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The wind whipped into the compartment. Passengers screamed as papers ripped themselves out of their hands and briefcases and bags and hats tumbled along with the rushing air, joining tumbling books and empty cups and expensive fur stoles in a whirling dance. I shattered the remains of the window and heaved half my body through. An attendant grabbed me by the foot, but I kicked him in the face. The momentum propelled me out the window and I plunged downward through the sky. I slung the parachute over my back, fumbling with the harness while struggling to keep it from flying out of my grip. It worked itself free of one shoulder and I barely caught it before it absconded into the blue yonder. It probably would have been smarter to put this on before I had jumped through the window, but I might not have fit that way. Besides, I like to work on the fly. Or rather, on the fall. I managed to strap on the pack and pull the ripcord. As soon as I was descending at a safe speed and my heart rate had a chance to slow, the view of the city strangling the Seine was actually quite beautiful. I was right on course to land in a lovely little park, but the wind had other ideas and I descended on a church spire instead. I guess it was a spiritually uplifting experience. Apparently I had attracted a lot of attention, because a large crowd of people were pointing and shouting, but I couldn’t be sure because they shouted in French and pointed in French too, of course, and they might just have been admiring the architecture for all I knew. Pretty soon I started hearing sirens. I was surprised the sirens didn’t siren in French, but I guess you can’t have everything. Wait, is siren a verb? After the fire department got me down from the spire, the police started asking me questions. I tried to communicate yo no hablo francés by gesture, but that got us nowhere. I tried to translate his French—something, I thought, about passing harbors or possibly wine, and maybe something about a crazy, stupid derriere—but one year in high school Francais didn’t cut it. I was taken downtown, talked to someone who spoke English, I was asked if I had a passport, I said No, and all said and done I ended up in a cell. And as the French say, voilà! A holiday in Paris without having to pay for reservations. Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith
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Some practice writing I did whilst working on an RPG. I apologize dearly for any uncaught errors; I’m quite franky a terrible proofreader. The exposition is a bit light, but I tried to at least make it somewhat understandable for a non-DA fan. -------------------------------------------- The world, calm for a hundred years, lies on the brink of the Third Blight. The threat of extinction lingers in the air, and only a few can even sense death’s approach. This is the story of two experiences; a Morning with a sun and a Morning without, both dawning on Thedas alongside the menace of the Darkspawn. --- : ----- : --- : ----- : --- It was the morning, though there was no sun to do the telling. Deep below the earth, a group of heavily armored dwarven warriors marched through the Deep Roads. In the ancient days, these tunnels had been massive roads between the cities of the great empire. These warriors, however, were no representatives of a great empire. They were the scouts for its last surviving city – Orzammar. For many, it is a pleasing sight not to encounter ones enemies. Six hundred years before, the Darkspawn had risen from the tunnels beneath the earth to bring destruction to the world, starting with the dwarven kingdoms. Horrible, twisted creatures whose only goal seemed to be total annihilation of their enemies, they most certainly fell into that enemy category. Yet while on a normal day they flooded the tunnels, not one remained within on this day. “Something isn’t right about this.” The patrol leader said as she scanned over the area. “The spawn should be swarming these tunnels, and yet we haven’t seen a single one all day.” “Could they be planning an attack?” one of them asked. “Since when do Darkspawn actually plan?” asked another. “Since about a century ago.” Replied the one furthest to the back, grimly. The more formal nature of his armor, incorporating a cloth tabard and design elements foreign in appearance, marked him as a figure of some importance. “What are you suggesting, Warden?” asked the patrol leader. “So there are a few Darkspawn missing, but what does that matter?” The Grey Warden shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. This has been going on for well over a week. The only Darkspawn we’ve seen have been stragglers, but fiercer. Their direction has been too effective.” The patrol leader stared down the tunnels, before releasing a sigh. “You may be right, Warden. I can only pity those who are now on the topside, all of this considered.” The Warden nodded, as his thoughts raced. For centuries, they had been the ones who stood vigil against the Darkspawn. And when they rose to the surface, it was the Wardens who faced them in battle. Each of these Darkspawn surges – these Blights – had been met with heavy cost. And now, he feared that the Third lay on the horizon. --- : ----- : --- : ----- : --- It was morning, and the sun shone brightly. As its light pierced the highest Chantry window, it melted away the winter’s frosty coating, bringing in the dawn. There was a deathly silent in the holy place, with nary a soul present; neither man nor woman breathing, even in the private chambers adjoining the chapel. There was no sound present, and had not been for well over a year within the Chantry. The last sound to be made was that of blood dripping onto the floor, flowing from the numerous bodies which lay scattered about the room. Among them were folks from all walks of life – peasants seeking sanctuary, priests who helped tend to them, and a small number of armored Templar knights who had once protected them. Among them, also, were the scattered forms of those whom they had once failed to stand against; the enemy which they had faced. The doors to the Chantry opened, and into the building entered its first visitors in many years; three Grey Wardens, though much younger than their ally who marched in the Deep Roads. The first among them, a scruffy looking man clad in robes which bore the Warden’s griffon crest and clutching only a staff for a weapon (clearly the sign of a mage, for no other would be so bold as to move unarmored), knelt down almost immediately as he observed the scene. “Need we any more proof?” he asked. “Definitely Darkspawn work.” his nearer companion replied; this one, a dwarf, wearing armor and clutching a largish crossbow. “Just like the other villages. Lots of bodies, and completely untouched by rot.” “Hardly the most obvious sign here.” the mage replied, pointing to the foreign bodies which lay scattered amongst the refugees. While it was weapons marks which had mutilated the villagers, the twisted Darkspawn corpses were already a horrible sight. “There can be no doubt at this point; our dreams have proven right.” “Can we truly be sure?” the third questioned, as his armor reflected the light which pierced through the stained glass windows above. “We’re only thirteen miles from one of the Deep Roads entrances, and for one of the bigger ‘spawn to lead a group here…” The mage merely shook his head, as he stood back up. “Possible? Almost anything is, and if that were true, it would bring me no small comfort. But look at the signs… there were not that many Darkspawn. Even a village this small has enough Templars assigned for a body count to be much more visible than it is.” “We must face facts.” The dwarf said. “These are the same warnings that they had in the Anderfels before the beginning of the Second Blight. There is another one on the horizon.” There was an almost tangible feeling of silence which hung in the air. Eventually, the mage spoke up and said, “We’ll need to report this back to the commander as soon as possible, so they can prepare. No doubt there are other scouts, but we may be the only ones in this area.” “We can’t just leave their bodies rotting with the Darkspawn. They should be committed to the Maker.” The other human said. “Just doesn’t seem right.” The mage turned to the dwarf, who shrugged and said, “Not much for your topsider religions, but he’s right. Wouldn’t just leave a dwarf rotting here." With that said, the mage nodded, before saying, "What’s another fire compared to the days to come?” --- : ----- : --- : ----- : --- The three set out once again by midday, the funeral pyre reaching high into the sky behind them. And the Wardens, now more so than anybody else, knew that these oncoming years would be far from easy. All they could do was try to prepare. At the same time, the dwarven Warden returned from his travels as empty-handed as before. That very day, he addressed the assembly who led Orzammar, informing of them of what was most certainly to come. For as the surface prepared to fight, they would prepare to defend. For if humans and elves were to fall, then they would most certainly be next. -Toa Levacius Zehvor
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-Ozymandias- “Disillusioned, but determined, to complete my odyssey, I followed his corpse to its resting place in Alexandria. The night before returning to America, I wandered into the desert and ate a ball of hashish I'd been given in Tibet. The ensuing vision transformed me. Wading through powdered history, I heard dead kings walking underground, heard fanfares through human skulls. Alexander had merely resurrected an age of Pharaohs, their wisdom, truly immortal, now inspired me. What intellectual magnificence their system encouraged.. Ptolemy seeking the universe's pivot from his light-house at Pharos, Eratosthenes, measuring the world using only shadows… their greatest secrets entrusted to their servants, buried alive with them in sand-flooded chambers. Adopting Ramses the Second's Greek name and Alexander's free-booting style, I resolved to apply antiquity's teachings to today's world. Thus began my path to conquest… conquest not of men. But of evils that beset them. Today, that conquest becomes assured, in which your questioning assistance has proven invaluable. Do you comprehend the triumph which you have contributed, the secret glory that it affords? Do you understand my shame at so inadequate a reward?” -Alan Moore, Watchmen A single bitter tear drips down my cheek, falling to the polished stone floor with a half-hearted plop. I am unsure, my normally concrete determination unsettled by inklings of doubt. Has my will weakened so soon? Have I surrendered to uncertainty so quickly? The screens roar the news of an entire planet, urging me to hark everything they desperately yell, to observe the pixels they so desperately want me to see. To my right, a reporter yells over the sound of gunfire, to my left, a droning voice reads information concerning the social tumult of the all-important United States, even when their own country is in political turmoil. Turning from the screens, I observe the glass displays that line my Antarctic abode, filled with relics and artifacts whose very existence is unknown to the world. The centerpiece of my collection instantly attracts my eyes, its blade gleaming in the natural, soothing crimson light of fire. The sword of Alexander of Macedonia. Not only once the ruler of a sizeable portion of the world, but ruler of what most considered a controlled, orderly world. Yet it was not a perfect world. There was needless death, there was ego-driven war between his and other nations. For so many years, I worshiped that man. I thought of him as a god, whose history was the story of the world’s greatest and smartest man. I find myself incapable of worshiping anyone now, least of all myself. Me, a hero styled after Alexander the Great, my name the Greek name adopted by Ramses the Second. It was not so long ago that my body was controlled not by my mind, but my ego, which drove me to worthless and unimportant activities. It was during those years that I met Edward Blake. He was a brute of a man, but he said something to me that will always change me. He told me how I was, like the rest of this world, doomed to be ashes when the thermonuclear weaponry of this world’s nations descended upon the earth. He made me realize that I would not be left miraculously standing when others were little but cinders. It was then that I resolved to do what Alexander could not. It was then that I began to plan, to plot, to harden my heart. Now, the conclusion of my plan is at hand. Now, a masterstroke is about to be dealt onto an unsuspecting world. Now, the balance of the world is in my hands. Now, I sacrifice the lives of millions, for the lives of an entire world. * * * Silent, I watch the monitors as the reporters flounder with confusion at what has occurred. Beyond the microphone-holding bringers of news to millions, I see humans in agony. Crying, weeping and screaming obscenities to the skies, they walk the broken and shattered streets as if dazed, staring glass-eyed at the world around them. In the distance, I hear footsteps. Shutting the screens off, I turn, and begin to walk away. In a moment I am seated at my table, a prepared meal set before me, now cold and tasteless, though I doubt I would find it anymore appealing if it were not. Kovacs and Dreiberg are approaching now, from behind; they think themselves stealthy, no doubt. I chew my food slowly, hating the taste of it. I steel myself for what is to come. I have made the sacrifice already; I have endured the pain, not for my profit, but for the profit of an entire planet. I created order from chaos, I brought forth light from darkness. I am Ozymandias, king of kings. I have conquered the evils that beset man, through the immortal wisdom of the Pharaohs. I am the world’s smartest man. "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
