stopped dead right at the curb, scaring Lawrence a bit as a car rushed by. He pulled her back a few inches and allowed the red hand to switch back to white. Korinna gave him a befuddled look before smiling and allowing them to continue their walk back to the apartment building.

“It should be a lot of fun,” she told him elatedly.

“Yep.”

“Of course, since we’re going out to a public place, we’re going to need to find something suitable for you to wear.” Korinna sighed. “I’ve seen your closet; it’s not exactly the chicest thing in the world.”

“Right, that’s what I do all day before and after school, sit at home in front of my closet and wonder if I am going to be in style.”

“Exactly! You have no idea how to dress yourself.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, tomorrow we’ll go shopping and find something for you to wear; how’s that sound.”

It was Lawrence’s turn to be elated. An entire day spent alone with Korinna? “Y-yeah sure.”

They arrived at their apartment building, and entered. They meandered up the stairs, and when they got to Korinna’s apartment, he handed her backpack to her, and she thanked him and opened her perpetually unlocked door. “It’s a date then,” she told him as she shut it behind her.

Lawrence stood there staring at the door for the longest time afterward. ‘Date?’

He closed his eyes. Oh dear…

Christmas Angel

2009-12-07T06:30:00.000-05:00

It's the most wonderful time of the year. And as a result, I've prepared a short story to be told in four parts over the course of the next three and a half weeks, with the final part updating on, you guessed it, Christmas morning. I hope you enjoy "Christmas Angel" a piece I've been dying to share for a few months now.

Christmas Angel

by Matthew MacNaughton

7 Days to Christmas

They walked side by side down the busy city street, the sidewalk packed by heavily dressed people. A jacket was pulled snugly around Lawrence, along with a blue scarf placed around his neck. On his back was a big black backpack; while in his right hand was a smaller lighter blue one. His left hand was empty.

To his left was a young girl around his age, humming absent-minded and merrily. “Oi,” Lawrence began, referencing the girl who was starting to get quite a few paces in front of him.

The girl did not respond. He tried again, “Hey, you.”

This time, she turned around to face him, her countenance grave and threatening. “My name’s not ‘you,’ is it?” She paused, waiting for his reaction, still pouting.

He resisted smiling at her cute response. “Korinna, then. Why are you walking so far ahead?”

Korinna considered this, inspecting the distance between them at the moment. She shrugged, “I guess I’ve got things on my mind. I’m not your pet, you know; I can go wherever I want.”

“No, that’s not the point.” He sighed, and began to walk again. This time, she stayed relatively near him. As they approached a crosswalk, the red light urged them to stop, but for some reason Korinna did not heed this advice. It took Lawrence to grab her by the shoulder and pull her back for her to realize what was happening, and still she rejected the assistance.

“What the hell are you doing touching me?”

“Excuse me if I don’t want to see you flattened by a car.” She crossed her arms and looked away. Then she started humming again. “You’ve obviously got something on the mind.”

“Well, duh!” She stepped up to him and raised a finger millimeters away from his nose. “It’s Christmas time after all.”

She was really close now; her face was mere inches away from his. He bit his lip and his eyes moved away from hers. “Oh, r-right,” he said less than enthusiastically. Her eyebrows curled upwards as he said this and she moved away.

“Excuse me; that’s all I get for the best holiday ever?”

It was his turn to raise his eyebrows confusedly. “Best holiday ever?”

“Everyone has their thing, asshole,” Korinna told him as the light turned green and they began moving again. “Mine is Christmas. Deal with it.”

“I don’t think St. Nick would appreciate you calling me an asshole.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. For a split second, he thought that she was about to turn and smack him for making such a stupid comment like she usually did, but instead what happened surprised him greatly. With wide eyes, she turned toward him and asked quietly, “You don’t think… he heard me, right?”

What she was saying did not register at first, so he assumed it to be sarcasm. “Well you know, he sees you when you’re sleeping, and knows when you’re awake.” He rolled his eyes and when he looked back down at her he saw in her eyes, not rage but immense shame and embarrassment. People weaved in and out around them as they lay stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a few probably questioning what they were doing. “Alright, let’s uh… get go-”

“I d-didn’t mean it.” She was looking at the ground now, and so he could not see her eyes whether or not she was faking it or… something deeper. Could it be possible, that Korinna still…

No… that would be ridiculous. They were sophomores; it was completely out of the question.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her, putting a hand around her shoulders and slowly guiding her back into a walking mode. She eventually shrugged off his arm like it was some sort of poison, but she failed to take a single step in front of him from that point on.

When they got to their apartment building, they stepped inside the building and began to walk up the stairs in silence. Despite their repellent and sometimes hateful relationship that they had with each other, they usually were able to find some topic of conversation, but at this point it felt like something had broken, something vitally important within Korinna that he had inadvertently touched upon.

When they got to her apartment on the first floor, he handed her backpack to her, for which she thanked him uncharacteristically gratefully, and then fled into her lonely residence. His abode being on the third floor, he stared longingly at the door for a few forlorn moments before heading up the remaining two flights of stairs to his own apartment.

Taking his key and unlocking the door, he opened it to the smell of some sort of stir fry wafting through the entrance and the sound of chopping against a wooden board. “You home already?” he called through the door, entering slowly and removing his shoes.

“Yeah, I got out early today,” came the response from the kitchen, “Decided I’d make us an early dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Lawrence replied. He walked into the apartment and took a right into the kitchen, where he saw his father diligently preparing the food. Wearing an apron, he chopped and scooped some peppers into the frying pan. He tossed them about in the pan a bit, allowing them to sizzle a little before returning to prepping something else.

“How was school?” his father asked.

He tossed his backpack sliding along the floor to the table and then leaned against the kitchen counter. “You know; school.” In truth, even though it was almost winter break, the only thing that seemed to be on his mind was Korinna. She was omnipresent in his thoughts, and no amount of conditioning seemed to be able to change that. And now with this latest development that she may actually believe in Santa Clause… well, it was just strange. That such a strong girl would actually believe in something so clearly fiction was beyond him, but he was still unsure as to whether or not this was the case. He supposed he should ask her tomorrow in school. With four more days of school, and a week to Christmas, he was sure to get the answer he wanted by then.

He settled into his homework, but his mind was still preoccupied with Korinna. Those great big eyes fixated on him and only him at that one moment in time, it was almost as if she was staring into his soul. But if she could stare into his soul truly, then she would know the feelings he had for her.

And that would be less than wonderful.

Six Days to Christmas

Of course, the next day, things got incredibly weird. Lawrence got up, and as he stepped out of the shower he heard the doorbell ring. Knowing that his father was likely still in bed, he prayed the bell would not ring again and hurriedly pulled on his clothes, the towel wrapped around his neck.

The doorbell rung one more time despite his alacrity, and when he finally got to the door, his hair still disheveled and slightly wet, he was alarmed to see Korinna standing in front of him, a bright smile blessing her face, and a pair of brown bags in her hand. Suspiciously he looked down upon her, eyeing her with a pair of slightly confused eyes. “Good morning,” she announced, holding out one of the brown paper bags. “I made you lunch.”

Lawrence let out the breath that he’d been holding for the past few moments and reached out to take the gift in both hands. “Thanks,” he said, slightly stuttering. “I was… just about to make it. What’s with the…”

“I just, you know, wanted to be helpful,” Korinna responded with a bit too much love behind it. Lawrence winced inwardly and turned around.

“Please come in,” he said over his shoulder, “Let me just grab my backpack and we can go, I guess.”

“Thanks.”

He went to the kitchen table and grabbed his backpack from its position on his chair, and after grabbing all the contents from off the table and shoving them inside, he put it on his back and walked back to the door, where Korinna was standing waiting for him.

It was very unusual having her appear at his doorstep. Usually what happened was he would leave and have to go down to her apartment, where a very drowsy and irritable Korinna awaited him. This new perky Korinna was a thing unto itself, but so early in the morning it was more than confusing; it was veritably haunting.

Today she was dressed a bit oddly too. She was wearing something incredibly, the word betraying his thoughts, pure. A milky white blouse and a dark blue skirt gave the impression that they were the attending some sort of puritanical school. Her long silky nutmeg colored hair was freely waving around instead of her usual pony tail. And strangely enough, she was still smiling. This definitely did not seem like Korinna.

In fact, it was possibly due to some demonic presence. He needed an exorcist, and quickly.

“Ready to go,” she asked sweetly.

“Mhm,” he grunted in response. As he locked the door behind him and put the key in his pocket, he looked at her and saw her bobbing her head to some undisclosed rhythm, and had to ask, “Are you feeling alright, Kor?”

She turned to him and replied in a bubbly voice, “Awww, you haven’t called me Kor in like, forever.” She giggled, raising his suspicions above one hundred percent. “And there’s nothing wrong with me,” she added.

As they paraded down the stairs and exited the building, Lawrence thought of all the possible reasons why she could be acting this way, but ultimately only one dawned upon him that was realistic, and at the same time, so unrealistic it was ridiculous.

“Is this… because of Christmas?”

Her smile faded a bit, and she shot him a brief look which seemed to say it all. ‘Duh, but I’m not allowed to say that out loud.’ “Silly; I’m always like this,” she said, going back to her smiling self. That settled it; she was infatuated with the big jolly man. She loved old St. Nick. Yes, it was true; she still believed in Santa Clause.

And although it killed him inside, he supposed that if she was happy pretending to be nice for good ol’ ebullient Santa Clause, then perhaps he was happy too. The transitive property of love tended to work that way.

They arrived at school, and sat down in homeroom, prepared for just another day of school.

“So what are you asking Santa for this year,” he asked, humoring her as they left the school in unison. The entire day she had kept up her bizarre façade, scaring more than just Lawrence. Even the teachers seemed at the same time enthralled by and concerned for this new friendlier face in place of the old, ill-tempered and bitter Korinna.

“Oh,” she said, looking down. “Well… I never really ask him for anything.”

The confusion that was begotten by Lawrence in this instance was harsh and immediate, and prompted him to stutter in his stride, causing him to forget to put his foot down and as a result was slightly tripped by his own two feet. This triggered some sort of response from Korinna, who took to him like she would a wounded kitten.

“Are you alright,” she asked.

“Yeah, I just tripped.” He noticed her hand on his shoulder, an act she would not perform in a million lifetimes, and yet there it was. “I’m fine,” he reassured her.

Yet there was still some element of concern in her eyes. “Here, I’ll help you walk then,” she said, slinging her own arm through his, linking their elbows together. He felt the onset of heat rise in his face despite the coldness of the outside temperature. For some reason, some bizarre reason, she had truly transformed into someone that was a bit… affectionate. First the lunch, now the arm linking; the revolution that had occurred in her body was almost breathtakingly devout and wholehearted. She was not half-assing it like she was used to doing things in school.

Lawrence smiled awkwardly and scratched at the back of his head.

“Are you sure you’re not feeling a bit…” he trailed off at the end, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to question this new Korinna. The closest he had come to bringing her out of her trance was that morning, when he was thrown the equivalent of the shortest death glare that Korinna had ever given him.

Regardless, she acted as though she did not hear him.

As they entered the apartment building, Lawrence realized something. This had been the greatest Tuesday ever.

NaNoWriMo! Week Four - Break

2009-11-25T15:42:00.000-05:00

Hey, so, this week, instead of posting my NaNoWriMo piece for the fourth time, I've decided to take a break. Instead, I will post from a piece that I've sarcastically titled Why The World Sucks and I'm so Awesome. I will be posting from the second chapter, titled "Procrastination and Aristotle's Virtues" and it is likewise about that topic. I hope you enjoy my narcissism and sarcasm. It's a short little thing-a-majig, so don't be intimidated to read it.

IV. Aristotle

Aristotle’s Virtues
Aristotle himself describes his virtues as being awesome. Perhaps not in the way I describe it, but in the way he describes it: eudemonia.

To quote The Nicomachean Ethics, “It is by our conduct in our intercourse with other men that we become just or unjust, and by acting in circumstances of danger, and training ourselves o feel fear or confidence that we become courageous or cowardly So, too, with our animal appetites and the passion of anger; for by behaving in this way or in that on the occasions with which these passions are concerned, some become temperate and gentle, and other profligate and ill tempered. In a word, acts of any kind produce habits or characters of the same kind.”

Did that make sense to any of you? If it did, bravo. If not, I shall be your guide and translator. Listen well; at its most basic form, it means that you condition yourself to act in a certain way with each action you undergo. If you are a coward, it is because you have chosen cowardly actions in your past. Consistently, mind you. Likewise, if you are courageous, you have chosen courageous acts in your past.

This leads us to another important fact: you are what you do.

This is sort of existentialist; existence precedes essence, and all that jazz. Basically, what I (and Nietzsche) am (are) saying is that you can fake out everyone in the world, but then that becomes you. You are what you do. You aren’t what you think you are, you are what you do… you are. Yeah. I’m going to do something radical and combine Nietzsche and Aristotle’s theories, and say there is no such thing as human nature, and that you condition yourself with every action you make.

Hell yeah, I went there.

So here’s another quote from the Nicomawhatchamacallit: “Virtue, then, has to deal with feelings or passions and with outward acts, in which excess is wrong and deficiency is also blamed, but the mean amount is praised, and is right –both of which are characteristics of virtue. Virtue, then, is a kind of moderation inasmuch as it aims at the mean.”

What Aristotle is saying is effectively a balance is necessary. This balance is unique for each person, and thus the appropriate action for each person to make is also relative. If you’re an ass swimmer and someone is drowning, it would not be awesome for you to go and save them, because you’d likely drown. LIKEWISE, if you are an awesome swimmer, then you go and save them, because then you can likely save them from drowning. However, in the case of your ass swimming skills, you can still probably act awesomely by getting some other awesome swimmer to save them. This is called the mean between the extremes.

For example, the mean between the extremes of cowardice and rashness is courage, a virtue. You must act courageously, as is appropriate for you. To act like a coward is just as bad as acting rash, bold and stupid-like. So don’t do it, especially if you want to be awesome. Or, if you just don’t want to fail as a human being.

Now, remember, Aristotle is an old dude, and most people know not to trust old people. For one thing, they’re old, and another, they’re really old. The oldness of a person is inversely proportional to the amount of trust or responsibility you should place in them. Therefore, the ideal age/experience combination is probably around 45. That’s not to say old people aren’t awesome; in fact, being old pretty much assures you of being awesome. You just can’t… trust old people that much.

Look, just listen to my example. Aristotle believed that women and slaves can’t be moral. That means they can’t be awesome. That’s not true; everyone can be awesome in my book, and slavery is just not cool, dude. So Aristotle is obviously beyond our trust in many regards. In my evaluation of him, he seems to have a lot of good ideas, but a lot of bad ones too. Most philosophers do.

Anyway, that’s about it for Aristotle and awesomeness. Maybe I’ll return to him later; I’ll definitely return to the virtues and un-virtues. Expect at least a couple more chapters on each.