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STARS He tried to run. Once, back home, he would have flown. Now, he stumbled, scrambling furiously over the mountain of small rocks. He slipped once on a patch of yellow and landed hard on his stomach. A spiky rock missed penetrating his skull by a mere finger. He would have thanked the gods, but he couldn’t think about anything but running. And he ran. He ran till he could hear nothing but the pounding of his own feet, the gasping of his own breath. He ran till the sound of the waves swallowed the shouting of the men behind him. He wanted to stop and collapse till he could finally breathe again. But he kept running, mechanically, until he left the never-ending well of water behind him and was deep within the high walls of stone. Then his legs gave way. He lied there beside the sandy path, half-covered in a tangle of greenery. His chest heaved, and his legs trembled. The sun shone weakly down upon him, its feeble rays failing to warm his body as the damp cold wind grew stronger. He licked his parched lips and reached for the water sack he attached to the rope cord about his waist. Thankfully, water was plentiful here. Warmth proved more difficult to find. And without it, the man would die. He grasped at the vines embedded in the rock wall, pulling himself to his feet. The wind fought his every stride and beat against his chest. These were strong, but he had felt worse in his homeland. They were fearsome golden windstorms, stirring up the sand and blinding everyone within their paths. But there, men’s homes were stronger, their eyes sharper. He finally reached the makeshift hut tucked into the side of the rock. The interior of the shelter was protected on three sides by stone. One blanket stretched over the top, and a second served as a rug on the hard, rocky ground. The man lay on the blanket, his eyes staring blankly and his mind wandering on sands a desert away. His skin was warm but no longer blazing like a small fire. Perhaps the man would see his children again. He held the water pouch out. “Water,” he said softly. The man didn’t seem to hear him. “Water,” he repeated, louder, as he dangled it by the man’s head. When the man didn’t respond, he set the pouch on the ground. Then, taking a deep breath, he slowly un-wrapped the strip of cloth from the man’s foot. The gaping wound a finger long was still oozing a foul-smelling yellow pus. He grimaced as he examined it. If anything, it looked as though the purplish red area around the wound had grown larger. He wished he could heal the man, but he was young. He could only care for his camel’s wounds as they journeyed to the villages. Perhaps his mother or one of the healers from his homeland could have drawn out the poisons that snaked their way through the man’s body. And even they might not have known which were the healing leaves or roots in this plant-laden land. After pouring water over the wound, he rewrapped it in a fresh strip of cloth and began to prepare the evening fire. He made it a small fire, as he was taught. His grandfather repeatedly said a cold man was never warmed by a large fire – he was too afraid of being burned alive to crouch close to the life-giving flames. Darkness settled quickly, hanging heavily over the night like a black fog. He longed for a glimpse of the stars, but the evil men could recapture him if he ventured out. He jerked alert at the sound from the makeshift tent. The man’s breathing was loud. The air fought to leave his mouth with a wheezing struggle. For once, his eyes were sharp. His gaze was alert. The man grabbed onto his hand, and his grip was strong. “Tell them.” He started at the words. This was the first the man had said in days. “My son is a strong man. His body is strong. And his heart is strong.” Pride drowned out the pain in his eyes. “And my daughters…They are beautiful, as their mother was.” He gasped for another breath. “Her eyes, like the stars. Tell them.” He leaned close as the man’s voice grew softer. “What do you wish I tell them?” The man’s grip tightened, and the longing in his face increased. “Tell them.” He felt a pang of hurt for this man he met on the ship. He hurt for the man, for his son and daughters whose father was stolen from them. The man drew another breath, painfully. “I – I will see them. Tell them.” He squeezed the man’s hand and pressed it to his strong chest. “On my life.” The man’s eyes were shining. “I will.” His words were faint. He hurt for the man who would never see the stars again. “I –” the man’s voice broke. He held his breath. “I am coming home.” And all was silent. **** -JG
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This is my entry for the FFM contest "Find the Power" It is also a brief tale about Kranos. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Just yesterday, I was a handsome Av-Matoran. Now, I'm a monster. A small, green and black Matoran thought as he sat down in his cave. What will I do now? Both sides hate me. All I can do is sit here and fight my own battles. "Hello Kranos." A familiar voice said. "Made a decision yet?" "No." Kranos replied flatly. "And it doesn't matter what you think. You're dead." "Oh come on. If I were dead, then how could I be here?" The voice said, stepping out of the shadow. "Zek, you died five weeks ago when the Makuta first attacked. I know because I saw you roll off that cliff and plummet into the swamps below. No one could have survived that." Kranos said. "And yet, I am here." Zek said. "No, you're not." Kranos said, annoyed. "You're just a figment of my imagination." "Oh really? Prove it." Zek said, snickering. How Kranos would love to pick up his sword and stab this ghost. But that was the evil talking. Five weeks ago, the Makuta began their assault on Karda Nui. Zek, Kranos, Kirop, Radiak, and Gavla had all been struck by Shadow Leaches, creatures that sucked the light out of you, leaving nothing but a shell full of darkness, hate, and evil. Zek had rolled off of a cliff in his agony and fallen at least forty-thousand feet into the swamps below, where the beasts that dwell down there would feast on his flesh. Kranos had ripped the leach off of his face before he lost his mind. At least, not all of his mind. Kranos' body had changed, but his mind was in a state where a perpetual conflict existed. A battle between good and evil; light and darkness. How easy it would be to let the evil take over, but Kranos would not allow that to happen. He would fight to find the power to keep the darkness at bay until he could find a cure. "Well? What are you waiting for Kranos. Kill me." Zek said. "I can't kill you. You're not real Zek." Kranos said. "Nice try, Makuta." He finished as Zek disappeared. "You're right, misfit. You can't kill him. But I can kill you." The Makuta said as he dropped from the cave ceiling. "This will be extremely fun. But I'll give you one last chance to side with the Makuta." "Why would I do that after what you did to me?" Kranos said, drawing his sword. 'What I did to you? I made you stronger, faster, deadlier. I made you perfect." The Makuta sneered. "Perfect? I'm anything but perfect." Kranos said, edging closer to the dark entity. "Well then, it's been nice knowing you, Kranos." The Makuta said. It was a fierce battle between Kranos and the Makuta. But in the end, with a sword though his thigh, Kranos fell. "Farewell, Kranos. My work is done." The Makuta said as he flew away. White was in the edges of Kranos' eyes, he knew that his time had come. Thank you, Makuta. Kranos said, he didn't even think that he would ever say those words. But the Makuta had ended his suffering and helped Kranos find the power to follow the light. Kranos lay still on the cold, hard ground, greeting Zek on the edges of reality. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Please C&C!
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-Prelude to Darkness- He stood silently, his face a mask of impassivity, watching motionlessly as the golden orb of light sluggishly sunk behind distant rolling hills. The shadows seemed to whisper dark, cruel promises of pain to him, as the crept from the undersides of objects, shades of life born again in darkness. Warmth had turned to cold, happiness to sorrow, dinner jackets and tuxedos to sackcloth and rags, riches to poverty. His cigarette butt glowed, incandescent. The smoke curled from the tips of his mouth as he breathed, inhaling and then exhaling death. All was silent, all was in cloaked in the abyssal shadows. The hand grasping the bottle shook slightly, tremors of uncertainty, barely contained fear of the unknown seeping through a façade of dispassion. The vodka inside sloshed around, the lapping of waves against cliffs of glass. No tears fell, no strangled cry broke the silence. He inhaled. He exhaled. The gray, smoke lazily swirled skywards, reaching towards the crescent moon above. He watched the stars appear, dots of light in the indigo night sky. It was cold, bitter, biting, cruel, and numbing. The half-melted snow lied; Spring had yet to come. Winter’s icy grasp still had an iron core. The twinkling stars above seemed so cold in their brightness, and the moon so dismal and small, that is was little wonder that both light and heat was scarce. As he trudged through the snowy streets, devoid of life or warmth, the mere half liter of vodka continued to slosh, the dinner jackets continued to be sack cloth, and the riches he so fondly dreamed of continued to stay cloaked in dreary, bleak poverty. As he stared at the vacant stores’ displays, half-empty and half-rotting, vestiges of a better time, of happiness and money, he took another smoky breath, and another gulp of the fiery water known as vodka, the distilled potatoes that served as a feeble alternative in the absence of a warm embrace, or the smile of a friend. It was a small comfort, a layer of callous numbness to suppress the gnawing hunger and the turmoil of emotions. He continued down the derelict avenues and alley ways, he dwelt on half-forgotten things, memories and dreams, best left suppressed. The dreams, they hinted at better days, and teased him with previously forgotten memories, happy daydreams of the past, and then brutally tore them from his mind, leaving him painfully empty. The memories were of fire and rivers of blood, screams and pain, loved ones ripped from his arms as he stared on, unable to act as he watched their faces contort with an agony unspeakable. The skyscrapers stood as lonely sentinels of the night, no longer adorned with flashing and twinkling lights, their pride and beauty removed, as absent as their previous caretakers. Beneath their shadows, he laid down to sleep, a broken man finding refugee beneath a broken roof. Night gave way to day, and he awoke to the tingling of the sun’s heat on numb, frozen skin. It wasn’t a comfort to a dying man; it merely was a cruel promise of one more day of pain and heat, one more serene sunset of lukewarm emotion, and one more night of death and cold. It wasn’t the nights that hurt the worst; it was the sunsets, the remembering of terrible things, and the prelude to darkness. * * *This was literally flash fiction; I churned it out in less than half an hour. Don't be any less critizing because of that, though. A writer needs all the critiquing they can acquire.
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The piercing scream of a, probably last, member of a moribund species shattered the frozen, paralytic silence of the Nindortharn Pass and was then suddenly cut short by the termination of the last individual of this species. Typically, this was anything but a quiet pass. Typically, every lovely morning, dozens of people trekked down this road by the river Algorich, making their way beyond the Valley of Nindor and on to the Thaesterian lowlands. This was a relatively notable trade artery that axed through the valley, nudging the only local major city of Nindorlach and pressing on northeastward into the wastelands. Merchants who sought to set up trade relations with the northerners and the orcs (although a common joke in the Nindor said there was really no difference) often took this path to avoid gnome country and the resultant cross-border taxation. Tonight wasn’t quiet, yes, but it wasn’t typical, either. Lightning slashed the sky and the water of the river Algorich tumultuously whirled round and round – up, up and out of the actual riverbed. This resultant column of water then swung round, aiming for the head of an unfortunate individual not too far away – well, not too unfortunate. Drawing a two-handed sword, this individual spun round, drawing a wide arc in the air. His weapon glowed like a thousand suns in the darkest night, and the column broke. It shattered in midflight as the wind howled, carrying a million water drops – the spawn of that collapsed column – off to parts unknown. He wasn’t a tall man, barely taller than an average fourteen year old. His wind-weathered face spoke of a hundred battles, this one being merely, by his expression, a trifle. He had a short nose and dark (albeit slowly graying), short hair, barely going further down than his ears, wore a suit of plate armor and looked as if his best days were long gone, or he was at least telling himself as much. Lightning struck, again, but this time not from the skies, but from the left hand of a cloaked figure standing about a hundred paces away. In the right one they grasped an ethereal, translucent sword with a bright purple glow. The swordsman jumped out of the path of the lightning bolt, letting another participant of this surreal battle take point. She wore no armor; just a plain dark green robe that would’ve offered her no protection from swords or axes. She was young – definitely younger than the swordsman – and youth, in all its splendor, still shone from her gentle, beautiful face, and from the bright red, living color of her long hair. Raising her hand in a clenched fist, she quickly made a set of signs in the air, drawing wide arcs with her fingers. Stretching out her left hand, she, herself, flung a lightning bolt at the one rapidly approaching her. The bolts collided and shattered, making way for the fourth combatant in this battle of the supernatural and supralogical. He wasn’t tall, either. It was usually rare for an elf to be taller than a human, it often being vice-versa. Wearing a suit of leather armor, an expression of mild irritation and a head of spiky, silver-white hair (by no means in any way implying that he was old), this Elven youth charged the cloaked figure, devouring those hundred paces as if they were hamburgers, broadsword in one hand, dagger in the other. The wind seemed to blow in the precisely right direction tonight as it swept after the elf, urging him on. Naturally, the cloaked figure wasn’t going to stand down as easily. A sequence of three fireballs flew at the whitehair, who, arm stretched out to the right, rolled aside, using his hand as leverage to jump back to his feet as if nothing had happened and push himself back into a sprint forward. On the left hand side of this battlefield, the two-hand swordsman joined him in this charge, although his heavy armor and sword made him significantly slower. The cloaked figure, in their confusion and being caught off guard, found themselves doing the one logical thing they still could – spikes from the ground. Making two quick palm movements in the air, the trio’s opponent uprooted the earth itself, making large stone formations as sharp as daggers emerge from the ground right in the paths of the two swordsmen. Unfortunately to the figure, that was precisely what they were expecting. The whitehair elf fell forward as the spikes rose. For a moment, you’d have been expecting him to take one right through the heart. However, an elf was not a human, and that had certain extra bonuses when it came to agility. His hand stretched out, grasping at this forming stalagmite’s tip, and in an action almost too quick to make out, he handwalked his way over the spike. The cloaked magician was, needless to say, surprised; but that did not stop him from getting his act back together quick enough to face the elf, ready for a duel with ethereal sword in hand. The elf stood, facing the figure, and, almost absentmindedly, puffed slightly upwards, towards a loose strand of his hair. “Well, now,” he muttered, “that was interesting. Never thought I could do that. Well. Let’s get on with your skewering into pieces, then, ar’taith.” The piercing scream of a member of another moribund species pierced and shattered the silence of the Nindortharn Pass. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- “As they say in Dhasallia,” the white-haired elf said, placing three tankards nigh overflowing with ale on a table in a dark, damp room in an equally dark, equally damp tavern before his two comrades, “good work, guys. Another two or three such jobs and we’ll be able to relax a while. Maybe buy a villa somewhere down south.” Tara – for that was the name of the redhead mage member of this group – sighed. Every time they even so vaguely spoke of future plans, her Elven brother-in-arms would mention a villa in the south, and his eyes would glaze over with dreams of such a villa. She didn’t mind it in any way, it’s just that whenever asked why this villa mattered so much, he’d say nothing but, ‘No reason’ and that irked her quite a lot, because she felt like, for some reason, she needed to know. “Pipe dreams, Aercadh,” the older man muttered under his nose, “I thought we agreed. We reach our goal of two thousand gold crowns, and then I quit. Get out of Thaesteria, get out of these wild borderlands and, taking half of that, I head south and back home to Dhasallia, where I would finally retire. You two, splitting those two quarters left, won’t afford a villa down in the south. Think of how far it is, how much the food’s gonna cost, how much---“ “Enough, Darmod, I get it.” Darmod. That was an interesting name, thought Aercadh. It wasn’t Dhasallian, certainly, despite Darmod continuously claiming he was from there. It might’ve been some human barbarization of the elvish name Diarmuidh, or one of its variants. Not exactly the sort of name that hints at one’s origins. Such names often occured within families of mixed human and Elven roots, or within Elven families that had gotten slightly better off and adapted better to human society – but Darmod looked neither Elven nor half-Elven by any standard. Aercadh, himself, came from the west of Thaesteria, from a small Elven ghetto in an even smaller town popularly referred to as a hellhole. Every morning you would be roused from your sleep by a scent best described as an amalgamation of the subtle textures of dog dung and cow fart, and as you walked down the street you had to be careful not to trip over sleeping hobos. The bright side of living there – the only bright side – was that the ghetto’s population constituting an overall majority of the town’s inhabitants, there was no real notable discrimination against elves. Well, except on holidays. Tradition. “Irrespective of what we’ll actually do with the money,” Tara muttered, rousing the other two from their respective moments of being lost in thought, “we still need to earn it. And I rather hope that you won’t waste what we earned today on ale. These are the last pints you’re getting today.” These words provoked a low if only slightly amused whine from Aercadh. “Tara, you’re such a spoilsport---” “No, shut up, Aercadh. You know very well what happens when you start drinking.” Aercadh let out another low grovel and shot Tara an amused smile. “Fine,” he finally said and took a gulp from his pint. Tara sighed, and shot a look out the inn’s window, where, in the distant east, the sun was starting a weary, slow ascent through the sky. “Tara,” he said, quietly, “what will you do with your part of the money?” “My part of the money?” she echoed, a curious expression on her face, as she seemingly drifted away from the conversation entirely, her eyes distant and glazed with an air that only dreamers ever have. “Well,” she said awhile later, “I think I’d just do what I’m doing right now. Doing whatever I can to survive. The Order of Magi doesn’t like illegal mages like me, remember? Sitting in one place is unhealthy for me.” “You’re a pretty sad person,” Aercadh replied, simply, his face remarkably serious for that sort of statement. “What?” “I mean, really. You can’t ever have a home. Tara, you say sitting in one place is literally unhealthy to you, and that’s pretty darn true – well, you’re gonna die if you sit in one place, yeah. Someone’s gonna come around and cleave your pretty head off. But not sitting in one place, never… is really unhealthy to anyone, Tara. Settling down is a thing you ought to do sometime. And you can’t even do that, because that particular option was forcibly taken from you.” Tara opened her mouth, closed it again, and then just smiled. A smile incredibly shy for her. “Wow, Aercadh, that was pretty intelligent for you. I’m surprised. Pleasantly.” “It’s the ale. Like you said. I really shouldn’t drink more.” She laughed. Aercadh laughed, too. Even old man Darmod managed a grin, and out the window, the sun finally emerged from beyond the horizon. “Okay, fine,” Tara said, a few moments later, and grinned. “You can have one more pint.” -----------------This is one of those short stories which, after writing, I find myself asking, "What the heck was I trying to say with this?" - there's no overarching plot nor plot twist, just the introduction of three characters and a battle scene. Then again, most of my short stories tend to be either experimental or... practice, so it worked quite well in that regard. Anyway. Comments appreciated. -Dovydas
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Emptiness. Vacuum. Darkness. Guilt. I could feel nothing but the tide of sorrow and shame washing over me, drowning me in a wave of endless white nights. Then suddenly a spurt of red brought focus back in my flickering eyesight. Colour flooded my vision as agony coursed up my arm. Droplets of crimson dripping. Tears of ruby trickling. A rivulet of beautiful life spilling down my sleeve, riveting my eyes by the stark red. I gasped in pain and I smiled. This was more like it. I was a cutter. A masochist, taking pleasure in my own pain, revelling in every drop of blood that emerged, every stroke of pain I inflicted on myself. It was the only way I knew to deal with the pain inside. Most people don’t understand what being a cutter really means. They call us selfish cowards, emo punks, and a good deal more. They mutter and point at us like we’re some freakish animal. They don’t know what it’s like. People like to pretend that there’s something wrong with us, that normal teens don’t do this. That it’s our fault. The real tragedy is how many cutters believe them. Nobody likes unhappy people. They avoid us, the broken problem people. That’s why most of us hide it. We say that an imaginary cat scratched us, that it was an accident. We pretend to be normal just to avoid the mocking eyes and cruel words that drove us to it in the first place. Do you know what it’s like, having to say everything’s okay, when you want to scream it’s not? Placing an artificial nylon smile on your face? Pretending every single day of your life, with everyone. Getting up and facing the world when the only thought in your mind is the knife you hid in your room. The beautifully sharp knife, the only escape offered you. Your only friend. Do you know what I’m trying to say? No, you don’t know. You can’t know unless you’ve been there. So don’t give me that I know what you mean . I know what you’re going to say. I should see a psychiatrist. Do you think I haven’t? I know all the doctors in the hospital by name now. They just want you pop packets upon packets of pills, they just want to medicate you out of your mind. Change you in someone else. Well, that’s alright, you say, surely being someone else is better than having so much pain? It isn’t. It never will be. Because when you stare into the mirror and see a stranger in those blank eyes, that’s the worst pain of all. Your friends cry and cajole, plead and pray. Pray for someone to fix this problem. Pray for someone to fix you. Coaxing promises out of you that you know you can never keep. Raging at you when they see a fresh bandage, even though you tell them it wasn’t intentional. Blaming you for not trying hard enough. Then slowly turning away, until you just become a piece of gossip to them, no longer a person, no longer a friend. And that’s how you have no one to turn to. Every night, you feel the hurt and sorrow well up inside, bursting its banks like a river flooding. But you can’t cry until you release it somehow. So you do what you must and feel the pain wash over, gasping with relief. It’s addictive. It’s easy to become a cutter, hard to stop. The brain produces endorphins in response to the pain and soon, you need it. You need to hurt yourself, just to feel the blessed cure. You need the pain. But then they take away your knife, pencil sharpener, water glass, anything you can use to hurt yourself. They file your nails so you can’t scratch yourself. They give you blunt pencils. So you learn to hurt yourself with the only things they can’t take away: your teeth. You bite your tongue and cheek, savouring the rich metallic tang that fills your mouth. Cycles of pain, cycles of blood and cycles of secrets and lies. You never talk about it. You have no way of getting help, because if you try, you’re an attention-seeker. But you need it desperately. You need a hand to pull you from the abyss. No man is an island entire of itself. You need someone to help you. Not to judge you, not to pity you, not to fix you. To help you as an equal. To treat you like you’re normal. I had someone. It wasn’t an easy journey but today it’s been three years since I last hurt myself deliberately. It took three years to learn to accept myself. It took three years to stop eyeing others with suspicion and fear. It took three years to realise I had no reason to be ashamed for who I am and that I am more than they say I am. Laugh at me now and I won’t wince. Insult me and I’ll smile. Call me a cutter now and I’ll positively beam. Because I’m glad I was a cutter. Now I no longer hide my scars, both within and without. I am who I am and the wounds remember who I was. They are disfigurements to most eyes but I wear my battle scars with pride, because to me they spell out a simple message. I made it. I fought for my life and I won. I’m alive. People all around me have died, but I still live, happy and whole once more. Can there be a greater victory than the battle within yourself? It has been dark but it is now dawn.