Nanowrimo! Week Three

2009-11-17T19:46:00.000-05:00

Here's a quick summary of what happens between the last section I showed you and this next section:

- Ennlin and Kanaan get captured by Captain Reginald and his regiment from the Continental Empire
- They march them to Usvaldia, a city close to Hemingwood, where Reginald is to meet with Count Oren, leader of Usvaldia
- Ennlin and Kanaan are recognized by Count Oren, and because of the Continental Empire's presence, they are thrown into the dungeon, though his motives remain unclear

Anyway, sorry for throwing this on you all. Maybe I'll update with something cooler next week, but that's assuming I'll have written something cooler for next week. Which is assuming I'll have written anything at all.

Anyway, War of the Worlds, excerpt from Chapter Two: An Act of Defiance

Kanaan was about to burst. “What the fuck is wrong with these people! First they make me degrade me by making me march in the wind and cold, then they bind my hands together, all while under the correct assumption that I’m nobility! Don’t they know who I am? Is there a reason why they’re so fucking disrespectful?!” She sat down in a huff and crossed her arms to the best of her ability.

“It’ll all work out,” Ennlin reassured her, sitting down in turn, but she just erupted further.

“Hey, just don’t talk to me!” She crawled over to him and put a finger in his face angrily. “I was doing just fine until you decided that you were going to return me home, a place where I did not even want to go! But nooo, you have your heart set on being a knight don’t you; you don’t even care what I have to say about it! You’re so fucking selfish I can’t think straight when I look at you.”

“Look, I’m sorry!” he screamed back, “but complaining like this is going to get you nowhere in life, let alone this situation. So why don’t you just shut the fuck up and reflect for a second before accusing others of being the roots of all your petty problems.”

“I hardly call being held captive by an enemy army a petty problem, but a plebe like you would hardly know anything of that, you’re so dimwitted that I can’t trust anything you say to be true.”

“What does that even mean? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” She turned around in a huff, showing her back to him. He rolled his eyes and scratched at his forehead miserably. They sat there in silence for an hour or two before there came a jingle at the entrance, like the sound of a key opening the door. They both turned toward it, whereupon they saw a knight enter first, and then Count Oren himself, followed by a second knight.

“Kanaan,” he said immediately as he entered, “I am so sorry. Are you alright? Did they injure you?”

She grumbled but muttered something along the lines of, “I’m fine.”

He seemed relieved, letting out a breath, and then he turned to Ennlin with a bizarre look of curiosity and admiration, but perhaps that was not the right word. Reverence, perhaps. Respect most likely. Regardless, he knelt down beside him and looked him straight in the eye to speak with him. “You are protecting Ms. Kanaan, are you not? Were you not assisting her in her return to Hemingwood Hall?”

“I was,” Ennlin responded dully, shooting a glance at Kanaan who simply refused to look at him.

“If I had known she had been captured, I never would have agreed to seek council with the Continents.”

“Does the Central Palace know of your betrayal?” Kanaan asked haughtily.

“Betrayal?” He looked softly upon Kanaan, even in his silent fervor. “Kanaan dear, I make no plans of betrayal. Usvaldia is prepared to stand with the Royalty until its final days. I only hoped the general himself would come to see me, but I seem to have been found out.”

“Found out?” she asked.

“Captain Reginald has warned me that if I try anything that he will march on Hemingwood presently, with you as the hostage. At the moment they are waiting for the rest of the army, but they are growing impatient.” He stood up, and moved to the back of the cell wall. “Every castle has its secrets. Please, use this one to its full advantage.” Pressing his hand against the wall, one of the bricks shifted backward, and a section of wall receded into itself, disappearing entirely, and revealing a pathway. “The path of kings, a secret escape route. It opens up into the main square, so take the road east to Hemingwood as quickly as possible, and warn Count Julian of the massacre at hand.”

“What massacre?” Ennlin and Kanaan stood up, and each of the knights approached them in turn and sliced clean through the chains of their cuffs with their longsword. “Lord Oren, what do you plan to do?” Ennlin asked.

“Usvaldia will be remembered,” Oren told them, and then turned on his heel and left the room, followed by his entourage.

Kanaan continued staring at the door for a few moments while Ennlin began to move for the hidden pathway. “Come on,” he told her, turning around. He grabbed her hand and began to pull her forward.

“What do you think is going to happen,” she said in something less than a whisper.

He took a deep breath and then shrugged. “Something big, I’d have to assume. Now come on, we’ve got to get out of here before whatever that big thing happens.” The pathway was dark and mysterious, but lit by torchlight and the occasional small window. Kanaan dragged along, preoccupied, but Ennlin had no time for such luxury. He needed to get Kanaan out of the city and to Hemingwood before they realized she was missing. If she was not there by the time they realize she escaped, they would be as good as done for.

He looked back at her, and noticed her head bowed. She was trembling slightly, and he could not understand why. He stopped in the middle of the hall and turned toward her, “What’s the matter? Are you hurt somewhere?”

“I… I…” She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “What was Count Oren talking about?” She grabbed at his tunic and stared right at him with pleading eyes. “You know what he’s going to do, don’t you! Tell me what you know!”

He took both of her hands and released them from his shirt, saying, “This is a time of war we’re dealing with. Count Oren is… trying to…” He took a deep breath, “Please don’t be upset. This is not the time or place-”

“Do not fucking tell me when I can get upset!” she screamed at him, hitting him with her fists and ultimately collapsing into him. Crying softly, he really wanted to let her, to help her out, but he knew the situation demanded immediate action. He bit his lip and pulled away from her, which surprised her somewhat.

“I have to get you home,” he told her, which did nothing but antagonize the situation.

“You! YOU ASSHOLE!” She began to sway back and forth, and eventually hit the wall, struggling to continue to stand. “All you fucking think about is your fucking duty! Do you get some sort of sick thrill from this twisted adventure? Count Oren is about sacrifice his entire c-c-city to the empire and you just think of r-running away!”

“You’re the one who’s not thinking clearly,” he told her hastily, pulling her up by the wrists. Her knees may have been weak, but he was strong enough to hold her up. She tried not to look at him, but he somewhat forced her to by the proximity of his face. “All you’ve done is think about yourself. You complain and moan about your life here, your life there, you refuse to go home because you don’t want to, and for the record, right now I’m doing this to survive.” He let her go, and just stared at her for a few moments. “Now how about we try being a big girl and standing up by yourself for two seconds, see how it feels, and maybe, just maybe, we can get out of here alive.”

She stared at him wide eyed for a minute, taking in all he had told her. She trembled at his touch, and when he released her he could feel her feet taking refuge on the hard ground for what felt like the first time. She averted her eyes, and then nodded at him, and took his outstretched hand once more. They continued down the walkway for a few more meters before arriving at a ladder. Ennlin allowed Kanaan onto his back and then began to climb upward, finding the night sky just as dark as the cellar pathway.

They emerged from an old well in an alleyway right off from the main square. Ennlin let Kanaan down and then drew the dagger from within his shirt, holding it warily out in front of him. He advanced toward the main square, and peering out from the side street, he saw the contingent still standing guard outside the castle. He could not see Captain Reginald among them, but assumed he was there. He decided going out into the center square would be a failure of a decision, so he took Kanaan through the back roads, the alleyways around the buildings that eventually led them to city limits. Of course, at the gate were stationed four imperial soldiers, armed with the same strange weapons as always.

Ennlin hid from their view, and turned to the oddly silent Kanaan. She was no longer crying, but looking incredibly meek and introspective. He snapped his fingers to get her attention, to which she had no problem turning toward him with a blank stare. “Stay here,” he told her, showing her the dagger.

In a split second, she snapped out of her trance and grabbed at his hand, wrapping it around the dagger as well. “What? No, that’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous?”

“You’re being ridiculous. Who’s going to protect me if you die out there?”

She had a point. He sighed and pressed his head back against the wall. “What can we do?”

She shrugged, and returned to a docile composition. Then, like a sign from heaven, when he peered out from around the building to look at them again, the last of them was running away toward the center square. He further looked out and noticed a large commotion starting in the square, and heard multiple loud bangs emitted. He looked back to Kanaan and grabbed her by the hand. “This is our chance,” he told her quietly, and began to run for the exit.

Running beneath the beautiful portcullis, they ran from the city along the roadside, but soon cut off into the forest, staying within sight of the road by visibly apart from it. Cutting through the foliage, Kanaan’s foot got snagged in a root and she went down hard. As she climbed back to her feet, rubbing her cheek, she saw Ennlin bending down like earlier.

“It’ll go faster if you just get on,” Ennlin told her. She bit her lip but did not hesitate to get onto his back, and sure enough they were flying through the forest in record time. About an hour into it, she heard her soft whimpers and tears begin to subside and hoped that she had fallen asleep despite the clunky running style he was employing. When he was getting closer, he slowed to a walk and did not mind walking a bit closer to the road. Within a few minutes of this, they arrived at the bridge to Hemingwood.

A fascinating sight, the city of Hemingwood was located on a small island off of the forestland of Samitasia, and was also surrounded by a pristine, white wall. The bridge to the island was flammable for the sole purpose of being able to burn it should the need arise. The waters were so far below the city though that no boats could harm the city by sea. It was perfectly situated on a tall bluff rising out of the water, so security was not where it lacked. What it did lack was any decent trade, seeing as it was out of the way for most traders on the main road, and ultimately the citizens of Hemingwood were not the richest of all.

“We’re here,” Ennlin whispered, but he assumed Kanaan was either asleep or trying to ignore him. Walking right by the guards and across the wooden bridge, he was not sure if they recognized Kanaan or not, as it had been quite some time since she’d been seen in Hemingwood.

Most of the citizens were in their homes at this time, so navigating the streets was not difficult in the least. He just followed the roads toward the large castle overlooking the ocean. As he approached the castle he sighed; was Kanaan right? Was it he just in it for the cheap thrill and excitement of it all? He supposed he would just take his knighthood from Count Julian and be on his way as soon as possible, to war most likely. Where he would, again most likely, die. What a life he had in store for him.

He had difficulty with the steps, and as he finally reached the top platform a guard approached him confusedly. “Excuse me sir, what plans do you have in the castle tonight?” He inspected the girl on his back, but did not pay her much mind.

“I seek an audience with the count,” he said.

“The count holds audience during the morning hours,” the guard responded.

Ennlin shifted his weight and adjusted the girl on his back a bit forward. “Take a good look at this girl.” The knight bent forward and took a closer look at Kanaan, and when his eyes went wide with recognition Ennlin finished with, “I seek an audience with the count.”

“Of course! I shall fetch him at once!” The knight disappeared inside, and Ennlin followed him.

Kanaan stirred, “W-where are we?”

“Home.”

NaNoWriMo! Week Two

2009-11-09T06:24:00.000-05:00

Hello all!

Although I seem to have hit a wall in my writing, I come to you with what I find spectacular news! My NaNoWriMo word count at the moment is 25,700 words. After passing that half-way mark so early in the "games," I hope that I can eventually get back on track and start writing uber-seriously again.

Anyway, here's an excerpt from Chapter One of War of the Worlds.

War of the Worlds
Chapter One – The Runaway

Kanaan awoke early in the morning. Stretching her arms out from under the covers of the bed, she looked curiously to her side to see the young man, Ennlin, still sleeping on his side, facing away from her. This was going to be almost too easy, she thought to herself. Taking his wallet out from where she had hidden it the night before, underneath her, she slowly got to her feet and walked away from the bed to the dresser. Looking at herself in the mirror, she took the brush from the surface of the dresser and began to brush out her hair.

She giggled to herself at the success of her latest mission. It was relatively simple to exact her will on another human being, usually when the human is of weak will, henceforth to be called one of the various males of the world. She quieted and checked behind her, but Ennlin was still asleep. The pig, she thought.

This boy was nice, but a bit thick skulled. Even when she had poured water all over herself to get his attention, he still barely recognized her. Or perhaps he was too prude, and therefore when he looked away it was not out of inconsequence, but out of shame or something like that. Seeing as how she was possibly the most beautiful of her sisters, she smirked and assumed that that must have been it.

Taking the small purse of coins out and holding them out in front of her, a few of them jingled slightly. She bit her lip, and then pulled the string on the purse, revealing the contents. It was only a few silver coins, one or two gold, and four or five bronzed. She rolled her eyes, and hoped that this would take her to the next town at least, where perhaps she could target a more wealthy man as her victim.

She slipped on her shoes and tiptoed over to the door, and as she reached out to take the doorknob, she felt something hot at her collar. “And you are going where,” came a husky voice from behind. She nearly shrieked, and dropped the coins to the ground.

She turned around and placed her back against the door. Ennlin was standing right against her and through narrowed eyes was looking at her holding his coin purse, his eyes transfixed on the money. “And with that money, my money,” he added, holding out his hand. She reluctantly began to return the money, but then she had a better idea. She brought her knee up harshly and administered a powerful force into his groin, bringing him down to his knees in an instant. She used this opportunity to flee.

Ennlin recovered fast enough, as he was, sadly, used to this kind of attack. The only problem was that the kick to the groin was not subject to diminishing returns; one never fully became accustomed to it. He heard the girl rushing down the stairs, and so as a response, ran to his dresser and opened the top drawer, revealing a sparkly weapon. He grabbed the dagger and flew into action, rushing down the hall and stairs at a speed unlike anything she could have expected.

By the time she had made it to the front door, he was upon her. She was halfway out the door when he pulled her back around the waist and pressed the side of the dagger against her throat. She winced and dropped the coin purse.

This situation would have easily scared anyone away, but not Kanaan. Ennlin used his foot to kick the coin purse into the hand that was drawing her around the waist.

“I’ve caught a thief,” Ennlin announced, “now what should I do with her?”

Kanaan tightened her lips together in pensive thought. What could she possibly do at the moment to redeem herself? She had made a mistake, perhaps, somewhere in the past that she was now paying for dearly. She needed to get out before the innkeeper woke to assess the situation. At that point, she would be truly and utterly doomed.

She turned her head toward him, and whispered in her best siren imitation, “I can give you… whatever you want.” She licked her lips and tried to turn toward him but he tightened his grip around her, pressing the flat end of the dagger deeper into her gullet.

“You’ve done enough already,” he told her.

Kanaan began to shake. Was this truly the end? No, not it could not be. She had to escape, she could not be tossed into prison like a homeless wretched thief; she was so much more than that! “Let go of me!” she cried out in pain, “you barbarous dog, you know not what you do!”

“I don’t?” he asked.

“I am Kanaan, fifth daughter of Count Julian of Hemingwood,” she proclaimed loudly, “unhand me at once you insolent peasant!” Her demeanor change must have been apparent to him, but he refused to let her go. Frustrated tears began to form at the edges of her eyes, “Let me go!”

“Count Hemingwood,” he began, “His mansion is hundreds of leagues north of here, you liar.”

“You brazen fool,” she muttered, and she began to kick furiously in the air. He dropped the dagger away from her, placing it into a loop on his belt, and then spun her to face him. Grabbing her by both shoulders, he kept her in place as she struggled to run. He looked her deep in the eyes, to which she turned her head away and resisted his grasp.

“I’m the fool?” he asked, the tinge of a smile on his lips. Her lip quivered in anger and she hit him furiously in the chest. “You’re the one who tried to run away from a knight.”

“Now who’s the fool,” she muttered, pausing in her beating, “you’re no knight! You’re barely eighteen!”

“Seventeen,” he corrected her, “and I’m on leave for my pilgrimage.” He looked upward, at the ceiling. “Though, if you truly are young Kanaan of Hemingwood, which you may very well be, well… that could be truly great news for me.” He looked back down upon her, scaring her. What could he have been thinking at the moment? He could not have been thinking about returning her to her father. “If I returned you to Hemingwood Hall, then I would most surely be knighted there as well as at Ardagian Hall when I return from my pilgrimage. I would be dually knighted, recognized beyond the realm.” The avarice in his eyes lit up, and Kanaan could see nothing but greed. “Surely they are looking for you.”

“They are, and they will not find me!” Kanaan declared as she lifted her foot to him for the second time, but this time he caught it with reflexes of lightning. “W-w…”

“Not intelligent, my dear,” Ennlin told her.

She sneered at him and turned away. “Where did my rescuing knight go overnight? I feel betrayed.”

“He left… along with the virgin damsel in the distress.”

“V-v-virgin!” She coughed out the words and grabbed him roughly by the chin. “I am chaste, I am pure, but no one calls me virgin. You will address me as Kanaan Louise Julian of Hemingwood.” In a second, he had grabbed her hand and pulled it away.

“Well, you can call me Ennlin,” he said with forced smile, and then let her go. “Stay here… or I will find you.” He turned on his foot and began to ascend the steps, not even bothering to look back to check on her. As soon as he was out of view, she turned around and ran out the door.

The rain had let up since the night before, but the ground was still wet and slippery. The cobblestone had pooled some of the rain in the unbalanced terrain of the town, so she made sure to avoid most of them as she began to run through the town. She heard a bell ringing in the distance, but she had no idea what to make of it. She had started to hear it as Ennlin was pressuring her in the inn, but she paid it no mind. After all, she was Kanaan of Hemingwood; she had nothing to fear.

She slowed to a stop as she looked up to see where she was running. On the horizon, coming into town, was a group of people, holding strange long objects in their hands. She squinted her eyes and took a step back, but miss stepped and began to fall backwards into the ground. She collided with the cobblestone, and leaned upward to see more of the approaching men.

They were wearing matching red uniforms, and the strange objects in their arms were held in both hands, were long, and curved at the end. She could not see them well from the distance she was at, but she could tell they could see her just as well as she could see them. They were either ignoring her or… could this be a contingent of some kind? A military assembly? She cursed to herself, and then felt someone’s arms reaching down underneath her and removing her from the ground. Now elevated from the ground in a traditional carry, she felt more secure, but when she saw her savior she nearly screamed.

“It’s you!” she screamed, and began to kick, struggling to escape. Ennlin responded by shushing her and running around a building, hiding in the alley between two edifices.

“Hush,” he told her, “Do you want them to hear you?”

“Who are they?” Kanaan asked quietly.

He peered out from around the building. “It’s the United Continental Army,” he said to her. Placing her down on her two feet, she felt her heart beginning to race faster. It’s true, she had heard of the Continental Empire, but had thought that they would never attack Samitasia. Was this some sort of surprise attack, or… what? There had to be some explanation for their presence on Samitasian land.

He shifted her around so that her back pressed against the wall of the building, and then got really close. “Deal with it,” he told her as he pressed his lips against hers. Her eyes shot open wide and any inkling of confusion she had about the Continental Empire was pushed out the door. She squealed into his mouth, but he would not let her go. Eventually a soldier appeared at the entrance of the alley.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, “It’s just a couple kids.”

The blush on Kanaan’s face really sold the situation, and Ennlin himself seemed embarrassed as well as he pulled away. “Listen, you kids should get out,” he told them, leaning in as if it were a secret. “I dunno if they’d want to keep you guys, but I won’t say anything if you don’t.” The soldier then turned and returned to the marching group. After they passed, Ennlin let out a tall breath. He turned to face Kanaan whose face was redder than anything and was fuming.

“What… the… fuck!” she cried out, slapping him across the face.

“I don’t know how popular you are,” he told her, “If they recognize you, you’re as good as a hostage.”

“Hostage?” she asked, “What’s that supposed to mean? Are we under attack?”

“Shush!” he told her, pressing a finger to her lips, which she promptly smacked away. “Don’t be so loud, they’re right out there.” He peered out around the corner. “Come now, my horse is in the stable.”

“I’m not fucking going anywhere with you,” Kanaan told him. She fingered something in her pocket. “And don’t you think for a second you can go ahead k-k-kissing anyone you want! I’m nobility, you… you… plebe!” Slightly panting, she looked at him angry eyes and waited for him to respond in some way.

He simply looked at her, his eyes devoid of any emotion but surprise, and said with a grin, “That was your first kiss.”

Her rage pent up inside her, she began to shake angrily and she again slapped him, twice this time, both with more force than the first. “Don’t t-t-talk to me like that!” Chomping at the bit to beat him further, he caught her third slap and used that hand to bring her close to him again. “I’ve told you, I’m Kanaan Julian of Hemingwood! If my father knew, he’d never knight you.”

“You probably don’t know, because you’ve been running from place to place,” he began to tell her, “but the Continental Empire has declared war on Samitasia. Because of the First Laws, and the Empire’s desire to study the gift, there’s been conflict for some time, but now it’s escalated. The king announced it a week ago; since how long have you been running from Hemingwood.”

Kanaan looked down, “a month and a half.”

“Your father is worried about you, I’m sure,” he told her, the hint of a smile on his face. “So worried that he’ll give me anything I ask for.” He chuckled, “So I’m bringing you home, whether you like it or not. You’ll be safer there, regardless. How long did you think you could run for?”

“Forever,” she told him, “I hate it there. I hate my mother. I hate my sisters.” She looked up at him, “And I hate you for even considering taking me back to such a wretched place!”

“Like I said before, you need to learn to deal with it.” He brought her out of the alley, holding her hand to guide her, and crossed the street to get back to the inn. He unhitched his horse from the stable, and brought it out in front of him. Her fury knew no bounds. Pulling out the object from her pocket, a wand, she pressed it against his back and shouted, “Bronti apektaina[1].” A pulse of electricity shot out from the wand in her hand and struck Ennlin in the back. He stood paralyzed for a few moments, and in that time Kanaan escaped from his grasp. She turned and began to run, running down the road away from him and the Continental Army.

She stumbled but continued to run. The fear within her was encapsulating. She would not return to Hemingwood, regardless of what anyone said. Shaking her head, she bumped into something. She fell backwards into a seated position, and when she had shaken off the immediate pain, she looked up and saw what she had run into. There was a very powerful looking man holding one of those weapons pointed toward her, so she could see now that on one end there was a small hole. She knew not what it was, if it was some sort of powerful wand or something like that.

“Hold it there, miss, where are you going?” he asked.

“I… I…” she looked at the ground. Where was she going after all?

“Get up,” he told her, “I’m taking you to the boss.”

“I-I, no!” she told him, scurrying backwards against the cobblestone. “I-I-I am Kanaan Louise Julian of Hemingwood! You can’t take me anywhere! Don’t touch me!”

“Nobility, eh?” the man said, “Very nice; the boss will like you. I’ll be rewarded for finding you.” He leaned in closer and grabbed her by the collar, pulling her up to her feet. “And no funny business… I have no gripes with just killing you.”

“P-Please, just no!” Kanaan grabbed at her wand, but let go of it and it fell to the ground. The man saw it, and grunted, kicking it away. “P-Please…”

“What a little bitch you are,” he told her, and began to carry her forward, still hoisted by the neck. She found it hard to breathe, but not impossible. Then, she heard the sound of a horse galloping toward them from behind. The man yelled out in terror and dropped Kanaan to the ground, grabbing his weapon and pulling it up. It made a really loud sound, one that scared Kanaan into ducking further into the ground, but a few seconds later, it was over. She lifted her head and saw the man’s head swiveling some way away, decapitated. Standing atop his body was a rather large horse and Ennlin atop it, now holding a longsword. “Come,” he told her. Without hesitating, she climbed up onto the horse and wrapped her hands around Ennlin’s waist.

Continuing down the path, they soon cut into the woodlands, and trailed off into the swamp. “So what about now?” he asked her. “Still want to run away?”

She remained silent, because she knew what the answer was. Besides, the point was irrelevant. She was going home now, and there was no stopping the fact. She may as well accept it, because as much as she loathed that place, she knew that it was the only safe place in the world she could go right now. If she had learned anything, it was to treasure her life over anything else. Over pride, over money, over anything. Even over love.

Even over love.

[1] Thunder Kill (Condemn to Death)

NaNoWriMo! Week One

2009-11-02T06:07:00.000-05:00

Well, Happy November to everyone out there; you know what the means, I should assume. Yes, that is correct, it is the second-most wonderful time of the year! NaNoWriMo! The chance for writers to show their guts and punch out a 50,000 word novel over the course of one month. 30 days, 50,000 words. I don't know why I think its so exciting, but for some reason I just absolutely love NaNoWriMo. Call me crazy; last year, my word count for my story was around 20,000 when it was over, and I've never successfully completed a real manuscript, so the stakes are high, but the reward will be so much higher when I finally achieve my goal.

In honor of NaNoWriMo, throughout November I will be updating with snippets from my novel. Just fun snippets, because in this story there have already been some really fun moments to write, and probably fun to read too. Of course, this piece deals with some... interesting themes. There's some hefty ribaldry, and I'd like to say that it's around a PG-13 rating for some thought processes that you'll see in the prologue.

Anyway, without further ado, I hope you have fun with my NaNoWriMo piece: The War of the Worlds (Working Title). (Note: Large spaces are POV changes).

The War of the Worlds

by Matthew MacNaughton

First Element - How to Start a War

Prologue

If it was not for the rain, perhaps Ennlin would not have taken pity on the girl, but it must have been a combination of his sympathy and her charm that captivated him enough to bring her to the inn with him. Her beautiful blue eyes had called out to him, and in a moment of weakness, perhaps it was weakness, he had taken pity on her and brought her home with him. And yet at the same time, perhaps fate was throwing him a new hand. A nubile young woman clinging to him in her hour of need was more than fit to… repay him, if the time came.

He guided her weak feet up the steps of the inn, until they arrived at his particular dormitory. He opened the door and led her inside, and then proceeded to help her out of her wet clothes and into a bath. She was slightly dirty, as if she had spent several days walking. He had no reason to ask why she would be traveling alone, but he just hung her dress up by the fire to dry, and sat down on his bed.

The adjacent bathing room’s door was ajar, simply in anticipation of if she needed assistance with anything.

Within the door to the bath, she was happily scrubbing herself down, eliminating the presence of filth from her body. She hummed to herself as she bathed, running the washcloth over her body weakly and softly, and yet evenly and with enough force to remove the grime. She imagined the boy outside, waiting on her in hopes of sometime laying with her, to which she laughed, at first loudly, but then quieted herself. She leaned out over the rail of the bath, some water spilling out in the process, and peered out at the boy, who was sitting on the bed staring out blankly into space.

She resisted laughing again, and sank back into the water.

She opened her mouth to tell him she was finished, but remembered where she was. She grunted in dissatisfaction at this fact, and then sighed as she stood, letting the water drip into the bath for a few moments before stepping out onto the ground as delicately as she could. Finding a towel, she began to dry off.

“All done, are you?” Ennlin asked, standing up from the bed.

The door to the bathroom opened, and she stood in the doorway, holding the towel in one hand to cover her naked body. “Umm… may I…. have my clothes, please?” Her voice was soft and delicate as her body, and as Ennlin spent a few brief moments looking at her he made an important realization.

She was probably a bit younger than him, at least by a couple years, and all things considered he was seventeen. Not only that, but her figure was less “full” than what he would have liked to believe when she was walking with him. When he did not respond right away, he saw confusion spring about on her face.

“P-please?” she asked, covering more of her body with the towel. He felt like an arrow had been shot through his stomach; nothing amounted to the sheer amount of disappointment he faced at the moment. He turned around reluctantly and gathered her clothes. When he handed them to her, he kept his distance.

This act of distance upset her a tad. Was her charm wearing off? Now as she got older, she should be able to attract more men, not less. It was true, this man was barely a man at all; he did not even have a beard like her father’s. She went back into the bathroom, forgetting to cover her back as she turned and left.

The clothes felt fresh and warm, and something about them was rejuvenating. She pulled on her dress as quickly as she could to preserve the niceness of how it felt against her skin. She tried to think of a reason why she was not as attractive to this young man as she was to older men, but decided against it. In the past few weeks since her fortunate escape, she had managed to seduce plenty of older men without ever laying with them, a wonderfully brilliant task if she did say so herself. When she was done dressing, she stepped out into bedroom and saw him sitting down by the hearth.

At this point, she knew she would have to wait. If she was to play the meek, unfortunate young woman, she would have to play it to its fullest. She coughed a few times, as if to garner his attention.

The girl coughed, and Ennlin felt compelled to turn around. He saw her standing there, in the nice attire that she had been wearing, and noticed again how unshapely her figure was. He closed his eyes and cursed the gods, but then smiled at her. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

She first glanced to the side timidly, but then nodded her head.

He nodded and stood up, “then let’s go downstairs.” He held the door open for her as they exited into the hallway and then descended the stairs to the first floor. His clothes were still somewhat moist, but the fire had dried them out sufficiently for the task at hand. They went to the adjacent room where there was a bar setting, and sat down at a table. The lights in the room were unusually bright, and the tables splintering. It was your typical bar. And that meant…

In a few seconds, a young barmaid appeared at the table.

The girl felt her lip curling upward in disgust at the sight of her “knight in shining armor” drooling over the barmaid as he ordered them food. She quickly composed herself however, and knew she would have to do something drastic in order to keep his attention enough to let her sleep in his room that night. For all she knew, he planned to dump her outside that night after they had eaten. The nerve of some pigs! Who would leave a poor defenseless young lady to her vices on a cold winter night such as this?

Taking a glass of water from the table, she began to drink, but “accidentally” poured it down the front of her dress. Being made of very thin material, it began to cling to her skin like the rain had caused it to. She hoped this was enough of a gesture to satisfy any man’s inclinations of the sexual nature. Not only was she cute and clumsy, but…

She looked down at herself and cursed her petite form.