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To all the men and women of America who served, serves, or will serve their nation. Heroism defies spatio-temporality. The somber fingers of night crept into my tent. Outside it was so positively dark that there was no light to enter through the flap, leaving whatever did so devoid of any illumination that it was merely a brighter hue of shadow. But even with so little to see by, I could not sleep. My mind pulsed with memories of what I had left behind and what I might never see again. I saw a frenzy of bloody scenes, images of violence and terror and destruction that made my heart race. When I opened my eyes to distract them there only a void around me. I tried not to think … I didn't want to think … I wanted to be far away … With a sigh I heaved myself to my feet and emerged into the night air. It was warm, but there was a sobering breeze for balance. As temperate as a summer's day … My thoughts were interrupted by a cry from somewhere within the camp, a prisoner's wail. It started out low like a gurgle, rolling into a level shriek, then shattering into a fitful waver from pitch to pitch until it finally died away. For as long as it had lasted my mind had become consumed by it. It had dragged me into its abyss of misery as if it were all that existed. Now in the regathering hush I found myself back in Afghanistan. Not that that was much better. I was shivering convulsively. Forcibly I calmed my ruffled mind and turned it to other things: reminiscences, desires, dreams, anything but the reality of the present. I sat or I fell, it could be put either way. One way or another I came to a cross-legged position in the dirt, and after brushing a sharp stone from underneath my ankle I lifted my eyes to the sky. The stars glowed brighter than I had ever seen them; they were the only light within miles. I searched them for constellations, but I wasn't familiar with the night sky here. It was like someone you had never met but who reminded you of an old friend. Yet they were not; these were not my friends. They were strangers, cold and foreign. During my life I had become intimate with my stars. They had been nocturnal companions, there with me when I was alone in the darkness to console and advise me. Before my marriage they had belonged to me in the darkness; now they belonged to the both of us. But she was not here, and even when I looked for my stars I could not find them. I tried to peer behind them, piercing the heavenly veil to see what lay beyond … "Here more than anywhere," I murmured, "you should be able to hear me. Can you?" The breeze stirred, becoming stronger. On its currents soared a sound, which at first I could not identify; then it became a voice, like the ringing of distant bells or the singing of birds. A smile crept upon my lips. I said, "You're right. He always can. But can you?" Fingers of air brushed along my arm. I took them in my hand, gingerly wrapping my own fingers around the ether. "I know you can." I said, "I'm sure I don't have to say this. But I miss you." … "What do you mean? You're my wife, why shouldn't I miss you?" … "But we're not together. I'm here, and you're back home--" … "What's that supposed to mean?" … "But I am here, right now. How can I--" I sighed as she interrupted again. "All right, all right. Time and place has nothing to do with this--with us." … "Beyond the four dimensions, I like that. This isn't spatio-temporal. We're above that." … "Look, just because you're wiser and smarter than I am, you don't have to act like a guru. I know you are." … "Don't say that. You are and you know it. We both know it." … I laughed. "Don't bother to deny it. I don't believe a word of your modesty. I know you too well. I love you too much." The air stilled. I sighed, planting an elbow on my knee and resting my chin in my palm. "I must be crazy, sitting alone in the night and talking to someone on the other end of the world." The wind picked up into a violent gust that nearly blinded me with sand. "Okay, I'm sorry! It's just hard to feel like I'm not alone. You must know that. You must be feeling the same." … "Am I forgiven?" … "I love you." Without a pause I added, "The stars are beautiful tonight." … "No they're not always. Only when I'm with you." … "You're right. They always are, then." I swept a hand across the sky as if to gather all the heavenly lamps into my grasp. I held out my hand to her again, and her fingers brushed up all the moondust. We didn't say much more. In a state that defies time and space, topics of conversation that pertain to either become null. Besides, such a state is too precious to waste talking too much. Each moment seemed an eternity of quiet ecstasy. I just wanted to savor every one before morning. When a yawn sundered my lips, sending tremors throughout my body, I knew it was time to turn in. "You're still there, aren't you?" … "Sorry, it was a stupid question. I'm practically asleep, I can't think straight. I should be going back to bed, I guess. Big day tomorrow." … "I just want to tell you one more thing before I go." … "I think you were right. Or are. Probably doesn't matter which. If our love defies spatio-temporality like you said, it defies tense, too. Were, are, will be, doesn't matter. No, I know you're right. Our love isn't here or there or now and then, but ubiquitous and always. … Oh, I know I sound ridiculous, but you make a poet out of me." … "I didn't say a very good poet. You say these things better. I'm trying to think of the right word to put it all in, but I can't think of one. Our love--it's--it's--" … "Ethereal. Yes, that's the word." … "I love you. And you don't have to say anything more … because I know you love me, too. I'll come back to you, alive, don't worry about that. But not until I've done something to make the world a better place for you to live in." … "All right. For us to live in." Her tone was as smooth as the aery stars, washing over my heart and lifting it up into the Heavens. Warmer than the breeze but as soft, her breath tickled my ear as she whispered, "Be safe, love. I just want you home. I don't need a hero." "With your strength behind me, you'll have both." I brought my hand to my face. My lips met my palm in a yearning kiss, and I let the wind carry it away. It was the best I could do for now. But I would do better. "Good night, darling." I'm not sure which of us said it or whether we both did. Saying nothing more I rose and returned to my tent. Sleep took me into its embrace, as welcoming and warm as my wife's waiting arms. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith
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I lie awake in the middle of the night and listen to the rain, waiting for dawn. It's not coming, of course. Belligerently so, daylight refuses to rise from beyond the city skyline dominating the distant, foreign horizon. Like a pagan goddess, she rejects all of her worshippers' pleas without so much as hearing a single word escape their lips, rejects those pleas elegantly, with the world's greatest pretense of kindness. There will be no dawn for me. What I feel right now is a precise, factory-made, carbon copy of the feelings of a man stuck beyond life and beyond death, imprisoned in purgatory with neither heaven nor inferno willing to claim him. There is simply no future left for me. God himself has forsaken me. What should I expect? I did not serve him, no more than I served any prince or peer, no more than I served the Tsar – that would mean I did not serve him at all. Fealty I swore to none save the people and the land, and to no heaven but the one we would make for our children. And yet, I have no regrets. Even if God has forsaken me, I do not regret what I have fought for. I do not regret that I have forsaken Him. I regret nothing but my failure to bring the people a future where no one dares wrong them. I will see no dawn, and I know it. The enemy is coming; I feel their footsteps shake the ground from miles away. I feel their breath pollute the damp air of the night. I feel their hate, I remember their treason, and I fear for the fates of a million children under their reign. I do not fear for myself. I have no reason to worry about something as meaningless as my life. Falling to the cold, hard ground, I attempt the meaningless action of a grasp at the floorboards of my apartment room. They are probably racing down this calm avenue right now, I know as much. Some, who have never been in our situation, might say we were foolish, might say we fought the wrong wars and fought tyrants only for new ones to arise, in no small part due to our own errors. Might say we didn't stop what was imminent even when we knew it was. But our struggle I would never sell for any price on this earth. We failed, ultimately, yes. So what? Were we wrong? All we wanted was that the children of our children would live better lives than we had. We fought for a better world, a world we thought and still think worth dying for. My hands, absentmindedly scratching at the wooden floor of my apartment, inadvertely chance upon the loose floorboard under which I used to keep my subversive literature and "revolutionary equipment," back when I still had to hide it. Hastily, as if urged on by some spirit, I remove the boards. There lies a copy of Marx's Das Kapital1, and one of Chernyshevsky's What Is To Be Done?2Two revolvers, one still loaded. And a flag, red and bright as blood, defaced with the words, "In struggle you claim your rights."3 All is silent. My executioners refuse to arrive, refuse to claim their victory, refuse to be merciful. They refuse to let me have my death. This is Butyrka Prison4 all over again. The most horrifying thing about that old prison was never the treatment they gave us, no. It was the knowledge that you would, a week later, be executed. Even if that execution never came, the prison guards and leadership created a fantastically vivid image of its inevitability. Every Monday morning, my cellmate, Alexei, himself an SR5 imprisoned for trying to assassinate Tsarist officials, just like me, would sit up in his bed and say, more to God than to anyone else, “Are they killing us yet?” Death never came. No matter how many days we waited for them to come and kill us, death never came. That, more than anything, drove Alexei crazy. Every waking moment he spent in that cell, every moment that he knew he could die, drove him insane. A month after we came to Butyrka, he had already started talking delusions. “I hear demons, Yaakov. Every night, they call to me.” It was horrific to see Alexei that way back then, yes… but now, more than ever, I see just how horrific it was to him. For I, too, hear demons, now. I wish they would just come and deliver me from this horror; end my miserable life, and free me to an afterlife I do not believe in. No God can help me anymore, for all gods I have forsaken. No revolution will free me from this prison of my mind, like it freed me from Butyrka. No revolution will free me from a blade of unfair judgment today. All I was… was a dreamer. And now, the only thing that still clasps me to my sanity is the same thing I repeated before sleep every night in prison. “’Tis in struggle that you claim your rights.” I mutter it a hundred times under my nose, my breaths growing weaker as my head spins, my hands desperately clutching at the floor, simultaneously defying the increased sense of gravity that is dragging me ever closer to the ground. I do, it turns out, in fact, fear death. I fear the cold world outside which has betrayed my people and defied my revolution. I fear the cold world outside that, without any regret present in its mind, is driving itself toward destruction, where the masses are coldly guided into killing fields as humanity sells peace and love for blood and iron. “In struggle you claim your rights.” I repeat the words, as if they would help me, as tears well up in my eyes. I have no regrets on the type of life I chose to lead, yes. But what of those I loved? “In struggle… you claim…” I thought of all of those people, my head spinning so fast I literally thought I was falling. The world seemed to twist and meld, the colors mixing in the strangest fashions as a single lone teardrop of mine landed on the copy of Das Kapital I kept under my floorboard. All those people. My brother. My sister. My father, my cousin, my mother. All of them have suffered way too much for it to be reasonable. Why? What world could do this? “You are meant for great things, Kapel6.” The sudden memory of my father hit me so suddenly, so radically that I couldn't help but simply gasp. Within moments, I was overwhelmed by this unexpected image and found myself living through that moment of my childhood, some time long, long, long ago, lost in the vividness of the picture. “Here’s a thing the rabbi doesn’t tell you, except when he’s drunk and upset about his daughter marrying that Ukrainian kid. God could’ve done much better at making this world. Another thing he will never tell you: people like you, like your brother, like your sister and like millions of others that are there are the ones who will correct his mistakes. Ordinary people. People who try to do what’s right by everyone.” “You will change this world, Kapel. You and millions like you.” “In struggle…” “… You claim your rights,” I whisper to myself, my tears swept away as if by a hurricane. My eyes pass over the room, and I feel as if I see it for the first time. I was not just a dreamer. I was one of millions of people who try to do what’s right by everyone. I fought against oppression and was victorious! For a moment, I was victorious. That moment the people, the people, that ultimate article of civilization that I truly believe in, rose up and freed me from Butyrka, I was victorious, because like millions of other ordinary people, I had shown the world what I always have believed: that no matter how much power over the people you accumulate, the people always have more! And no one will take that from me! I am not a hero. I am merely one of millions. I may die tonight, but others will always take my place, because while power runs out, the people are legion! And I must not flee, not ever; because it is this cause - justice and freedom for the people - that I have fought for all my life and my loved ones have died for. Their sacrifice, my sacrifices, all Russia’s sacrifices will not be in vain. I hear them knock on my door. I know it’s them. My first-floor neighbor already phoned me to tell me they’re coming. It doesn’t matter; they will not take me alive. I will only fall of my own volition. They will start breaking down the door in approximately two minutes of continued knocking. I haven’t much time. Seizing this opportunity, I reach for the red flag under my floorboard and cloak myself with it, clasping it round my neck with a set of good-enough knots. It is then that the CHEKA smash down the door with a crash, and it is then that I scream three words, just three words. Three words that I think worth dying for. “Land and Liberty!"7 I scream. I scream as they jump towards me. I scream as I pull the trigger of that one loaded revolver I have, now placed at my temple. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Well, BZPower, what can I tell you? I'm back. It's been awhile since I actually posted anything even vaguely artistic here. It's been a long while indeed. Now, this is, as you may understand (or not) by now, a historical fiction work. It is set somewhere in the time period between 1918 and 1920 in Russia, and as a historical fiction work, I think it deserves a few footnotes to explain the more historical, often subtle, references of this work. 1) One of two of Karl Marx’s most famous works, ‘The Capital’ – his economic analysis of capitalism 2) 1863 novel by Nikolai Chernyshevsky. Significantly radicalized Russia‘s democratic and liberal forces of the time, turned many of the middle class against the Tsar's rule. 3) The Socialist-Revolutionary Party of Russia’s slogan (Russian: "В борьбе обретешь ты право свое!") 4) Tsarist Russia‘s prime prison, used to keep political prisoners. 5) The Socialist-Revolutionary Party was Russia‘s primary democratic socialist force at the time of the February Revolution of 1917, alongside the Mensheviks. Unlike the Mensheviks and the Bolsheviks, it did not consider itself Marxist (although some of its leaders did) and had huge support in the nation, mainly due to its policy of land socialization (land was to be redistributed from the wealthy landowners to the landless peasants). After the October Revolution, despite the Bolsheviks now being in power, the SRs managed to secure an absolute majority of seats in Russia‘s Constituent Assembly (53%). The Constituent Assembly, however, was disbanded a day later by force and the SRs were continuously marginalized and/or persecuted. 6) Common Yiddish diminutive for ‘Yaakov’ 7) Also a popular SR slogan (Russian: земля и воля) Legal disclaimer: this story was not intended, and I wholeheartedly request, for fear of someone locking the topic, that people would refrain from using it as a reason to start political discussion (as the Bolshevik revolution remains a touchy subject in many places, Russia in particular) - I would prefer if we did not discuss the historical aspect of the story at all (or perhaps discuss it over PM, if someone so wishes?), and instead viewed it as any other short story. And yes, the posting of this story has been approved by the staff, even. This time period was intended as an interesting setting for a story, nothing more. So yeah, BZPower. Any thoughts? -Dovydas
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Hi guys, I've been toying around with this for a while now and I finished it! __________________________________________________________________________ Before there was time, there were the Great Beings. They created many worlds, masks, and creatures to inhabit the universe, but there was something missing. They needed someone to watch over these new creations, someone to protect them, someone to love them, and someone for the creations to look up to. Thus they created two rulers. A Toa of Time, Temporus. As well as a younger Toa of Life, Vitarus. They wore no Kanohi, but possessed full control over the gates of time, as well as the key of life. But peace cannot exist without chaos. An ever-present evil, slumbering in the void for eons, had awakened. It possessed no physical form, but existed in shadow. The shadow only existed to kill, deceive, and devour everything in its path. The two Toa fought valiantly against it, but they grew weaker every time they battled. In a final stand against the shadow, Temporus sealed the shadow behind the gates of time, and Vitarus locked it with the key of life. Thus there was peace amongst all of creation. But as mentioned before, peace cannot exist without chaos. Eventually Temporus, once a proud and noble protector, fell to selfish desires. He abused the great creation for his own gain, but he always wanted more. Keeping the shadow locked away in his element was not a wise choice, it made him stronger, yes. But it also corrupted him. Thus Temporus succumbed to the evil that was dwelling inside of him. Vitarus confronted him about it, demanding that he stop what he was doing. But Temporus had fallen too far; he struck down his younger brother and fled to the Far East. Vitarus could not allow his brother to continue his evil deeds. Brother or not, Vitarus had no choice but to kill Temporus. Vitarus walked throughout all of creation one last time. Once it was a beautiful place, but now creation lived in fear of destruction. Vitarus followed his brother’s well concealed trail to the void, the infinite emptiness where the shadow used to dwell. Vitarus called out to his brother one last time, demanding him to stop what he was doing. But the brother that Vitarus loved was no longer there. Now he was possessed by emptiness, shadow, and fear, the three elements that the both of them had battled for so long to purge from the beautiful creation. Seeing that he had no choice, Vitarus made the first strike, he cleaved off Temporus’ left arm. But Temporus paid no mind. Vitarus was releasing the shadow which longed to feast on the lives of others. Every time that Vitarus wounded Temporus, a shadow limb grew in its place. Vitarus had realized what he had done and immediately stopped. The shadow didn’t. It destroyed the last of Temporus’ body and materialized into a body of darkness. The shadow struck at Vitarus and nearly killed him. The shadow then gave Vitarus one chance to join him, but Vitarus believed in the same words that he had learned from the first day of life. Unity, duty, and destiny. Temporus then had an idea, “I stand united with my people!” He declared. The shadow withdrew, clearly weakened by the word. “My duty is to protect my people!” He said. The shadow responded by staggering back and howling in pain. “My destiny is to bring life, where there once was death!” He finished. The shadow was severely weakened by Vitarus’ brief speech. But it was persistent to have his way. The shadow and Vitarus battled fiercely with each other, both gaining a foothold in victory, and losing it abruptly. Mortally wounded by a cut going from his right eye across his chest, Vitarus released his remaining power and shut the shadow away in the void forever, sealing it with the symbol of unity, duty, and destiny. Vitarus perished that day, but the Great Beings immortalized him and his fallen brother in legends and masks. The legends were forgotten and the masks were lost. But one day, the mask of Time and the mask of Life would be found. And both of the Toa would live once again. _______________________________________________________________ Thanks for reading!
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Attic Treasure I PULLED FORCEFULLY ON the string, and with a whoosh the wooden stairs slid down, landing with a thump onto the carpeted floor. My body shook nervously – I knew it was forbidden for me to go up there. But my parents were away, and my curiosity finally got the best of me. I jumped down from the bed which I had mounted so I could reach the string, and quickly ran to the foot of the ladder. Looking up I could see nothing but a Cimmerian hole, so black that it seemed to suck all light from the room like a black hole. My palms sweated furiously, and for the umpteenth time I had second thoughts on my decision to disobey my parents. But I had made up my mind – or rather, my curiosity had – and started my ascent up the wooden rungs and into the attic. My foot slipped on the second rung from the sweat my feet were coated in and my face hit the bottom bar of the ladder. “Ow!” I cried out to no one in particular. Sometimes it just seemed to make it better to yell out when I was in pain. I was on the floor now, my legs sprawled in front of me. I rubbed my mouth and forehead gently, smearing a few drops of blood that had dripped from my nose onto my otherwise unblemished head. Tears began to form in my eyes, but I quickly shook them away. I was eight years old, after all. Much too old for tears, as my dad would say. And immediately the memories came rushing back. Memories of my Daddy; far too few memories. He had been gone for five months, off on another tour of duty for the United States Navy. Every moment he was home seemed happier for the whole family: me, Mommy, and even little Johnny who was still crawling. I missed him so much. He was the one who had first given me the idea of going up here, but my mom adamantly refused, muttering things like “he’s too young” and “maybe when he’s older” and “a boy his age shouldn’t see that.” I didn’t know what she meant, but it only piqued my interest more and now I could wait no more. I quickly stood up, rubbing my head again, knowing that I must hurry if I were to make it up and back down before my mom got home from grocery shopping. I took extra care to wipe my sweaty feet on the carpet and continued back up the ladder, toward the aphotic hole where I had no idea what awaited me. I took each step slowly, remembering what had happened the last time when I had tried to move too quickly; I didn’t want to fall again. My head emerged, and finally my eyes adjusted. I wasn’t nearly as nebulous as it looked from below; rays were flying upward from the hole the ladder was connected to in the floor. I climbed out of the portal completely, pulling myself up with my arms. I stood up, stumbling at first on my short legs, but gaining my bearings and observing the scene around me. Along the walls were many boxes, tables, shelves, and other various objects, each box with assorted items hanging out. To my right, in front of a large window covered in drapes, was a colossal telescope, easily twice my size. For a moment I simply stood there, gawking at its magnificence. Slowly, as if under their own power, my legs began to move, directing my body toward the gold and silver contraption. I was completely mesmerized, taken aback at the elegance of the discovery before me. I placed a hand on the drapes and flung them open. Immediately the moon- and star-light shone brightly through the large window, sparkling when it hit the gleaming metal of the under parts of the telescope – the top was covered in a layer of dust. My mouth hung open, and I could do nothing as I neared it but stare. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I knew it was a telescope: my dad had taught me about the stars and planets and other entities that roamed the skies, and how this device allowed you to see them more clearly. But I had never seen one this big in person, much less been able to use one. A smile crept onto my lips, the joy to receive the treasure of knowledge the telescope gave clearly present on my face. I tried to reach the eyepiece, but its towering height made it much too far away for me to grasp. Instead I proceeded to the window again, enthralled by the stars. There were so many of them that the sky seemed almost a faded white instead of dark blue. But I could see the darkness creeping out from behind the brilliance – the background hanging behind the dots of light. The crescent moon shone brightest of all, like some sort of sideways smile of radiance. It was truly beautiful. I had seen the night sky before, of course, but I had never taken the time to really enjoy it. And it was amazing. I finally looked down to see the grassy fields that surrounded our country home, a dirt path leading into the woods and beyond… A tear dripped down my cheek as I remembered the times Daddy and I had gone into those woods together. At any foreign sound he would grip my hand even tighter and tell me it was okay. He would just continue walking forward, completely confident and unafraid. It didn’t seem like anything could ever scare him. He was always so brave, so unwavered by any scary noise or sight. I had always felt safe when I was with him. His large hand holding mine. His comforting smile. His eyes that showed how happy he was to be with me. They were the best moments of my life, spending time with him. I’d go anywhere with him. Even the scariest places imaginable. I missed him so much. Why does he always have to be gone? I wiped my eyes and face, clearing the tears away. Daddy wouldn’t want me to cry. He always told me to be strong. I had to look after Mommy when he wasn’t here. I tried to remain strong, but it was hard. He’s always gone so long. At least I knew it wouldn’t be much longer now. “Only another month,” I whispered to myself as I looked out to the woods again. I saw what I thought was a squirrel leap from one tree to another. I looked up at the sky for a second time: the blanket of black and white hanging over my head. And suddenly, despite the beauty, I felt so small. I finally looked away and turned around. I looked around the attic. There was so much – so much history, so many seemingly random things. The excitement in my chest grew again. There was so much, and I couldn’t possibly go through it all in time. My eyes landed on an old, beaten chest on the opposite side of the room. I quickly ran to it, my stubby legs probably looking ridiculous as I toddled across the wooden floor. I flung myself onto it, searching for an opening before I found a rusted lock. I attempted to open it, but even in its antique shape it stayed true to its purpose: keeping unwanted people out. I searched for a key, but could find none. My eyes rested on the chest again, and for the first time I noticed all the stickers dotting its sides. Then I knew what the trunk was, what it contained. Daddy had told me a couple years ago about his own dad, and how he had fought in something called World War Two. He said it was in Germany, and that no one in our family had ever gone there since. The stickers revealed the contents of the case, all from Germany or about the military. I knew this must be what my Mommy didn’t want me seeing. She had said the war was too horrible for me to learn about yet. And she knew that if I came up here I’d want to know what was in the chest and that nothing else would interest me, even the telescope. She was right – the chest fascinated me, and I rubbed my hands across its dust-lined surface. I wanted to stay here, find a way to open it, to discover the treasures of Grandad’s past, but I heard a car pulling up in the driveway. I quickly scurried back to the opening in the floor as fast I could, forgetting to close the drapes again and not caring to be careful with my descent on the steps, only concerned with not letting my mom catch me. I made it down without falling and I pushed the ladder back into its crevice, the flap with the string swinging shut behind it. I quickly jumped on my bed and picked up a comic book just as I heard the front door open. “Jack, I’m home!” I heard her call from downstairs. “Hi, Mommy!” I called back. I tried to focus on the pages before me, but I couldn’t think about anything besides the gems I had found above my room. I knew I had to find out what was in that chest. ~ :: ~ Library :: Blog