Ennlin looked over and saw the young girl accidentally spill water all down the front of her dress. She immediately let out a squeak and went to grabbing her napkin and dabbing down her outfit, but it was to no avail. Ennlin felt himself swallowing at the sight, and quickly averted his eyes after handing her his own napkin.

He still would not have anything to do with her? What an unusual man. She reached into her pocket to grab her… wait, no, now was not the time for that. It would set her apart from the crowd much more easily if she revealed that. Instead, she smiled and muttered something about her clumsiness and giggled pleasantly.

After they had eaten, Ennlin checked his wallet and saw that his coinage was sufficiently lower than he had accounted for previously. He gritted his teeth as he paid and then helped the girl from her seat in the most gentleman-like manner he could muster. Did she have somewhere else to go? He assumed not, seeing as he had picked her up right off the street, so perhaps he should let her sleep with him that night.

Well no, no no no, not sleep with him, but sleep next to him. In order to ensure the fact that she was in fact a vagabond, homeless, he asked her on the way up.

“I have not a home in this town,” she told him flatly.

I suppose he had to, then.

She clapped victoriously on the inside; now he would have to let her sleep with him. And she would not even have to sleep with him. How fortunate.

As they entered his room for the second time, she entered the bathroom for a moment. He sat down by the fire again, eyeing it with a pleasant air. He kept glancing behind him, waiting for the girl to emerge from the bathroom. It was almost shameful to him, having a room with a beautiful girl and yet not being able to do anything to her. Not only was her youth a problem for him, but her purity as well. He had a problem with “defiling” young women. Regardless, it was her youth which chiefly garnered his attention.

But why should it? She was only a year or two younger than him. But he preferred older, more developed women he thought and sighed into the fire, watching it flicker away from him momentarily due to his breath. So was it a matter of preference, then? Who was he to be choosey? He rolled his eyes. He still would not sleep with this girl.

The girl emerged from the bathroom a few moments later, an aura of wonder about her. She smelt very nice now, almost intoxicating, and he wondered how much soap she had used to smell this way, or if she had always smelt like this but he had not noticed it. He bit his bottom lip as she sat down beside him next to the fire and leaned against his arm. He took a deep breath.

She knew he could not bear to look at her, so she smirked. For some reason, this young man was either just as pure as she was and just not confident about his masculinity, or just not interested in her. But who would resist her? No one, she determined in her head in a moment, and cuddling up against him, let out a sigh of victory.

The fire was warm, and she stretched out her feet in front of her, allowing it to heat her cold feet. He continued resting cross legged. She decided to play coy, now that she had a place to stay. Messing with a man’s head was almost as fun as… well, she was not really sure. “What’s your name,” she asked.

He did not answer right away. “Ennlin,” he finally said. “What about you?”

“Kana-” she began, and then paused. Should she really use her real name? What if her recognized her? But it was too late to play it safe; she was already half way there. “-an.” She repeated it, for emphasis, “Kanaan.” She stroked his arm, but at this moment he stood up.

“I should get some rest,” he declared. “You’re free to stay or leave as you please.”

That was close, he thought dazedly. He only hoped she was not quite as affectionate when they were lying together in bed. He crawled beneath the sheets and sighed, watching out of one eye as she too got in beside him on the other side. Please stay on your side, he thought, and for god’s sake, stop smelling so nice.

She lay on her back for a few moments, him lying on his side, facing away from her. She sighed softly, and pulled the sheets up further, reaching her chin. She then turned to face him, and huddled up against him for warmth. Maybe this would illicit some sort of funny response in him.

He felt her shivering, but decided to ignore her. If he turned toward her…

She pouted and turned back away. Soon after, she decided that she might want to get some sleep. The next day, after all, she would have some more traveling to do. But from before, when she leaned up against him, she had removed his wallet from his side. She slipped it underneath her, and promptly fell asleep.

1st Revision Month - Kibo no Chi (2nd Draft Sort Of)

2009-10-27T17:51:00.000-04:00

Sorry about that. This revision month pretty much sucked, because of school and other impediments such as my inability to revise things and instead desire to move onto other projects, but umm... well, there really isn't a but. I revised the beginning section a bit, so I guess I'll post that. Everything else is practically the same, so I won't be reposting that out of recognition of that fact. In the future, revision months should be more awesome.

Anyway... here it is. Next week will yield some sort of better update.

Kibo no Chi/The Promised Land/The Good Doctor
By Matthew MacNaughton

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” – Robert Frost

Homage to Canaan

-*-*-*-

When an artist makes a work of art, the question is: who is going to appreciate it? The artist certainly cannot, because he is the one who created it. It is others who must appreciate it. It is others who must love it, or hate it, or leave it. It is like a smile on a face. It’s a wonderful thing… but if you do not have someone to share it with, you are missing its vast importance.

-*-*-*-

“Did you know there are over two-hundred bones in the human body?” The pale hum of the train’s engine was nearly nonexistent. The windows painted a beautiful picture of mountainside to the train car’s left and rolling plains along the right. The lights in the cabin were dimmed in recognition of the nighttime air outside, and although the lunar light was exceptionally bright tonight it barely affected what remained inside the cabin. The doctor, wearing his gray suit, pursed his lips as he sat in his booth, and then smiled at the assassin.

“All the better to break each and every one of them, is it not?” the doctor responded. The assassin too was smiling, but her eyes were sharper, and her mouth crooked. The doctor’s smile was purer, more familiar, and innate.

The gun in the assassin’s hands was a tool, no doubt, and a deadly one at that. She held it at her side, in her right hand, pointed forward toward the doctor. She took a few steps toward the doctor, never removing her eyes from his. “No,” the assassin replied, “that would be far, far too grueling. I prefer a quick bang, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Would I agree that that that’s what you prefer? What could I disagree with?” The assassin’s smile slowly faded from her face.

“Listen traitor, I don’t have the patience or the will to sit around all day and listen to you mocking me, so let’s make this quick.” She raised the gun up in her outstretched hand, training it directly onto the doctor’s head.

The doctor, almost mechanically, turned his head toward the window. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” the assassin shouted, but the doctor just watched the stars beyond the glass.

“Don’t you-…” the man’s mouth hung open for a moment, as he admired the sky. The assassin released all her anger and emotion in one breath, waiting for the man to continue. “Don’t you think that it’s kind of funny… that on this train, I thought I could last another day, before...” He licked his cracked lips. “…you found me?”

“I don’t get it,” the assassin muttered, sticking the gun into the man’s temple. “Why are you so cool about your fate?”

“My… fate?” The doctor closed his eyes. “I suppose you really don’t think about yourself.” He chuckled. “Do you not concern yourself with -your- fate?” He turned his head back toward her, and she removed her gun accordingly. “Yes, you would be, wouldn’t you? You don’t want to think about your own fate. That’s what killers do. They kill others. They deal with others fates. That’s what doctor’s do too. We both deal with other’s fates. But we neglect our own.” He looked down at the ground. “You know… you could walk off this train right now if you wanted.”

“Shut up!” The assassin grit her teeth as her finger trembled behind the colossal draw of the trigger. “What did I tell you before? I don’t care what you have to say. But you; you should…” At that moment, the assassin’s eyes lit up with the hypocrisy of her own actions, and she cathartically grunted, and in doing so accidentally pulled the trigger of her gun at the same time.

The newly released bullet found its way into the chest of the doctor, who immediately clutched at it with the raw pain and emotion of a dying man. Gasping for air, he looked at her for approximately six seconds before his head smashed forward into the table, unable to sustain anything any longer. Her breathing became heavy, her eyes wide, and she stepped away lacking any of her predetermined haughtiness.

“You!” At that moment, the swordsman returned, looking at the assassin from across the cabin doors. The man looked at the doctor, face down on the booth’s table, twitching in a pool of his own blood, and then back at the assassin, whose face betrayed the confidence she once had.

“What have you done?!”

-*-*-*-
That is why we are here, that is why our existence is so incredibly important. We are to appreciate life. We are to gander at its many facets and think, ‘how beautiful,’ ‘how poignant,’ ‘how sad.’ And then when all is said and done, we are expected to leave.”

1st Revision Month - Kibo no Chi

2009-10-05T16:45:00.000-04:00

I lacked update-dom last week due to my own negligence, so I hope that won't happen again soon. Anyway, all throughout the month of October, I'm going to do something... somewhat interesting, I hope.

I'm calling it a Revision Month. I'm going to post a short story. Then for next week, I'm going to revise said short story and make it (assumedly) better. Then the next week, I will do the same thing, until October's over, and essentially I should have a much better piece by the end of it than I did initially. So at the moment, I have what I like to call my "rough rough draft", sort of like my alpha draft which I typically show no one, but now is going to be released to public for superior scrutiny. Please keep in mind that the dialogue is going to be less than masterful in the initial draft. Expect significant changes and all around better prose from me... next week.

Should be fun. Try your hardest to enjoy this piece, the working title being, Kibo no Chi (translation: Land of Hope).

Kibo no Chi/The Promised Land/The Good Doctor
By Matthew MacNaughton

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” – Robert Frost

Homage to Canaan

-*-*-*-

“When an artist makes a work of art, the question is: who is going to appreciate it? The artist certainly cannot, because he is the one who created it. It is others who must appreciate it. It is others who must love it, or hate it, or leave it. It is like a smile on a face. It’s a wonderful thing… but if you do not have someone to share it with, you are missing its vast importance.”

-*-*-*-

“Did you know there are over two-hundred bones in the human body?” The train hummed almost silently in the nighttime, and the lights in the cabin had dimmed in recognition of the outside darkness. Rolling along the mountainside, to the doctor’s left he could see the bony edge of the mountain, while to the right were rolling plains, clear to see.

“All the better to break each and every one of them, is it not?” the doctor responded, smiling. The assassin too was smiling, but her eyes were sharper, and her mouth crooked. The doctor’s smile was much more familiar and innate.

The gun the assassin held her in her right hand was every bit as perfunctory as her actions. She took a few steps toward the doctor, the gun aimed toward him at her side. The cabin was empty save for them, but the doctor just sat in his booth, perhaps a bit uncomfortable. “No,” the assassin replied, “that would be far, far too grueling. I prefer a quick bang, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Would I agree that that that’s what you prefer? What could I disagree with?” The assassin’s smile slowly faded from her face, giving the impression of devout annoyance.

“Listen traitor, I don’t have the patience or the will to sit around all day and listen to you mocking me, so let’s make this quick.” She raised the gun up in her outstretched hand, training it on the doctor’s head.

The doctor, almost mechanically, turned his head toward the window. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” the assassin shouted, but the doctor just watched the stars beyond the glass.

“Don’t you-…” the man’s mouth hung open for a moment, as he admired the sky. The assassin sneered, her lip quivering with rage. “Don’t you think that it’s kind of funny… that on this train, I thought I could last another day, before...” He licked his cracked lips. “…you found me?”

“I don’t get it,” the assassin muttered, sticking the gun into the man’s temple. “Why are you so cool about your fate?”

“My… fate?” The doctor closed his eyes. “Why are you so considerate of me? Do you not concern yourself with -your- fate?” He turned his head back toward her, and she removed her gun accordingly. “Yes, you would be, wouldn’t you? You don’t want to think about your own fate. That’s what killers do. They kill others. They deal with others fates. But they neglect their own.” He looked down at the ground. “You could walk off this train right now if you wanted.”

“Shut up!” The assassin grit her teeth as her finger trembled behind the colossal draw of the trigger. “What did I tell you before? I don’t care what you have to say. But you; you should…” At that moment, the assassin’s eyes lit up with the hypocrisy of her own actions, and she cathartically grunted, accidentally pulled the trigger of her gun at the same time.

It found its way into the chest of the doctor, who immediately clutched at it with the raw pain and emotion of a dying man. Her breathing became heavy, her eyes wide, and she stepped away lacking any of her predetermined haughtiness.

“You!” At that moment, the swordsman returned, looking at the assassin from across the cabin doors. The man looked at the doctor, face down on the booth’s table, twitching in a pool of his own blood, and then back at the assassin, whose face betrayed the confidence she once had. “What have you done?!”

-*-*-*-

“That is why we are here, that is why our existence is so incredibly important. We are to appreciate life. We are to gander at its many facets and think, ‘how beautiful,’ ‘how poignant,’ ‘how sad.’ And then when all is said and done, we are expected to leave.”

-*-*-*-

His wrinkled scalp gave rise to the grayed hair atop his head, which was also showing signs of whitening. His dark gray suit fit loosely around his chest and arms, and his bifocals sat on the tip of his nose. The doctor sat alone at dusk, reading a book in a booth in the dining car of a train bound for New Canaan.

When the stewardess came down the aisle he raised his hand and asked for a glass of pop. She set to work at getting him his drink, and he turned his attention outward, toward the window of rolling plains dotted with springtime trees and rocks.

He thanked her, and as he did so he caught the attention of someone approaching from the other side of the room. His gaunt, stiff stature made him stand out immediately alongside the bent-over stewardess pushing the cart. Like a statue, or better yet a work of art, he stood resolute for a few moments, hands on his hips, as he inspected the cart. Eventually, he began to move, his motion slightly more erratic than what would have been expected of such a rigid man. He wore a sword at his side, clipped into his belt.

The swordsman approached the doctor and asked if he could sit down. The doctor agreed after a few reluctant moments of looking closely at the swordsman’s eyes. The swordsman wore a brown jacket, and a black shirt beneath that, and although his eyes carried with them the soul of an aged romantic, his youth still overflowed his contour. These eyes made the doctor shift uncomfortably in his seat as the young man took his seat across from him in the booth.

The doctor watched through narrowed eyes as the man unclipped the sword from his belt and rested it against the wall of the train. “Why are you wearing that sword?” he asked, as if provoked.

The swordsman looked at his sword affectionately as he answered. “It resides beside me at all times,” the swordsman replied, “It is my other half. We two can accomplish what one cannot.”

“So I see.” The doctor then reached out his hand and introduced himself. The swordsman took his hand and did the same. They then shared a brief moment of silence, broken by the doctor. “I take it not just anyone can wield your sword.”

“I suppose this is true,” the swordsman said, “No; no one but me.”

As the night grew on, the two chatted amiably with one another. “You know,” the doctor said, “I was feeling a bit lonely before you came along.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” The doctor looked at the crumbs of cake on an empty plate in front of him, ordered during their conversation. “There are few times in life when one gets to speak so freely. One of them is with a stranger. Another is with your life partner. Both… unique experiences.”

“So why are you headed to New Canaan,” the swordsman asked, resting his chin on his right palm.

The doctor licked his lips and looked out the window. “Oh, I have… family there.”

“Children?”

“Grandchildren.”

The swordsman smiled. “You can’t be that old.”

The doctor looked down at his empty plate, and then saw something out of the corner of his eye. Coming into the dining car was another figure, a woman in a dark gray trench coat. There was a glaze over her eyes that the doctor recognized. “Say…” He smiled and motioned to his plate. “Do you think you could grab me another piece of cake?”

The swordsman nodded, and took the plate from him. He rose and went the opposite way of the woman in gray. They locked eyes for a split second before the swordsman opened the door and disappeared behind a sheet of metal. The assassin glared punctually at the old doctor. “Did you know there are over two-hundred bones in the human body?”

-*-*-*-

“A wise man once said… a seed is the shape of attachment to life. And it’s true. For as we grow, our roots dig down deep. This is inevitable. It is to prevent us from missing out on the glory of time, and the wonder of the world.”

-*-*-*-

The assassin turned on her heel and ran out the back of the car, from where she came. The swordsman drew his sword in one fluid motion and went after her. The assassin looked over her shoulder from time to time to see the swordsman still charging her, opening the same door she had just closed, and repeatedly coming after her. After passing through a few cars of civilians and a conductor, the assassin found her way to the end car. Slipping out the window of the back, she crawled her way to the roof of the train.

She balanced on all fours and began to scamper forward, and jumped one cart before turning around to see what had become of the swordsman. He indeed was now on the top of the train as well, approaching her slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did he hire you?”

“Why did you shoot him?”

The assassin brought up her gun and shot several times in the man’s general direction, but the overall effect was negated by the bounciness of the train, throwing her aim off. The four bullets she tossed toward him flew by in directions around him.

The swordsman hopped a car, bringing him closer to her than she would have liked. “Tell me, why did you shoot him?”

“I would have thought that if you enjoyed his company so much, you would have given him a meaningful last few moments instead of chasing me.”

He pointed his sword outward, toward her. “What did he do to deserve this?! Damn it; answer me!”

“He was a war criminal!” the woman cried out it anguish. “He served the other side in the great war. Then he ran away. I was just hired to do the dirty work.” The assassin threw the gun away, tossing it raggedly away. “There, I’m unarmed. Damned by you if you kill me now, mister noble knight.”

“Everyone dies tonight,” the swordsman proclaimed. As he began to advance upon the woman, the train hit a large bump, sending them both scrambling. Though the swordsman was able to regain his balance with some time, the assassin fumbled off the side of the train, toppling over the side. Her outreached hand met his and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. His other hand was still gripping his sword, and bracing itself on the edge of the train.

How ridiculous it must have appeared.

“Let me go,” the assassin roared, but the man shook his head, and tried to pull her up to no avail.

“The doctor told me that everyone dies tonight,” the swordsman told her, “but I don’t want to believe him.”

“Believe it,” the woman shouted before wrapping her body upward in one last push of strength, and brought her fist down on top of his fisted, sword holding hand. The sword was immediately released, and the woman caught it in her hand. The swordsman’s first reaction was to drop the woman to her fate, but in his resilience he held on. He shook his head, and tried to pull her back up.

“You can be saved yet,” he told her.

“I don’t need your pity,” she told him. And with that, she brought the sword back, and swung with all of her power.

Snap! The limb came off. Her arm never left his hand. Her fall was at the same time miraculous and beautiful, and as she rolled in the plains, and as the train began to wind away at top speed, the swordsman could not help but let out a sigh of helplessness as he tossed the limb away.

-*-*-*-

“And we’re supposed to be happy that we ever experienced such glory, and the land of hope.”

Dead Moon Rising - Act One - Scene Two

2009-09-21T16:54:00.000-04:00

->Back to the beginning

Act One - The Plains of Praxis
Scene Two

The frozen lands east of Kelera are lands that no one should ever visit, for they are beset with strife and destruction the likes of which no one should experience. Everywhere one looks, they see death in its eternal glory; ice and water float in rifts among rivers and ponds, and all the while I was forced to care for this young child, the likes of which I had no interest in doing except for the two reasons. My driving force, I kept the child alive for: A) his father, and B) for the hope of becoming Knight Praetor of the Rose Circle. Days and nights would circle around us; I would create camp upon a shoal and watch the prince sleep, always keeping one eye open, even in my own sleep. It was congruous, fateful, and boring. My evenings were dull and left open for interpretation.

Every night at dusk, I would cast my weary eyes westward, toward Kelera, and watched the fires burn above the land. It always surprised me how the fires would grow stronger with days, and not weaker. One would imagine the world would kindle less powerfully should it lose precious materials. Then again, I knew little of the world.

The prince was a quiet fellow, and every chance I took to try to speak to him was met in single sentence answers. It did not appear to me that he was scared of my person, or that he was a poorly educated child. He did not appear rude or vague, he was simply quiet. Eventually, I stopped talking, and stopped forcing him to answer. Instead, he walked behind me steadily, struggling to keep up with my protracted, ridiculous legs. He would occasionally ask to stop, to which I would have no choice but to obey. We walked by the river a lot; his canteen was routinely empty.

The Prince and I were strictly business in our relationship. I was his bodyguard, assigned to protect him from the horrors that lurked out in the real world (the likes of which I had yet to discover) while he was my key into the world of valor and knighthood that was beyond my grasp but oh so present in my dreams.

I believe it was the eighth day in the wilderness when I recalled a time of uncertainty in my life. I remembered a moment I shared with Master Kelthos upon my initiation into the realm of the aspirant knight. He called me aside at the weekly commemoration ceremony, and with weary, drunken eyes, he told me with a fierce intensity, “I never liked you, beast. But I suppose I respect you.” I struggled to define the word respect, for it was so multifaceted, and I have never seen something so incongruous before. Due to my conditioning, I am perhaps more human than my native race, but again, I am still inhuman, and as such I’ve determined one thing about my race; we are incapable of irrational thought. The word respect was one word which had a definition unsuitable for me.

One such definition suited me slightly, for it was the “esteem for or sense of worth or excellence of a person, a personal quality or ability, or something considered as a manifestation of a personal quality of ability.” I never knew whether or not he meant this respect or this respect, “the deference to a right, privilege, privileged position, or something considered to have certain rights or privileges; proper acceptance or courtesy; acknowledgement.”

To like me is one thing; occasionally I don’t even ‘like’ myself for the things I do are sometimes questionable by the eyes of Kelera. Yet I am commanded to them as the arms of Kelera. But to have respect for me is ambiguous. Does one have respect for me out of courtesy? In this case, I would not require your respect simply to be, quote unquote, nice. Yet, for some reason, I feel that despite it making the most sense in the situation, Master Kelthos still doesn’t appreciate a sense of worth or personal quality inherent in my person. It is simply ridiculous to think so, as he does not like me, as he said earlier.

This question of what respect was plagued me for the longest time, of course, until I met Mr. Koob. But he arrives later in my story.

It was on the fourteenth day in the wilderness that we arrived at a small village out in the center of the Plains of Praxis. The name of the village is Kylanthr, and we decided to rest there for the evening. This was not a decision I made likely, as it certainly put the prince’s life in danger. For in the end, who knew who may have been following us on the plains, waiting for an opportunity to kidnap him, or worse, end the prince’s life? Regardless, we entered the town at noon, and soon acclimated ourselves to the small-city life.

The town square was only feet away from the south entrance. And the north entrance was only feet away as well. In fact, the entire city was only one vial-shaped town squared, the tip of the vial pointed westward, ending at a keep, or town hall, whichever one preferred to call it. The cobblestone was rough to my bare feet, but it was only because I was used to the flat stones of the castle, or the malleable dirt of beneath the rows of grass in the fields of Praxis. We set out into the middle of the square, assuming if no one had recognized the prince so far, no one would.

The town square acted as a marketplace, as one would expect. As we entered through the south entrance, many other traders met us on the way in, carrying with them wagons and carts drawn by donkeys, or drawn by themselves. It was hard to maneuver through the crowds once we were in, but I made sure to keep a close watch on the prince as we walked, placing him in front of me now, and keeping a hand on his shoulder at all times. This may have been disconcerting for him, because of my stature as a fearsome creature, but regardless, I continued on this way because there was no possible way that I would remotely take a chance to lose the prince to a crowd. That would be foolish.

Spotting an opening in the crowd, I was miraculously able to see an Inn on the other side of town. I guided the prince toward it, never losing my grip on his shoulder. When we had left the crowd and made it to the Inn, the equipment pack on my back sagged, and I realized just how heavy it was. I would enjoy a bit of a rest after what I had to endure over the past two weeks. I opened the door to the Inn, pushed the prince in, and then closed it behind me.

I was relieved to see no one else in the foyer of the Inn. If anyone had seen the prince of Kelera before, it would not have taken a long moment to recognize him again, especially in an enclosed space. “Excuse me-” The man behind the desk looked up and saw my face, my decrepit, muggy face, and gasped. Taking a few deep breaths, he closed his eyes, then looked up at me again, his eyes revealing a sense of fear that I felt was absent in the prince. “Right… hello… welcome… to the B-B-Burning Inn, home of the f-fire that was sparked s-s-seventy years ago on the n-ni…night of the rebellion of Praxis.”

I knew little of the rebellion of Praxis, aside from the basics of the participants, so I stayed my tongue, waiting for the offering of a room.

“Very well,” he muttered, “How long are you p-planning on staying?”

“I must ask first,” I told him, “How long is it from here to Camp Marshall, in the north.”

The man was calming down, and the memories of news a knight from Kelera being inhuman may have been surfacing in his mind. “Right,” he said once more, “Camp Marshall? That’s about two days north of here.”

“Then one day will be sufficient.”

The man then asked for the money, “Seventeen quid.”

I nodded, and gave the man the money. I always found it awkward dealing with the small coins of Keleran and Praxian currency. When I handed it over, I accidently scraped one of my talons against his flesh, causing a small, white, bloodless tear to form. He inspected it immediately, smiled, put the cash in the safe deposit box, gave me the room key, and then ran off to wash his hands with warm water. It was at this point that I wondered what the people outside thought of me, being a giant creature beyond their imaginations.

We ascended the steps to the second floor, where our room was. Upon entering, I was struck with a peculiar feeling of subtle… availability. A humungous window overlooked the entire town square. I stared out into it for a moment before someone spotted me, and prepared to tell another to look up at my grotesque figure, but I shut the curtain too quickly. I lay down my equipment backpack on the ground near the door, placed by halberd right above it, and then looked at the prince, who was humbly sitting down on one of the beds. His head hung down like a lamp on a wooden post, swinging slightly from left to right, but never changing its position.

“Prince Maeil, we will soon arrive at the fortifications of Camp Marshall,” I told him, to which he looked up at me. “You will be safe soon. But today, I must rest, should I be prepared to take you the last few miles of our journey. I believe you should be relatively safe here.”

He nodded, and then hung his head once more. The child must have had a few issues to which I attributed his strange, humble behavior. I told him once more, “Do not be preoccupied,” and then issued myself a pass to leave for a few moments, if not an hour, to sleep. I slept well, but of course, when I awoke it had not been an hour I had slept, it had been seven. It was nearing dark now, and Maeil was asleep on the bed beside mine. I had grossly underestimated my ability to wake myself in a timely manner, and as such, I decided that the dark provided the perfect cover for my walking around town and ensuring the Prince’s safety.

Muttering a word of prayer to the goddess whom I was not even sure watched over me, I walked outside after leaving a note for Maeil on the table (it is incredibly hard to write, as I’m sure you can imagine, so this process took several minutes to write “I will return at dawn, stay here.”). It was quiet at dark, much unlike the market at noon. I inspected the sleeping town, and saw the guards looking at me with wild-eye convictions. One of them approached me.

“Excuse me,” he said, “Please leave, if you do have authorization to be in Kylanthr. We can’t... what are you?”

I brought out my aspirant’s badge and told the man with conviction, “I have authorization to be anywhere.” Praxis was a nation that was tied to Keleran rule… so regardless of the impurity of what I had just said, it made my point. I was authorized to be anywhere within Kelera, Praxis, and many nations part of the Catamarian Alliance. The guard promptly asked me my name, and I told him flatly.

He had recognized me then. He backed away slowly, and I watched him do so, finding it slightly humorous. He retreated back to his contingent and reported my actions, to which I thought I saw a few of them laugh. For it was not at him they laughed, they laughed at my claim. How could I be a knight aspirant? How could a monster earn a human rank? Who knew… who possibly knew?

I looked to the sky for answers. Turning my head to the stars, I wondered, in entirety, what the future held for me. Would I eventually be brought to the Rose Circle as a true member, a colleague of Master Kelthos? Would I even live through this one event, this protecting of the prince? Would Kelera even still be around when this was all over… and what would I do with the prince if that happened? Me, I suppose I would simply have to wait.

Then, from the sky came a majestic force which I had not anticipated in the lightest. A bright star twinkled in my eye, and then flashed brightly for just a moment. Then, from that one star came many, and those many stars were coming right for me. Rather, one of them was. I waited and watched, as the many stars, now recognizable as meteorites, came crashing down to earth. I could see the tail of one heading to the east, and one right north. One, the largest one, headed to the northwest, and one, one was heading directly downward. One was heading directly for me.

At the last possible second, I walked a few feet away from the impact site. I looked at the meteorite now, and watched as it collided with the cobblestone and created a humungous crater. In the center of town now stood a meteorite, two or so meters in diameter, dug into the cobblestone, and leaving a crater the size of a few carts stacked up next to each other. It was quite lovely, actually, the spectacle. Several guards ran up, considering the possibility of a siege attack, equipment or other that may have been hurled through the sky toward Kylanthr. Perhaps a stray from the Fiends War in Kelera.

I quieted their concerns by telling them straightly that I had seen it fall from the sky. They asked several absurd questions: “Which part of the sky did it fall from?” “How long had it been falling?” “Did you make it fall, demon?!” Of course, I told them all I knew, but was slightly aggravated when they simply rephrased questions in the hopes of receiving a different answer. Soon after, I found it too frustrating for my own good, so I asked them to report the news to their town captain while I explored the surrounding town area to see if it was in fact some sort of trebuchet that had fired the meteorite.

It was simply to humor them, of course, but I thought a walk might do me good. I walked around the town for a while, watching tufts of snow fall from the sky in heaps. It was true, during the night it had begun to snow again, as it usually did. I watched them with vague interest, waiting a few moments before I was to return to Maeil… of course, if I hadn’t seen something in my vast peripheral vision. In the sky, another meteorite was heading down to Earth, this time the impact was just over a hill to the northwest. It crashed before I realized what was happening, and soon after I found my natural curiosity too overwhelming. I heard the guards shouting something, and then I ran for the hill.

Looking out over the hill, I saw a large lake, resonating with the impact of a much larger meteorite than what had crashed into Kylanthr. Flexing my talons for some reason, I felt a connection with this meteorite, and walked down to the shoal of the lake. Watching the water ripple after the collision, I felt something odd, something stir within me that I felt had never been touched before. My body lunged forward, but I stayed back, waiting to see what would happen after my curiosity had brought me here. And like so much else, it did not fail to disappoint.