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It was with small steps she walked across the snow. She placed every foot in front of her with simple, cautious, grace. The twilight lit sky had vanished by now, replaced with the crisp clean light of a moon and the stars. The tranquility of the moment defied description, instead choosing to simply exist, rather than confine itself to simple human understanding. She truly knew peace, out here where no one ever looked. Knew peace from the rest of the corrupt world around her. She laid down, her soft velvet lined coat sinking into the snow. She hardly noticed the cold that was starting to come through her boots. She stared up at the stars with wonder and envy, imagining what it must be like to be one, to always be a beacon of light. Perhaps they were angels, sent from heaven to shine in the night. If only she could know one. She closed her eyes, wishing. Instead of an angel though, she was greeted with memories. Memories of a cozy room, of her and her friend. They had always been the best of friends, and that night, she went to his house. It was Christmas Eve, and she might of drank some of the more potent egg nog before going over. She truly felt at home with him, but his parents didn't see it that way. They had come in, and... she cringed at the memory. So much screaming. She went to her parents, and they had little more to say. So she left her house, to the place where she truly knew peace. Came here and reflected on what exactly the holidays meant. Reflected on what exactly her life meant. Her coughing broke her train of thought. She stood, still coughing, wondering why she truly came here. She slipped her hand into her coat, feeling the cold metal of a gun barrel. Silently, she took off her scarf, her hat, her coat, her boots. Soon she was dressed lightly, modestly but certainly not suitable for this sort of weather. She closed her eyes once more, feeling the chilled steel in her hands. Finally, she let a breath out, firing into the ice beneath her. Her ears were too numb at this point to hurt as the sound went off. She instantly dropped, sinking rapidly into the icy water. With no air in her lungs she sank quickly, the water rapidly sapping all heat out of her uninsulated body. She smiled, though, even as death began its cold, uncaring, embrace. She didn't panic, didn't shake as her body reflexively gulped in the frosty lake water. She just smiled, knowing that she was going somewhere else. Somewhere where she'd be joyous. Somewhere where she could celebrate Christmas. [---] So the Ambage write off on Sunday was Christmas in an effort to guilt people into the FFCC, so I complied and posted this. I don't think it's my best but I've been told it's a nice story.
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Allison It is the morning that is most special to me. Not that I am a morning person - oh no. I am up at odd hours and dread the ringing clock that calls me to wake up and face the sun that burns my eyes and warms my skin beyond what I would prefer. No, I am not a morning person, but the morning (once my eyes no longer are hurting) is the most special time of day for me. It is pure, new, without the struggles of the coming day. She made the morning special, mainly because she wasn’t part of my morning. She was the signal that the time has come to put the (eye burning) peace of the sunrise aside and begin the long fight toward the death of nightfall. The morning makes the fight all the more important, all the more desperate, for if I must leave the peace of the innocent sunrise behind I must make sure I can see it again. I had to make sure that she can see it again. Where did it all begin? The afternoon of my life? It all began with her, the day she walked into the band hall, and I knew that I had to step out of the morning to hold hands with the night. Literally all eyes were on her, Mr. Hryorchuk was introducing her to us after all, but not all eyes were on her face, which was turned down to stare into the air near the ground. No. The eyes that could see were on the long, virgin white bandage that wrapped neatly around the forearm clamped tightly against her side. Few noticed the French Horn that dangled in her left hand. The French Horns noticed, and as their section leader I rejoiced that we now had a third member, but even my eyes were drawn immediately to the three, even, broad, bright red lines that stained the inside of the bandage, revealed only briefly when Mr. Hryorchuk slapped her back as he asked the band to welcome her to the class. I don’t even remember what went through my head while the band murmured a half-hearted welcome to this stranger named Allison who quickly, efficiently, and quietly took her place as my third-chair. We played our songs, Allison catching on quickly and the bell coming (too soon, looking back) to snap the tension of a classroom into the freedom of lunch. “French Horns always eat together,” my second chair, Gabie, beamed at our newbie. Gabie was the embodiment of morning to me. When I was to leave, she would step up more than I ever would have hoped when it came to being a leader in the band. Allison gave the smallest of smiles, and followed us as quietly as a predator moving through the night. The moment I knew would come as soon as I saw the lines – the moment I had hoped there would be sense enough, decency enough, to avoid – came. A boy, a trumpet (wouldn’t you know it?), whose name isn’t worth mentioning brushed past us three with a single word. “Cutter.” I could have punched the runt. Arrogant sophomore, he had no clue what kind of whirlwind he might have gotten if she hadn’t spoken first. “If you really think so, maybe you should let me demonstrate.” For the first words any of us had heard from her, these were not the ones that could have left the best first impression. The fact that they had come out in a low hiss with a long smile most of us had only seen in the movies did not help. The trumpet blanched and moved off, and we French Horns made our way (silently now) to the lunch room to take our place with the saxophones. As soon as we sat down with food, we broke the awkward silence to talk shop. How long had she played? What chair was she at her last school? Did she play anything else? Where was she from? Scores last year at Solo & Ensemble? All the gossip usual to band geeks. She even smiled at the end, until one of the saxes, one of my classmates, leapt onto the elephant we were so contentedly walking around. “What happened?” He asked, pointing at her arm, unconsciously relaxed on the table such that the lines, somewhat more ragged now than they had been. Allison immediately snapped her arm back to her chest, wincing. Her eyes went to the apple in her hand and she smoothly, almost mechanically answered, “Nothing a knife couldn’t cure.” My mind wanted a coin to flip. Fifty-fifty shot at whether she was ashamed or not. I honestly couldn’t tell at that point that the only shame she had was what was having to be “cured” and not how the “cure” was obtained. In any case, her words had the effect of silencing the table as she took one last bite at the apple in her hand and rose to leave. Gabie, my little morning child, sprang to assist and guide her around the school. I had a few words with the saxes, hoping to give Allison a chance before she exiled herself. I didn’t see Allison at all until school rang out for the day, out in the parking lot beneath that merciless sun. Her bandage had been changed, it was pure white now as she slipped on a jacket against the chill wind. I was making my way to my car and offered a ride. The ride to her family’s apartment was silent, for the most part. There was a mild discussion about fingerings between MLK Street and Anderson Street, but it wasn’t until we arrived that she said anything real. I wished her a good day, and a hope that she wouldn’t have to seek a cure tonight. I received back more than I had bargained for. She went slack, hunched over in my passenger seat, and began to speak. She asked me to imagine having to be the 11th grader who was in her third high school, knowing that your step-father’s inability to work would send you to another at the end of the year. She asked me to imagine waking each morning to a kitchen of beers and cold pizza a week old, to come home to a silent mother cleaning up the night in preparation for the evening. She asked me to imagine sleeping to dream the dreams of memories best forgotten, that you wished were forgotten, only to wake to find the memories of creeping hands and heavy breath resurfacing with renewed intensity from a childhood marked by nothing else. She asked me to think of only being able to say you truly owned one thing, and could only control one thing in your life. And so she left, and when I got home I sat in my car and stared into the distance, imagining. I never could think clearly, and now the tears that my control disallowed to be free clouded my mind like mocking voices to condemn me. How dare I wish what I wished her? And so I was handicapped all afternoon, until the sunset came: orange in the sky but red upon my arm. The night passed in clarity and confusion, in desperation and prayer. Silence and speech between age and youth. The morning is special to me. It brings a time to think with the previous day gone, dead. It brings a time to see forward on the day with nothing yet written on the slate. So I, with a virgin white bandage on my arm marred by a jagged line of red, bowed to my mother and left to school with a mind on the day ahead, catching Allison only just before she entered the junior wing. I touched her shoulder, my own bandage hidden by my jacket, and smiled before heading to my own classes. Band was fourth period. There would be time to speak, time to imagine, with morning now over. The new girl was known already among all the students I knew. On every tongue, for what seemed would be ages but was truly only a small while, was the bandage, fresh with the red life of its wearer. I could only speak of her being a French Horn. I never could speak well; translate my hesitant thoughts with my stupid mouth. Band came and went, lunch arrived and passed. Allison, she confessed too late, knew of the words spoken and held her head high during the next week. Then her name slipped out of the common gossip. She was a fixture of the school now, the girl who was proud until she spoke, quickly looking to the floor to keep the anger or sorrow from being read in her eyes. Though she wore her bandage openly, defiantly to those who could not know, my own bandage was never seen by any other than myself and my parents, nor did I need it ever again. I could now imagine, and because I could imagine my days became the fight to regain the morning, the special time when I did not have to imagine. I still gave Allison rides home, and eventually she gave me more to imagine, not knowing why she did. I didn’t know why she did, but I imagined, and I dreamed until I woke up in the morning where the sun could burn from my eyes the images of my imagining. Soon I began picking her up from school, and I no longer had to imagine some things, and my mornings ended too soon as she slowly transformed herself from night to day. Limps smoothed out on the short walk to my car, stray hairs combed into place before my car door was opened, wrinkled sleeves ironed away by unerring hands to cover the perpetual red lines. Ever polite, ever proud, ever effacing herself behind the mask of Allison, who had no bags beneath her eyes or purpled marks at the base of her throat. And so from the first step of hers towards me in the time before the afternoon I imagined and thought my clumsy thoughts. My father is a doctor in our city, and he leads the EMS, and I told him about the things I imagined and thought when the morning was over. He was silent as he departed my room that night so long ago when the sunset was twice red, and every day told me, “Just wait a little while more.” And so I waited a little while more, until the day Allison did not come out to my car, the day I did not touch her shoulder and did not eat with her at lunch. Not until the end of the day did I see her walk proudly into the school with her silent mother to get the work she had missed. It was several weeks before she would give me another thing to imagine, speaking strictly of band and choir and music theory during lunch and while riding home. Winter break was to come soon, and before school let out our band always held chair competitions so that those eager for it could be leaders. Allison was gunning for my chair, obviously, but I was not worried about that. Two weeks before school let out, I offered her the guest room at our house, offered the pure, soft mornings where no imagining had to take place. She declined, and again walked home from school. I saw her rarely during the break, dressed still in our school uniform, now with an ever present jacket to cover her arms I never again saw bare, whether her sleeves were long or short. On New Year’s Eve I heard a call go out over the EMS channel for an ambulance at Allison’s address. That night my father informed me an arrest had been made, and took me to give a deposition to the police at the hospital, standing at the foot of the wide bed where Allison lay like a broken bird, her mother gently sobbing into her hands. It made the headlines, but the inky lines did not contain what I had been told to imagine, to dream, to wonder, and to fight through until morning came. I have not seen Allison since, and I do not know where she is. There was no news, only rumors when she and her mother just left in the night. For ages her name was again on the tongues of the school, but eventually her story became a fixture of the school. The girl who came and went and left nothing behind: nothing but a note in locker 574 by the band hall telling Gabie goodbye and a stained, white bandage wrapped around a small, dull knife in locker 567 that I have kept ever since.