Out of the waters, emerging like an ascending soul came a humungous blue and white cube. It glowed resiliently even as the water dripped from it, and brightly reflected moonlight onto my person. Like a solitary spotlight, it shone on me and waited. I waited. Something was to be done. The cube continued its emergence until It was completely above the water, and something had to be done to nail it to the ground. Giant spikes became evident in the waters below, and chains coming from the spikes connected themselves to the cube at every angle. By the end, there were four chains attached to the blue, hovering cube. The spotlight slowly faded, and I was left in the darkness once more.

The guards came out from above the hill, and having missed the awe-inspiring spectacle, were left with the thought of a miracle; where could it have come from? They turned to me, and began pestering me with questions. This time, I chose to ignore them, and continued inspecting the floating cube.

In the distance, across the lake, I spotted a figure. He was robed, garbed in black with his hood on, and arms rose into a V. When he spotted me watching him, he turned and left. I assumed none of the other guards saw him, and he was too far away to make contact with. Little did I know at the time, this was the elusive Mr. Koob I had spotted.

I returned to the room Maeil and I spent our time in and raised him from his slumber. Things were becoming too active here in Kylanthr, and we needed to leave immediately before any type of action was taken to stop visitors from leaving. No quarantine would stop me, regardless, but I’d have rather stayed within the boundaries of the law. Grabbing my pack and halberd, we left the inn, marched outside, and I saw the meteorite in the center of town glowing. Or rather, something at the base of it was glowing.

It called to me. It said my name! I took to it like a hawk on prey, on scrambled through the broken pieces of meteorite, drawing attention from the guards. “Hey!” one said, “What do you think you’re doing?!” I ignored him and kept clawing through the wreckage, searching for the object which was making me so deranged. I hit the dirt and clawed around a bit, feeling it close. I wrapped my hand around something small and spherical, and pulled it out. When I revealed it to myself, I discovered a small, black, precious orb sitting in the palm of my outstretched hand. I admired it a moment before I flashed back into reality, and saw the people beginning to emerge from their houses, groggy and curious. I did the only thing I could think of.

I grabbed the prince, and left.

Dead Moon Rising - Act One - Scene One

2009-09-15T16:11:00.000-04:00

->Back to the beginning

Act One – The Plains of Praxis
Scene One

When the Kingdom of Kelera was invaded by the Fiends, the King was forced to think with pressing precision. King Alcaeus was made to decide hastily regarding the throne and its survival, should the world quickly turn to night in this quick and painful invasion. As estimated, the Fiends outnumbered and outmatched the Keleran armies in remarkable time. Marching swiftly for the capital, the king had only one thing on his mind; how to get Prince Maeil, only heir to the throne of Kelera (to be debated later) out of the kingdom alive. The task was to evacuate the castle entirely, but the King was resolute in his decision to stay in the kingdom and stand or fall with his castle.

The original plan was for Prince Maeil to evacuate with Master Kelthos Alridion of the Rose Circle, leader of the Knights Praetor, and overall one of the strongest, most intelligent, and most cunning men who had ever graced Castle Kelera’s beautiful halls. However, this plan was faulty. It required the king to entrust his son to life at sea, and to battle past a blockade of tens of destroyers while his own navy was comprised of seven galleons and the flagship “His Majesty’s Pride,” where Kelthos would be making his residence. So the question was, would the navy be triumphant in their attempt to break the blockade? The chances were not in their favor.

Therefore, the second option, which was more and less favorable, was the walking route. Using the Keleran sewer system, Prince Maeil would escape with a handful of knights out into the wide expanses of the Plains of Praxis, where he would be lead to the refuge of Camp Marshall, a small camp led by the resourceful Captain Marius Delaro. There, the Prince would stay until the war was settled, and he could either return to Castle Kelera, or begin a life for himself in the wide expanses of the world where-so-ever he chose to. The problem with this was of course the questionable access of the sewers and their safety, the resolute safety of Camp Marshall, and finally, the allocation of precious soldiers to the protection of Prince Maeil. Eventually, it was settled by Master Kelthos Alridion that one of the Knights Aspirant of the Rose Circle would take the Prince. In this solution, the Prince would be kept safe by one with above average skill, and yet would ultimately not destroy the ranks of the Keleran army.

When all of us were lined up, I immediately stood out for obvious reasons. The King gave me one look, and above all the other Knights Aspirant he chose me to be the bodyguard of the Prince. I appeared to be the strongest, the swiftest, all because of the way my body formed. And I can’t argue either of those, as I am physically more able than most humans. Regardless of why he chose me, it was indeed I who he chose.

“I choose him,” the king had said, pointing to my person. I looked down the line of Knight Aspirants, all clad in their battle armor with their visors drawn down. They looked to me, to see the one the king had chosen above their own. I could tell some of them laughed, but others were shocked. A creature such as me, protecting the king’s son?

Even Master Kelthos had his quarrels. “Can you really trust him,” Kelthos whispered in Alcaeus’ ear. The King whispered back, “Is there something you want to tell me that will make me distrust him?”

They slipped away for a few moments, to a place where even my hearing could not heed. But standing resolutely in my place, I stumbled upon an odd infraction stated by the king. “I choose him.” Never before had I received a gender. I had gone sexless for so long, I had grown accustomed to being referred to as it, or thing. I was a common place object before I was a man. In fact, for a split second, I questioned it myself. Was I even male? I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, but I do share a common appendage with the male persona. I concluded that yes, I was male, but that was the last of my self-discoveries. I have no idea what I am, beyond that.

When the king, Master Kelthos, and the entourage returned, Kelthos had been defeated, and I was promptly named the Prince’s personal bodyguard. “Congratulations,” I heard other knights tell me, some snidely, others praising, some condescending, but all the word “congratulations.” My perception of the word told me one thing; a word of praise, to be said after a celebratory action or moment. Yet or some reason, the way some said it made the word sound sour, like it was meant to be harmful. Or perhaps not harmful, but deceitful. I learned another word that day; sarcasm.

For the secret was (it was no secret to Kelthos) I was no older than four years old at the time. I was “born” from some great secret that Master Kelthos refused to tell me for the longest time. The important part for this stage in the story is to know I was taken in by Kelthos’ late mother, whom ‘raised’ me until ‘year one’ of my life, when I was full grown, and she had died. By this time, I had grown close to Kelthos as well, who although peppered me with the word “creature” and “troll” liberally, had a place for me on the aspiring Knights of the Rose Circle. The Rose, of course, was the Royal Officer Society of the Exemplary. This group was tightly knit, and to be acquainted with Master Alridion was no less than a miracle.

Of course, the nadir that is my life has no meaning beyond this.

My mind was swiftly set on this goal of becoming Knight Praetor, a true Knight of the Rose Circle. Of course, this required one of the existing knights to die, and then, me to be chosen to serve in his place. I had been considered many times… but my inhumanity is a very strict barrier to cross, especially in the face of… well, I’m not really at liberty to say.

Kelthos Alridion beckoned me forward at that point in time, telling me softly, “Muri, this assignment is no less than any other job you’ve taken before. You must devote all of your time to guarding this boy, be it easy or… difficult. And should you fail… well, let’s just say you will not be welcome in Kelera anymore.”

So the job arrived in my hands with a penalty should I fail. Yet most certainly, in the event Kelera held true and I, as intended, succeeded in carrying the Prince to safety, I would be granted admission to the prestige of the Knights of the Rose Circle, and undoubtedly Master Kelthos’ good graces. Though I did not particularly care how Master Kelthos viewed me, I had a certain duty to him, not to fail him, as he had the duty not to fail his mother. Perhaps it is in the principal of things, but still I cannot see it.

As always, I nodded my head, slowly, and say the credo, “As it is that you request, as it shall be done to best.” Master Kelthos smiled a placid smile, eyes cast downward, and then walked away, allowing the king to enter my line of sight.

I looked down at the monarch with some semblance of pride, but also with a raw, emotionless tact that I tend to carry around with me. As I stood presently, the king smiled loudly up at me and told me as an evident truth, “I entrust to you my son. Can you truly keep him safe?” In that moment, I saw the king as a father, like I saw Kelthos’ mother as my own. It was one of the few things I can relate to humanity with; the sense of familial ties and pride. I nodded, of course I could. I would try to my death to protect this child from harm. Not especially for the king, but for the position that awaited me on the Rose Circle. Undoubtedly, someone would die in the war. And undoubtedly, should I succeed I will be placed as a Praetorian Guard of Kelera.

Oh the day seemed so close despite its being so far away.

A few moments later, I was presented with Prince Maeil Kelera. If my sight alone could execute an individual, certainly I would have slain him in an instant. The prince of the kingdom was possibly the smallest, meekest, and palest human I had ever met. Hidden behind the shadows of an ornate castle column, the prince came into view as a young child of barely ten, though I knew better than to trust my sight. I knew the prince was fifteen years old. Like his father, he had blonde hair, but unlike his father it had not grayed. It instead was ornately braided and reached the crux of his shoulders. His eyes were bright blue and cast eternally downward, amazing me. How could a human never look up, to where they were going?

“This is my son,” King Alcaeus told me warmly. He then turned to his son, “Maeil, this is to be your bodyguard, Muri Yolana.” The prince slowly approached me, his eyes occasionally glancing up to see me. I would have to imagine it was not the first time he had seen me, as he was not terrified as most humans were.

He smiled vaguely and gave me a small wave. I saluted him in the best way I could; I still have trouble with the Keleran Signal Salute. Once the formalities had passed, the Prince was escorted away, and I was left with the king and Master Kelthos once more.

“Tomorrow morning,” I was told by King Alcaeus, “You will lead my son down the sewer path to the Plains of Praxis, where you will then move northeast, to Camp Marshall. It is a significant trek, so you will go well prepared. Once you arrive at Camp Marshall, the prince will remain in the custody of you, but much of your responsibility of his safety will be alleviated by the fortifications of the camp.” The King then put a hand on my shoulder, which is not an easy feat. “Please… do not let my son come to harm.”

“I do declare my liege, that under no circumstances will harm befall your son, the prince of Kelera.”

Little did I know… that oath would be one to forever haunt me.

The king smiled at me, and then we went on our way. When I arrived at my personal dormitory that night, I felt slightly disheveled in a way I had never felt before. I felt not like a creature, which was my usual settlement in this human world, but as…, an object. In becoming a bodyguard, I had unknowingly become no better than a shield. It was an unsettling feeling, but not one that I felt epitomized any feeling of rejection or mal-doing on my part. I had no difficulty sleeping on this thought.

The next morning, I rose refreshed and with the thought gone from my head. But before I was fully awake, I stood beside the wall, looking at the pictures of the former Masters of the Rose Circle. Kelthos was part of a long line of Masters, chosen for their dedication and purity of heart. The unity of mind, body and spirit was an important one, as it showed a remarkable commitment, a devotion the likes of which people do not normally see when looking at one’s passion.

When I was done admiring Master Kelthos’ predecessors upon my wall, I found it humorous that I would spend time thinking about the Masters path, a path entirely beyond my reach. Even if I had all of the requirements of a Master, and the dedication of Master Kelthos, I would be rejected for my inhumanity. The council would barely let me into the aspirants realm, and even now withheld my admission to the Rose Circle on behalf of my looks and alleged alliance. It hurt, somewhat, to know that my alliance was in question, despite my devotion to the Keleran cause. It was all because of Madame Alridion, who taught me the good of humanity was more potent than all of the bad it held. I kept that close to my heart whenever I felt something hurt me, for in the end, that was all I had to hang onto.

It was her who did not judge me on my being, but on my soul… if a creature like me even has a soul.

I walked beyond the dormitory into the halls which led to the courtyard. I took my halberd from the armory, my personal halberd that was five times larger than a standard one due to my size. I left the castle grounds; it was barely six in the morning. The sun had yet to rise, so I still had time. I felt like visiting something one more time.

It was the grave of Madame Alridion. She had been buried on the castle grounds at Kelthos’ request. Perhaps it was because he did not want her far from him in the castle. But now, with the castle so close to being besieged, I would suppose Kelthos regretted this choice, but had to press on. A body is only a body, after all. Her spirit had ascended quite some time ago…

Being so close to her grave was the only time when I thought of my own death. Would anyone cry for me, as so many had for her? Kelthos had shed magnificent tears for his only mother, and grace be with him it was the hardest trial he had ever been forced to take. And where would I go, when I died. The ancient religion of Kelera, more a guiding stone of humanity and ethics, was a fleeting thought. The ascension into the realm of the undying was a thought… but I was not human. As an inhuman being, I would be transported to the realm of the reincarnate, where I along with the other beasts of the world would await our meager resurrection. I was, according to them, cursed to walk the Earth until it’s destruction.

I paid my dues to Madame Alridion one last time, and managed a quick salute, and then turned and left, left the castle, followed the streets, and arrived at the temple sewer entrance right on time, all the while plagued with that one thought of my unworthiness. Who was I to save the king’s son? I was nobody. I had not even a soul.

The King was there, in a simple peasant garb, his method for travelling out in public. Although he was escorted by several armed guards who formed a perimeter around him, the King was still vaguely recognizable in the light of the breaking dawn. Master Kelthos was also present, but I knew his mission was about to begin as well. This day was the day they attempted to break the blockade present on Kelera in order to allow allied ships from Newport and Aldania into our harbors to assist us in our plight. Perhaps others on the Catamari Coast would assist as well. I was not interested in politics however, and knew that if Kelera fell, I would fall as well. No other country would harbor a creature like myself.

“Knight Muri,” the King told me, beckoning me forward, to him and his son. I responded. “Knight, your time has come. I trust unto you my only son, my only heir, into lands beyond Keleran control. You will face adversity beyond your wildest dreams, if you can even imagine that. Can I trust you to take my son above all else in front of that?”

I nodded, solemnly. I took the oath that moment, the real oath, not the oath I would later regret. But it was similar in regards to how it was public, solemn, and true, that I would uphold the laws of Kelera in the provinces I would visit. I swore to be pure, to be noble, and to behave as any other knight would behave in the face of evil. Upon this note, I was thrown into the sewer, alongside Prince Maeil, and my adventure had begun.

Dead Moon Rising - Prologue

2009-09-07T12:56:00.000-04:00

I'm not really sure how to classify this one. It's a short story, sort of. It was intended to be a longer story initially, came out as a short story, and I have since continued writing it. Anyway, this is the third and final Summer@Brown piece I will be sharing. The prompt was an exchange of something, but that's very unimportant. Anyway, enjoy the prologue to my longer piece, Dead Moon Rising.

***

Opening
It was closing time, and like all days at closing time, Lars McCaran was locking up. The tavern was emptied, and after a substantial cleaning, it was time to shut it down for good. Standing from behind his bar, polishing one last glass, admiring the pristine and wonderful image of his tavern. Beautiful wood lined the floor, handpicked of the finest… cherry, he believed. Tables arranged in a symmetrical pattern across the floor, beautifully crafted; he’d had a man come in and personally arrange them for taste after the sculptor had finished with them. A beautiful chandelier hung elegantly in the center of it all, adding light to where it was needed most, and several smaller chandeliers, nowhere near as beautiful, graced other spots around it. Lars sighed at the beauty of it all, and then saw a shadow approaching from outside.

A man couldn’t walk in at this hour. It was nearing eleven o’clock; everyone should be in their homes as per the town curfew. With regards to the inn next door, that may have been where he was heading. However, no, this man was walking… no running, for the tavern.

Lars jumped the bar and shimmied down to the door, and began to point at the sign which read ‘closed’ which hung so nicely on the window. The man paid no heed and continued sprinting for the door. But at this point, Lars saw something else. It was behind the man, following him at an even faster speed. It was tall, and lean, and was carrying… a weapon of some kind. It seemed to be a polearm. What? Were the police coming after a criminal? Lars locked the door. He wasn’t to be involved in this.

When he turned around, he heard a thump hit the door. Through the window of the door, Lars saw the face of a man who was perturbed greatly, tears running down his face. “Help me!” he shouted out, before his eyes widened significantly, and he spewed out blood all over the window. Lars jumped several feet back, mouth agape. Suddenly, from out of the door’s wooden panels came the blade of a halberd, jutting through like a knife spearing butter. It was retracted moments later, but what would truly shock Lars had yet to come.

Eight feet tall, brown skin which hung on the body like an old man’s, and a peculiar talon hand gripping the halberd was what he saw. The man who had impaled the other on his halberd was obviously some sort of freak of nature, and incredibly strong too. Then, the man bent down to be viewed fully in the window.

This was no man.

It had a beaked mouth. There were eyes, but they too were reptilian, with vertical, narrow pupils, and yellow eyes. “Excuse the mess,” the creature hissed. Its mouth simply opened and the voice emerged, like some sort of bizarre audio box. The creature picked up the dead man by the head with his other talon-like hand, swinging it about a bit. “This criminal has been avoiding me for days on end. I saw fit to eliminate him without pity.” The creature’s eyes locked on Lars’. “May I come in for a drink? I’m very thirsty.”

Lars was in so much pain mentally that he unlocked the door and let the creature in. Something about the way it spoke made it sound a bit more human, and that comforted him. Perhaps he was just a human in a bizarre suit. Yes, that must have been it.

They both went to the bar, where Lars poured a glass of wine which had no particular name and was vaguely tasteful. It probably had yet to age to perfection, but Lars was not really thinking. He kept his eyes on the creature, who sat down at one of the bar stools. He had left the body of the poor man he had butchered outside.

“My appearance… does it upset you? Is it unsettling?”

The creature looked at him with the creepy eyes and Lars’ first reaction is to say yes, but instead he passes the glass to him, along with the bottle, and shakes his head while biting his bottom lip. “It’s just… a costume, right? A monster suit… to scare bandits?”

The creature took the glass tenderly in one hand, the talons grasping around it and circling it, encapsulating it, and poured it down his throat as if it were a waterfall. “No,” the creature finally said. “No, I am not in a suit. It was not designed. This is who I am.” He took the bottle, and that too was poured into his beak. When he was finished, it made a hollow clink onto the table.

Lars was confused now, and backed hesitantly into to the wine shelf behind him. “Yes, so what are you then?”

The creature sighed, or did something akin to sighing. “I do not know.”

“You do not know what you are?” Lars thought for a moment. “Are you under some sort of curse?”

“I am not. I am inhuman, that is all I know.”

It was Lars’ turn to sigh now, and he held his head in his hands haphazardly, and then proceeded to scratch the tip of his scalp. It was all up for debate now, whether or not he was asleep and dreaming. If he was not under the influence of sleep, however, he was looking in the face of a creature so disturbing, so mind bending, that Lars could not think of anything else at the moment. There was something so miraculously strange about the creature… but also, something tragic. Something peculiarly poignant in its voice. Something solidly sour. It was so moving, in fact, that Lars was not frightened by the creature, but almost encouraged to comfort it.

“That’s… that’s a conundrum you’ve got,” Lars whispered, his voice cracking. “Have you at least got a name?”

The creature set an elbow on the table and kept his arm vertical. Lars was confused, but the mannerism was perhaps nothing of noteworthy importance. “My name is Muri,” the creature said. “Knight of the Rose Circle.”

Lars saw the creature fumble with his arms, apparently trying to make the salute of the Rose Circle, but with his elongated features and four-pronged hands, it was rather difficult. Finally, Muri reset itself back to his previous position. The barkeep shook his head with an unsaid verbosity and uncorked another bottle of his finest wine, presenting it to the Rose Knight before him. “So tell me, Knight Muri,” Lars began, “Tell me your story. Who are you? Where are you from? Tell me all you know.”

Muri shrugged and ran one of its hands over its skull, palely rubbing at the rear of its head and neck. “I do have a story,” Muri said, drifting off a bit at the end. Lars pulled up a barstool from behind the bar and sat down, looking at the poor unsightly creature. “But it is as hideous as me… one might say, it is a tale of a monster.”

Lars shook his head, “I promise Muri, I will not judge you like that. I am interested… in your story. I want to know.” Who knew in reality what his interest was. He just felt so bad for the melancholy voice, and everyone’s story should be heard by someone. Lars anticipated that the poor creature was the object of no one’s affections, and therefore was rarely spoken to, even by colleagues of the Rose Circle. Of course, this was entirely speculation. The creature merely sounded so sad.

“Very well.”

Short Story - In The Beginning

2009-08-31T11:14:00.000-04:00

Here's the second piece from my Summer@Brown collection, and the third piece I'm sharing with the world. This prompt was very basic; we each recieved a setting in the form of a picture cut out from a magazine. From this setting, and with the help of a close friend, a story was born. Take it away, words.

***
In the beginning, there was only light.

Out of the light came a figure, clothed in trapping gear, a bag of equipment tied to his back, and an ear for one particular creature in mind. Leaving his house at dawn, the man takes a hunting rifle from its position to the side of his log cabin and stares at it for a moment. In his hands lies a device with the sole purpose of taking life.

With it safely in his hands, careful hands, he marches forward into the woods.

For throughout his life he had but one goal. His ambitions were simple, straightforward, and true. None would get between him and his target, not man, not animal, not even nature. Today would be the day things ended. And it would end in silence.

The man stops when he hears a crackle in the woods beside him. He brings up his rifle with an intense air, cocks it, and prepares to blast the living hell out of whatever it was beyond the thicket. The old man says nothing, and approaches it slowly. He takes cautious steps, sidling over the brush, never looking back, never looking to the side, eyes on target always.

He pushes through the brusque thicket and found a rabbit sitting in the clearing, not but a bunny, which then proceeds to hop through another bush to a place where the man could not reach. The man dejectedly sighs.

For it was not small game he was after. The man was on the lookout for an elusive creature that had been at the forefront of his mind ever since the day she disappeared. Without her to ease his mind, the man began seeing ‘the beast’ everywhere. It appeared to him at dinner, and when he hunted in the evenings. It appeared in visions and dreams while he slept. It mustered itself into his every waking thought, and every fleeting hallucination came in thicker and more potent than before. This was no simple game he was tracking. This was what he lived for.

Keeping his breath in check, he peers out into a clearing and hears something big rustle behind him. Without thinking he turns and shoots into the distance. The shot flies silently and collides with the dirt on the ground after finding no target. The foliage he had trampled in order to make it to his clearing proved to be more than necessary. The old man shouts out in an attempt to scare the creature from its hiding place… but it was to no avail. The creature was immune to fear.

Finding solace on his journey, time flew by silently and dangerously quick. Hours passed and the man had nothing to show for his journey. The wind would blow into his face and he would stand resolute in the fact that nothing would slow him down.

When he reached the river, he knew his time was done. Like crystal, the river sparkled in the limelight of the fading sun, trickling quickly to the tune of nature’s solitary chord: life. He watched it in the vanishing light of day, the reflection of the cascade of radiance on the water translating to beautiful moonlight. And like crystal, this river never ebbed. It never ceded. It was forever.

He stared around himself for a moment and caught a glimpse of something; something in the river. He eyed it warily, making it out hazily in just the now faint moonlight. But as the moon glowed brighter, the image became one that was unmistakably… himself.

In the river was his perfect reflection, staring back at him. Like a shadow of his former self, he saw his features, rugged, harsh, old. The rifle in his hands looked dusty and full of unfit memories, memories that obviously had more of an impression on the rifle than they did on its user. Where had the years gone? Where was he now?

He dropped the rifle and it splashed down into the waters below, right into his reflection. It drifted a ways downstream before getting snagged somewhere and stopping. The man bent down and, mustering all of his courage, bent down to look at himself more clearly. With vague recognition, he could see the outlines of his former self. He could see scars formed as a child, and outlines of a time when he was not obsessed with the beast of his dreams, the one that had taken the only thing in his life away from him. It had consumed him… and now he would pay the price.

Above his own image in the water came another. This was a much more haunting visage, spiraling in the waters above his reflected head. It was dark, and it looked down at the man with grave intentions. The man closed his eyes, and waited.

In the beginning… there was only light.

Short Story - Black Burning Heart

2009-08-24T12:40:00.001-04:00

This is one of the three pieces I would like to share from my Summer@Brown workshop that I attended this past Summer. I would like to preface *this* one by saying that the prompt was "to be written in the style of Robert Coover's 'The Babysitter'." For all intents and purposes, it is intentionally written out of order chronologically in order to better fit the story altogether. To make it more interesting.

Also, this particular story is being rewritten in novel format. Several characters have been resketched completely, and others are as you see them here. The story will be similar, but different in context. Anyway, that's for another time.

Now, I give you Black Burning Heart.

***

Dr Morillo emerged at the top of the stairwell overlooking the computer room. “Forenze!” he called out, resentment deep in his throat. His left eye twitched visibly, as Dr Gary Forenze slid his swivel chair out from behind a large computer and into Morillo’s view.

“What is it?”

“You promised me!”

Forenze removed his glasses and sighed, taking a rag from his pocket. “Sometimes shit happens, Forest. Don’t get all excited over spilt milk.”

“I will fucking shit on your spilt milk!” Forest paced the top of the stairwell, but never took his gaze from Forenze. “You told me we were partners! How can I trust you now?” He grabbed the railing and tightened his grip on it, like he was choking someone in particular. “Do you think-”

“Do you think it was an easy decision for me?”

Forest grunted in a chortling way, moving down the stairs and into a lab in the back of the room. “I’ll be brooding over the terms of our partnership while you load the missiles. Don’t bother coming in.”

***

“Erin Tallows…” Forenze muttered, looking at the peculiar figure standing in front of the security camera, surrounded by eight or so well armed men. “Where have I heard that name before…?”

“She works for the Earth Dominion,” Forest replied, taking a long drag of his cigarette, as if purging a nasty taste from his mouth. “She’s one of their… finest, captains.” He snarled with disgust, and threw the cigarette to the ground. He looked at it longingly for a moment before squashing it with the sole of his boot. “Remember what I said!” he shouted abruptly, looking at Forenze with greedy eyes.

“Right, of course.” Those same eyes fled to the camera on the wall, and then back at Forenze. “You will have you revenge, Forest. Just a few more minutes.” Then Gary got up and left the console room.

***

“My thoughts? My thoughts are simple. I want nothing more than to realize my goal.”

The psychologist looked at the caged Doctor Forest Morillo through a glass pane, situated right next to his cell. He was on the other side of a one way mirror, with a telecom placed inside the room, and one on the outside. The communication that issued was at the press and release of a button.

Morillo sat on a stool he had pulled up, right beside the telecom, staring at it like an obedient dog. The submissive behavior was confusing and indirect, but the analyst paid it not much mind.

“And what is that?” the psychologist asked. He released the button.

From his view of Morillo, the man appeared to sigh. He raised a weary hand and dramatically plunged it into the wall, apparently into the telecom. “What is what? You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Your goal.”

“What about it?”

The psychologist was used to dealing with incessantly uncooperative subjects before; in the detention center, not many people were willingly recipients of probing and information gathering.

“What is your goal, Morillo?”

Morillo clasped his hands together and brought them forward to his face, touching his nose. With a shaking hand, he reached forward to the telecom. “My goal is simple. I want to kill those who betrayed me.”

“Who betrayed you, Morillo?” Morillo pressed the button and whispered something inaudible into the telecom. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

Morillo pressed the telecom, and turned his cynical, smiling face toward the one way mirror. “You did, little man. All of you did. Humanity betrayed me… and now, I will have my revenge.”

***

“So, Morillo escaped?” Erin looked across the table at her commanding officer. “Great, what now? What the fuck is that man gonna do; he’s batshit insane.” She leaned back in her chair, her hands locked behind her head. “He’s got no friends out there. He’s all alone.”

“Not true,” her CO told her. “We have reason to believe Dr Forenze is in need of his help for a special biological weapon. It could be… potentially… a problem.”

Erin blinked, her hands sliding down from her head to her neck. “Well gee, Jon… I hope we’re not too fucked. I mean… gosh, two mad men, working together? That sounds like it will last a good ten minutes.” Her voice drifted back off as she finished, but Jon was not impressed.

“Goddamnit, Erin, like it or not you’re going to take care of this.”

“Fine.” Erin stood up suddenly and brushed the hair gently from her eyes. “I’ll deal with Morillo and Forenze.”

***

Erin watched in horror as Morillo walked up behind Forenze and, with his hook hand, stabbed deep into the neck of the biologist.

***

The room was cold and empty. Forenze heard the double doors open and shut from out behind the computer desk he was at. “About time, we were just about to start the first…. heh, ‘test.’”

“Doctor Gary Forenze.” The voice… it was a woman’s voice. “Bachelor’s Degree in biology. A masters in science from Brown University… and a whopping dual doctorate in parasitology and pathology. Someone should have tagged you right there, creep.”

How did she get past the guards, Forenze thought, sliding off of his chair and grabbing something from beneath his desk. He tucked it into the side of his pants, and then put his button down shirt over it. Smirking, he rolled the chair out into the middle of the hall and saw none other than Erin Tallows descending the stairwell to meet him in the center of the room.

“You look well, officer. Such a nice young girl like yourself shouldn’t be dealing with criminals; you should be out shopping or with your boyfriend. It’s such a nice day out.”

Erin smiled. “I can’t tell if that was a sexist comment, so I’ll let it slide. You’re lucky, old man. Now are you going to come quietly? And where’s that bastard Morillo; I know he’s here.”

Forenze’s smile sharpened considerably. “Well… I’ve got a proposition for you.”

***

“You think killing me will solve your problems, don’t you? Well, I suppose it will. It will end me, but it won’t end my wrath. Pretty soon, you’ll all be facing the fury of Dr. Forest Morillo. But the truth is, the missiles are set up to release the neurotoxin into the hearts of fourteen major cities across the globe. Killing me will only be releasing me from suffering… so I thank you.