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: Beyond the Ridge of Tears : Far away, beyond the Ridge of Tears, there is a deep chasm. The worms cannot cross the chasm. They never have, at least, and that is good. It has allowed us to thrive, after so much death. The black-haired woman showed us the way. It was on a night full of storm that she came, a night when the worms hid deep within their lairs beneath the earth, all around our settlement. The last settlement, scarcely a few hundred of us left. I was only a child, and even I knew that much. She came down the pathway out of the fields and stood before the Stone House of my father, and my father went out to her while the thunder crashed above, and the people gathered to watch. It was night, and still they gathered, for the storm was a relief. The worms would not venture out while the sun was veiled. I watched from the window above as the woman addressed them. I could not hear everything, but I heard some. She spoke of far-off fields, and a country where the devourers could not reach us. She spoke of new life, but it came with a cost: “You must leave behind this place and all that you have,” she said. “It is a hard journey, for you must pass beyond the Ridge of Tears. Or else, stay, and be devoured. I can give you no more hope than this: on the third day from now, a sign will come, and you must make your choice.” My father the chief tried to address her then, but she raised her hand and stooped to whisper in his ear, and he fell silent. “On the third day you will make your choice.” A noise of wings flapped in the torrent, and for a moment I thought I saw the shape of a bird, crow-like, fluttering up into the darkness. But then it was gone, and the people stood silent and dripping, my father among them. I do not know all that she whispered to him, but I do know that he was a changed man after that night. There was something in his eyes. Something clearer, sharper. I first noticed it when he called the Meeting together the very next morning, once the storm had broken. He stood in front of the people—their chief—and spoke to them of what the woman had said. Many had seen her, and many wondered what her coming portended. “We must leave this place,” he said to them. “She will show us where to go.” Many dissented. They did not trust the word of the woman. “How can we know that this is true?” they said, “It is certain death to cross the waste now.” “It is certain death, but only a quicker death than we will suffer here. Our crops are burned, our livestock devoured, and the worms grow ever bolder. I know it is hard…hard to leave all this behind, but we must if we are to live on. I may dwell in the Stone House for now, but when I and my son are gone, it will be only rocks piled one upon another, and one day the worms will devour even those.” Others spoke of the sign. “Let us wait," they said. "Let us watch for the sign. Only then must we choose. We will watch and wait.” So the days passed. Three sunny days, and the devourers stalked the shimmering horizons, croaking and waiting for their prey to stir, playing their deathly flame over the already-burnt fields. I remember that the water-skin sprang a leak on the first day, and we were thirsty by evening. So thirsty. And yet my father did not care. His eyes were bright. He bade me gather my things from the upper room, and all our tools, and he patched the water-skin as best he could. Then we waited. Two more days of waiting, two more days of thirst, as the worms drew ever closer. Soon they would return to the settlement. Soon they would stalk the streets, and this time not even the walls of the Stone House would save us. But then the evening of the third day came, darkness falling fast, and the people came forth from their shanties to watch, for they remembered the words of the woman, clinging to that hope as the devourers croaked in the gathering dark. My father and I stood on the path before the Stone House with our packs made ready, and many stood with us, watching, waiting… Suddenly a cloud of sulfur swept down the pathway, and a child cried out in the crowd as a worm came bellowing out of the darkness at the edge of the settlement. There were no walls now. Nowhere to hide. Its skin was like stone, sloughing off dust and death, and its jaws were full of liquid fire. The crowd shuddered, and many turned to flee. This would be the end of us. Was this the sign the woman had promised? There was fear in the air, and yet my father stood firm. “The sign will come!” he yelled, and the people near him stood still once more with newfound determination. The sign will come. The worm gave a roar as it spilled flame over the hovels nearby, and the smoking stench filled my lungs. Many fell to their knees, choking. The sign will come. Another bellow rang out from the darkness, and many more joined it. A circle of fire springing up around the settlement as the worms closed in— —And then something changed. Something in the wind, and with one movement we turned our heads toward the north and saw the storm. The sign. Thunder broke over the scene, and the worms writhed and fled as the rain fell in sheets, and then it retreated north again. Northward, it said to us. You must make the choice. And it was settled. : : An entry for the Ambage Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest. Theme: Settlement. JRRT
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He looked at the cold waters in front of him, then at the forest behind him. All around him, men and women were hauling materials; occasionally a small child would run back and forth, delivering messages. He himself held a crate of tools in his hands, but he allowed himself a minute or two of rest and recollection. It wasn't every day you went to a new land, after all. It was a new life, a new world for him to explore. An entire ocean rested between him and his old home now. It truly was something to marvel at, and something to fear at the same time.Sighing, he carried the crate to a nearby pile of them, looking at the men sitting nearby playing a game of dice. Even so far out here, the work was being divided up amongst the unlucky. Some things would never change, even so far away. He put his crate down in a neat fashion and pried it open, revealing a number of axes. Pulling one out, he glanced at the group further away in the forest and went to join them. It took him some time but he finally arrived, lending his help to the men cutting down wood. The fall was here, and if they couldn't build shelter quickly then they'd all freeze in this new and unknown land. It was a tedious and hard job, but someone had to do it, and he was among one of the strongest youths in the party.That night there were many celebrations, several fires roaring and the best of the salted meat roasted and eaten. The ale brought along was broken out and all were happy to have made the great journey safely. They were a tight band, seventy six heads if you included the three natives they had come across in the lands to the far north they passed while on the voyage. It was a marvelous party, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly throughout it. When it had all died down and many were asleep, he stayed up, gazing at the sky. Even though they had traveled thousands of miles, the stars still were the same. It was a strange thing that he doubted he'd ever understand.Someone came from behind, a young woman. He smiled and they embraced, then looked at the stars together. The months ahead would test the mettle of all involved; society itself would have to be rebuilt. Houses would be erected, wells dug, hunting grounds established. Perhaps there would be combat with the natives; perhaps a famine would strike. Regardless, he knew he had to keep his spirits up. The gods would watch over them, he was sure. In his eyes he could see a prosperous future, thousands living in this Newfound land. There'd be children in the streets, bakers, farmers, blacksmiths, cities...And so, with that, he returned to the camp and slept. Slept and waited for what tomorrow would bring. [--------] At 495 words, this story was written for the Ambage Skype Write Off and is being posted for the Flash Fiction contest because of much arm twisting it fits the bill nicely. More of a setting piece but that's what you get when you write something in fifteen minutes and spend the first five asking questions. Yes they're Vikings, and yes it's not exactly historically accurate.