“All my life has been suffering at the hands your little Earth Dominion. My father served in the core. He worked hard under Vice Admiral Alexei on the S.S. Hemingway, and later on the S.S. Planck, and do you know how he was repaid? With a fist full of blood and no pension, all for following his Vice Admiral’s orders. He followed orders, and he was killed for it. He was a scapegoat, no doubt. And now, I pay homage to him by using his very skills to exact romantic justice on the world. So go ahead…”

***

Morillo worked hard in front of the computer, a few steps away from a test booth, and a large cylindrical tube where his vile contagion was being kept. His left hand alone flew effortlessly over the keys.

Gary Forenze looked over from his position on another computer and rolled his eyes, watching all the potential work flying out the window. “Morillo,” Dr Forenze said, “I can outfit you with a new hand… that’s not beyond my capabilities here. It’s actually quite easy.” Morillo continued working with only his left hand on the computer, moving at a decent, yet slow pace. He turned his head over his shoulder.

“I prefer the hook.” He raised his right hand, and sure as ever there was curved piece of iron there, resembling a pointy question mark, staring Forenze in the face. Forenze sighed.

“It’s no use to you, not for vengeance, not as a memento, not even as a weapon.”

Morillo stopped a moment to rub the hook affectionately. “We’ll see.”
***

Forenze’s eyes shot open with pain, and blood began to pool in the corner of his mouth. It seeped out of him like oozing puss, and when Forest Morillo removed his hooked hand, Forenze fell into a slump on the floor in front of him. Around his neck was a puddle of blood.

“You little shit!”

Erin ran for Morillo, but Morillo too ran. He ran all the way up the stairs, but tripped as he did so. He tried to grab the railing but his hook arm only made a screeching noise as he fell over himself backwards down the stairs, ending in a muddled heap on the floor. Erin cornered him. It was over.

***

“The proposition is simple,” Gary Forenze told her. “I will give you Forest Morillo, and will tell you the exact location of each of the missiles in this den, in exchange for you… forgetting that I was ever here.”

“That sounds awful risky jack,” Erin commented sarcastically. “I mean, what’s to stop me from not killing you right after you tell me.”

Gary fingered the gun in his pants. “I have my ways.”

“Alright then bucko,” Erin said, with no intention of keeping her end of the bargain. “Shoot.”

***

Erin Tallows waited, her gun dropped down to a lowered stance, her confused expression obvious to Morillo, who continued to act the way he always did; smugly and conscientiously.

“So go ahead,” Forest repeated. His sprawled position did not do him any favors. A broken leg and a hook-hand made him easy prey. After so much time, so much energy spent on reaching him, would she really fall for his sap story. “I dare you to pull the trigger. Go ahead… do it.”

Short Story - Where There's Smoke

2009-08-17T14:33:00.000-04:00

Do you know why there is smoke? The reason for the smoke is the fire, which burns brightly even in the dead of night, proclaiming the wrath of the world in a beautiful, flourishing and vibrant package, leaving only ash in its wake. But in the red and blue and white of the flame, there is something that you cannot see. You are mesmerized by its beauty; the fire acts as a demon in disguise, leaving you powerless as the angelic fiend threatens that which you hold dear; home, friends, or family. That is why there is smoke.

A jet-black Traction Avant pulled up outside a small manor on the main street, the two right wheels pulling up onto the curb, tilting the car at an angle. From the back seat came two men, dressed in dark-brown trench coats and bowlers, something heavy in each of their right coat pockets. They approached the tall perimeter fence apprehensively, and looked beyond into the strange green grass which grew past the fence, something a city wasn’t expected to have. But the property of the manor was about half an acre in size, and since the Manor was surrounded on all sides by eight-foot-high fencing, nobody was about to mess with the owners about the placement of the healthy, green grass and beautiful larch trees lining the path to the front door.

The Traction Avant pulled off slowly, falling away down the street into the night. One of the men grabbed one of the eight foot poles of the fence, and tried to shake it a bit, but found it sturdy in place. “We gonna climb?” he said, turning to the other man. He had a thick accent, and his mustache bobbed up and down in speech.

The other man meandered down the side of the fence, dragging his left hand across the vertical rungs as he did. When he reached the gate in the center of the fence, he stopped and looked at the padlock and chain locking the doors. He grabbed it in his right hand and tugged at it, testing it in the manner the other did the rung.

“You wanna climb when you can walk in?” He reached into his pocket and took out a bobby pin, presenting it to the mustached man.

“You surprise me,” the mustache responded, as the man with the bobby pin began to work on the lock.

Meanwhile, the Traction Avant pulled up next two a small bar, and this time released a single passenger, the driver, a man wearing just an undemanding brown trench coat with a lapel holding a police badge. He walked around the car confidently, the dirty buildings all around him casting a certain darkness over him. He walked down the stairs and entered the bar, named The Smoking Gun.

Illuminated by the good lighting of the room, the driver strut over to the counter and sat down while the bartender was helping another patron. He waited silently, looking around the room. There were two other men sitting at a table, being waited upon by a young woman. When the bartender came to him, he ordered a Godfather and then sat back and waited for the opportunity to strike.

The lock came undone within the minute, and the men in bowlers begun their walk down the path toward the house. “So what brings you back into this,” the mustached man asked casually, fixing his coat as a gust of wind blew in from toward the house. “I thought you were done.”

“As did I,” he responded. They arrived at the door moments later, and the mustached man growled as the other put his hand firmly around the doorknob.

“I don’t want you botching this up,” he said.

“Easy Francesco,” was the response, and he slowly eased the door open, and looked inside. He turned around and gave Paco a smirk, a quick flash, “I may have left, but I’m not… rusty.” They snuck inside and tucked the door back into the frame before it could creak.

The bartender passed the man at the bar his cocktail, which he eyed carefully, but did not drink. “How old are you,” the man asked. The bartender looked around, and after the man looked up, face still bent towards the glass, the bartender understood he was to be the receiver of the question.

“Try not to go there, friend,” he said, chuckling.

The man continued regardless, “How old are you?”

The barkeep sighed, “I’d say sixty… sixty-one.”

“Would you say you’ve led a full, wonderful life?”

The bartender smiled and pointed behind him at the trophy case on the wall beside the bourbon and booze. Inside were photos and plaques too numerous to count. “I married a great girl, had a beautiful daughter, and wound up here. I guess I had a pretty full life. How ‘bout you, friend? Any deal to the questions? What’s your story?”

The man swiped his drink and took a swig, wetting his mouth with release. “I can’t describe the events of my life. I was born awake, and eighteen years old.”

Francesco and the other man wandered through the manor, going through the foyer, past the stairs into the kitchen. “How’s your leg?” Francesco asked gruffly, his mustache dancing on his face.

“It’s fine,” the man responded, pulling away the trench coat and then his right pant leg, revealing a steal frame where his right leg should have been, “sometimes I wake up and it’s itching.”

“That’s fucked up, ‘Vanni,” Francesco said.

“Shhh, not so loud.” Giovanni opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of vodka. “We’re not here to wake the neighbors.” Pulling a small bottle out of his pocket, he uncorked the vodka and proceeded to pour the contents of the vial into the vodka.

“We’re here to claim.”

“My name… is Joseph. They call me the Smoker, but that’s just because my job entails smoking. Regarding my life, perhaps I haven’t lived a life as full as yours. I’ve not a wife, but I do have a girl. Darlin’, she and I used to be real close. Not so much anymore, but I always go to see her every once in a while. Don’t ask me about her, though.”

Giovanni and Francesco returned through the foyer and quietly made their way up the stairs. They walked down the hallway to the door that was slightly ajar at the end of the hall. They pushed it open, and Giovanni went in first, while Francesco reached into his pocket and fingered an object there.

The room was empty with the exception of a bed and a nightstand, as well as a sliding door out onto a balcony. The balcony door was slightly open, and a light wind was blowing in, masking the noise of their shoes on the wooden floor. A man lay sleeping in the bed, graying hair, old, and worn. Giovanni put the vodka bottle on the nightstand loudly, expecting the man to stir, but nothing happened. The man was soundly asleep.

“Can I be loud now,” Francesco asked, and walked past Giovanni up to the man and reached down to slap him across the face, but stopped short when the man’s eyes shot open in an eerie surprise.

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” the man and Giovanni said nearly simultaneously.

“Don’t think for a second that I’m happy with the way I’ve led my life. But it is the way I led my life, and I don’t suppose there’s a rift in time I can jump through to change it.” Joseph was half done his cocktail, and sighed with a hint of resignation. “How ‘bout you; you happy?”

The barkeep pursed his lips, thinking. Then he nodded. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“That’s good.”

Giovanni sat on the end of the bed as the man sat up, resting his back against his pillow and the wall. “Hello Marco.” Now in the good light, Marco was able to see Giovanni fuller and clearer than he could before. He was young, so very young – and not so unlike his youngness he was divinely innocent and so very moldable and corruptible. Marco recognized the young face, but not the man.

“Actually, I go by Mr. Baldacci now.” Marco looked from Giovanni to Francesco. An eerie man, Francesco was gruffer and older than Giovanni, and had likely experienced more pain and distinguishing events than Giovanni would in his lifetime. And yet there was something about Giovanni which was more efficient than Francesco, something cleverer, more unique. Without a doubt, Giovanni would replace Francesco in the ranks soon enough.

“I suppose I don’t have a say in this, do I?” Marco asked quietly, and directed his question strictly at Francesco.

“Not a word.” Francesco pulled out the object in his pocket. “You thought you could escape, didn’t you?”

“Not really, but it’s always better to try and fail, then never try.” Marco turned to Giovanni with a tempting, pleading set of eyes. Perhaps he thought it would appeal to his more naïve nature, but he knew somewhere that his naivety and innocence was long since forgotten. “Is it really over? There’s nothing I can do to change your mind? I’ve got a lot of shit downstairs; shit you wouldn’t believe.”

“Everything’s already… arranged.” Giovanni reached into his coat and pulled out a gun. Marco moved to stand, but Giovanni stopped him with a harsh, sour glance. “Sorry Marco,” he said, softly, hesitantly, and sorrowfully, “You’re old news; your shit’s old news. It’s just… the way of the world.”

Giovanni trained his gun on the man’s head, and after allowing time for Marco to have said his final spiteful words to the heavenly father, Giovanni rested the gun on the bed, in a gesture of serenity, it seemed. This was unheard of, when Marco was still in service. His anxiety got the better of him, “What? You’re not gonna do it after all?”

“We gotta wait,” Francesco said.

“These things are incredibly well thought out,” Giovanni added.

Marco eyed the gun skeptically, wondering if it was even loaded in its position. Perhaps the safety was on. Maybe a single bullet was still in Giovanni’s pocket, waiting to be loaded. He opened his mouth slowly, and then spat out the words: “What could you possibly be waiting for?” His eyes still watched the gun.

“We wait for the smoke.”

Joseph felt something cold in his pocket. He almost felt strange; giddy in a way. “This is my first time as smoker, and Francesco barely explained the job to me before we left. You know what I’m supposed to do?”

The barkeep was confused, but humored the man with a smile and a nod, urging him on. “No, tell me what the smoker does.” He had never heard the word smoker, or even understood what a smoker did. He was just a bartender, with a wife, a daughter, and the breathtaking lifetime achievement that baffled the mind: an empire of dirt.

Joseph reached into his cold pocket and pulled out a weapon with a long barrel and a shiny chrome paint job. “I make smoke, so we can light a fire.” He aimed the gun at the barkeep; he did nothing as the weapon ended his life in a flash and a loud bang, cleaning right through his forehead into the trophy case behind him, shattering glass and memories.

He turned the gun on the other bar patron, who was still in shock, and fell easy prey to the bullet’s path. Joseph then spun and emptied three rounds into the two men behind him, once missing, straying; it collided with a bookcase, and released some novels to the ground. The waitress by this time had run back through the swinging door into the kitchen. Joseph looked into the revolver and saw one round remaining. One single bullet would suffice.

The woman frantically spoke into the phone, calling for the police. Joseph waited at the door until the woman was done reading off the address, allowing her to finish his death warrant, and then readied, aimed, and fired straight through her skull. Her lifeless body pooled blood at the neck as it hit the ground, and Joseph checked the nearby area for any remaining people. There were none. Satisfied, he returned to the car.

For he was the smoker. It was his job to light a fire, a big one, so that the one that really mattered could shine as bright as it wanted and still not be seen. But his fire was all smoke, when it boiled down to it. He was the smoker.

He waited in the car, filled with heartless anxiety and fear. “Come then,” he told the police, as he heard them coming down the main street from behind. He put the Traction Avant into gear and then began to pull away as they appeared in his rear view mirror. “Come, be blind.” He started down the road in a burst of speed, pushing his pursuers down a more violent road. Sirens blared, guns shot, and blood was spilled.

“ ‘ey, the police is here,” Francesco said, watching out the balcony as the police cars whizzed down the road in pursuit of their smoker. “We got ourselves some smoke.”

Marco smiled; to him, it appeared obvious why the two men were here. He was to be re-contracted. “So tell me about this smoke.” Sadly and little did he know, seconds later Giovanni would grab the gun from off the bed and unload six rounds into his head, arms and torso, ending his life in a fury of bullets and torrent of pain. There was no contract after all. He was the object of their business arrangement, not the subject. Francesco grabbed a loose cigarette in his pocket and lit it by using the heat of the barrel. Amidst the blood and surprise, Marco had let out a quiet yelp before his death, not unlike that which indicates astonishing pain in an animal.

They walked from the bedroom casually, and Francesco grabbed the vodka off the table. He took a puff of his cigarette, and then dropped the cigarette in, watching as it got caught in the neck of the bottle. “We’ve got what, twenty seconds?”

Giovanni and Francesco hurried down the stairs and as Giovanni opened the door, Francesco hurled the bottle at the wall, creating an incendiary masterpiece of plaster and ash. Giovanni’s metal leg panged him that moment, in a sense longing the freedom he once had. He had escaped, but been brought back. Marco had escaped, and been terminated. What justice was there in this fire?

They ran from the scene, bolting down the path, out the gate, and into the great, dark unknown. As the night blew by, so did the smoke. The house left itself a smoldering wreck, the man inside dead and burnt, the onlookers outside wondering where the police were, and the two who caused it all far, far away.

That is why there is smoke.

First Post - Notes

2009-08-16T16:37:00.000-04:00

As an aspiring author, this is where I will be posting all of my content. Hopefully, this is a good place to do that. It is also my hope that people comment on my work; I'm not in this for publicity (although that's not a bad thing :P), I'm doing this so that people will see my work and be able to help me improve in my craft. Any comments you have, any at all, I appreciate and will take into consideration.
I will try to update consistently on Mondays in the early afternoon.