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There was a dream. A dream of a better tomorrow, a dream of a better world. A world without the problems of humanity, without the politics of home. The new great pilgrimage, from the corrupted world of yesteryear to the new, untamed wilds that rested in wait. It took decades of scientific discovery, decades of technological progress, and decades of preparation to complete that dream. The dedication was finally paid off in the form of a gateway, a passage through space itself to another world. It was then the new world was discovered; a lush planet of greens and blues, a world untouched by human hands. It truly was a paradise, with fruit that could give a man the energy to run a marathon with a single bite and animals who's blood could cure any disease. The sky itself shielded its inhabitants from everything that the void could bring against it, allowing the earth to revile in its security. Even the animals seemed sloth like, noble beasts grazing in fields that stretched for hundreds of miles while predators slept in the shade, occasionally waking to chase down sickened prey. Years would pass. Scientists would marvel at the paradise, longer how such a thing could happen. It wasn't long until industry came. A small settlement began, transporting the marvels of paradise to the dull strife of reality. It grew quickly enough, becoming a bustling port of trade, more and more poured through for the promise of riches in paradise. Then the pilgrims came; those distraught with the world, seeking to begin a new life. They hailed from all walks of life, from all nationalities, from all ethnicity. First it was hundreds; then it became thousands. Then millions. The floodgates had been opened, and now thousands came through the gateway every day. Decades more would pass. The city of New Eden grew to become self reliant. Soon paradise was no longer just a dream. As millions continued to pour through, millions more had spread out across the landscape. In ten years it was one city. In twenty, five. In thirty, fifteen. In forty, independence was declared by many of the large cities, having become so prosperous that they could afford to do so. In sixty years paradise and Earth had become matched in population. As time went on paradise was no longer known by that name. Soon, going from one side of the gateway to the other had no difference. Paradise had given way to the simple and unrelenting force of progress. The fruit of paradise had eliminated hunger; the blood of paradise had eliminated disease. For all those who had fled, seeking solstice in a land they hoped to start anew in, they found that their hopes had been dashed. The dream of a world untouched by human corruption had, ultimately, failed. {------} Yeah I'm not entirely sure what the **** this is either, but it's not utter trash so I figured it warrants getting put up, if only to get tomatoes thrown at it. Is it speaking against the horrors of industry? The benefits of exploitation? The greater good? The evils of deforestation? I don't know anymore than the audience does, I'll let it figure it out. 471 words, which is really shorter than I'm use to. Looks less like a story and more like a highschool essay. Created by Alex Humva, 2012. Please do not reproduce elsewhere without prior permission.
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Entry for fortnightly flash fiction contest since Andrew asked and oh no I don't have any homework at all and wasn't planning on writing one of my other stories for the Ambage at all but who's complaining am I right. Theme: Pathfinding. Wordcount: 964I feel lost. That's not even an awful metaphor either. I literally am not aware of my physical surroundings in their relation to where I want to be. Absolutely lost.The walls are white, painted cement like I remember them being for years. The ceilings are lit by rows of bright fluorescent lights, stretching endlessly down the halls. The floor is black and smells of rubber or crude oil. Petroleum based, anyways. Not like I care. The smell is awful, that's the important thing. When I recall my past in here, it seems --as though a vague mental image-- that it was almost a year ago. The floors have been getting darker and my lungs seem to grate with every breath.I hear footsteps padding down the hall, somewhere around the next corner. I slow down as I approach the next intersection and press myself against the wall. Within seconds the muted echoes approach and I plant a solid fist in the runner's stomach, sending him sprawling across the floor. I look down at his face with an immense amount of guilt as he gasps for breath. There are no mirrors in this place, true, but an external sense tells me that the face of this man is my own. Whether a clone, an apparition, or simply a psychological trick, I no longer care. I put my foot against his throat and do what I've done this entire time, to survive. I know that I am the only one in this maze, quite literally. Every version of myself that I've cut off through decisions in the past have been merged to a single universe, where I've been forced to confront every version of myself and destroy them. I suppose whoever engineered this think of it as am amusing metaphor, that I literally have to kill off every bad decision I've made and come to terms with who I've become in that time, but all I see is a twisted reality where I've become a killer.As his body dissipates into the ground, the stench of rubber seems to grow ever so slightly.I continue down the halls, feeling more cheated with every kill. I feel sick that I'm becoming desensitized to this, that the moral problems and emotional impact is dulled as my methods become more brutal, merciless, and stunningly effective.I make a right at the next intersection, followed by two lefts, a flight of stairs, and another right. There's no method to my choices any more. I used to agonize over the psychology of the maze, how every corner could be a setup to drive me into doing exactly what they want-- whoever they are. But now I just blindly decide on a whim, snapping back and forth, stopping occasionally to listen for the footsteps of myself.Oh, speak of the devil. Another apparition runs past a crossroad ahead, screaming. I lunge forward and give chase. My breaths come heavy now. The death toll of the day is starting to wear. I'll probably take a nap after this one. He's wearing a straitjacket. I quicky match his speed as he turns a corner. I twist my leg around his and plant my foot on the ground, effectively collapsing his gait. I grab his neck and arm as I pull my leg back, slamming him face-first into the ground with a splintering crack. His body slowly disintegrates into a swirling black mass, like a swarm of flies that crawl into the black floor. My stomach is upset and I slump against the wall, directly across from a doorway.Wait. There are no doors in this maze. I haul myself to my feet, wavering, and nearly puke with the excitement of this find. I take one step forward, then two, then I brace myself against the opposite wall with one hand and stop to take a deep breath and calm my stomach. I tentatively slide my fingers around the brass knob. It's cold, shiny and perfectly smooth. It's probably never been touched by my hand. I crack it open, and before I have time to regret my decision, I close my eyes and swing the door wide open.I sit up with a start, my fingers still clenched in midair. The hum of medical equipment fills the silence my ears had been accustomed to in the maze. The walls are still white, but there's something different. My body goes cold as I move my legs, realizing that it feels so different than what I had been doing in there. A doctor stands to my side, frowning."The training was supposed to go on for six weeks more," he remarked. Was he angry, disappointed, or was that just an observation? The feeling of being cheated fills my mind."May I refresh your mind? It's possible that the months in there have erased some of your memories. You are in a military training facility. Here we give you the most difficult of all tasks so that you may be ready for anything in the battlefield. You must know how to kill, and you must see the look in your own eyes as you do so. What have you learned?"None of this sounds familiar. This doesn't sound like something I would voluntarily ask for, and I feel no sense of duty or accomplishment at his words. It all just seems pointless. I stand up and waver for a moment as I regain my balance. Suddenly a new sensation fills my mind and I can't seem to push it back to my subconscious. The feel of solid ground beneath my feet. I'm no longer lost.I grab the doctor by the collar with only a tingling sense of regret in my mind."Let me show you."
-
NIXIE DRIFTED UP ON THE BLUE, BLUE SHORES OF SOME DISTANT LAND. Her raft was ruined, and her thick, curly hair in her face. She was unconscious and incapable of really noticing that she had come to a stop. It was a while before she woke up. The calm, peaceful sun beat down upon her. She peered out at the world from behind her dark brown eyes, not really feeling anything, other than a deep desire to feel the sun as a gift of comfort and not as a reminder of her dryness and her lack of drink. She got up. Looked around. Shook her head. There was nothing but the green of tropical trees, the light tan of the beaches, and the aquamarine color of the see. It was beautiful, like some sort of paradise. She was alive. Yet for now, all she could do was roll off of the raft and sit there, her bottom in the sand, her hands on her lap as she looked out into the vast infinity of the see. She would need food and water soon, but before that she just needed to ponder what she had lost. No, she hadn't lost anything. Her friends and her younger brother were still out there, just out of reach. She new she would see them someday. it was just a matter of having faith and starting to search. Somewhere across the waters... She got up and grabbed her bag from the top of the raft. Its strap that was supposed to hoist around her shoulder was broken, so she used it as a rope and just dragged it across the sand. It formed a line, and the line disappeared into the trees. She had managed to spot without much difficulty the highest point on the island. It was a large rock outcropping, like a spine coming out of the earth. Along the way, she found strange new fruits and gave them a try, risking her life on the hope that they weren't poison. She tried their bright orange and yellow and green juices and was replenished. Ah, that was so much better. It wasn't enough to lighten up her head quite yet, though, so she decided she would make camp. That wasn't so difficult, since the leaves on this island were huge. In fact, some of them reached eleven feet across, by her guestimate, since they were about twice her length. It would be easy to make a tent out of them. But not here in the forest. No, she picked a few, rolled them up, and set them out on the beach and set up a tent there. There would be no bugs and no creepy things to crawl over her while she slept. The next day, she ate some more and gathered up food, and then she went back to the tall rock she saw. It took a bit of climbing, and her grip was only so strong, but she wanted to give it a try. She saw the jagged face of the rock through the trees and ran up to it, then looked for a foothold. She then, through force of determination, found a way up, and endurance came to her through the form of a continued sense of wonder. Once she was halfway up, she saw the world around her in an outstanding beauty. The bright blue area where the deep see came up to the sandy beach was beautiful. The island wasn't that large, but she couldn't gather its exact size until she got to the top of the rock that afternoon. She stood there, on a narrow pathway, able to look southease and northwest of the aisle, out upon the surrounding isle. It was about five miles across. "Hello?" she cried out. "Is anyone here?" No answer. "HELLOOOOO?" There looked to be no sort of settlement on the island. She figured she would leave, then. It wasn't worth staying if there was nobody here to help her. It was best to just pack up fruits onto the raft. She climbed down the rock to get back to the raft. "Hey, wait," said a voice. She looked around and saw a golden bug on the rock, about the size of the palm of her hand. It had eight legs along a segmented body, and then a front area like a centaur, which had pincers for arms and these two beady eyes on the ends of stalks, which swiveled about comically. He looked like a scorpion or a crab of some sort. It was a bit strange, but she had seen a lot of strange and unexplainable things since she had left home. "Hello, who are you?" she asked. "I'm the only person on this island," said the bug person. "But you're a bug," said Nixie. "A bug person," said the bug person. "What's a matter. Haven't you ever seen a dichester before?" "Have you ever seen a human before?" asked Nixie. "Come to think of it, I have no idea what you are," said the bug-person-dichester. "Well I'm leaving this island," she said. "I'm coming with you," said the dichester. "And my name is Jetty." "Nice to meet you, Jetty. My name is Nixie. And yes, you can come with me, but I'm leaving this island." "I know. I figured that you came on a raft, and I've been lonely for a while now." That evening, Nixie sat under the tent with a fire started to keep them warm and cook some fish that she caught, while she recorded her thoughts into her journal, the sole item she carried with her in her bag. She bit into a golden apple, and its juice dripped onto the pages, right on top of her brother's name. Then she stopped and contemplated it all. Where she was right now, the encounter she had with Jetty, and the leap of faith she was taking by setting her raft out onto the open ocean again. She came out of her tent and called out Jetty's name. He came scurrying over, leaving little dots for tracks behind him. They ate what food was left, but it was a quick meal. She wanted to drift into the night time and make as much use of the cool moonlight air as possible. Jetty got onto the recrafted raft while Nixie got out on back and pushed it into the ocean. After paddling along for a while, cutting her knee on a piece of coral, she pulled herself on and let herself dry off, putting herself at a distance from her bag so that she didn't get her journal wet. And so they went off with the stars in the sky, ready to discover another of the many islands out there, hopefully one that had friends and support. And when they looked out, there were many stars, and they were reflected upon the water so that the division between the heavens and the waters was impossible to make, and it was all one swirling cosmos. Nixie had seen this before, but this was during a vision where she was given sight over the entire universe, and she knew everything, and she knew where she was. She still wondered if that wasn't a dream, if it wasn't for how she had mysteriously came to a paradise once it was over. She could only wish that the same force was watching over her still, and she rolled onto her back and slept, with her new companion using her hair as a bed. It was a weird world out there, but it was also beautiful.
-
IT WAS THE DAY AFTER HIS THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY, AND JOHN HAD TO LEAVE FOR THE WEST COAST. He had lived in New York for twelve years now. That was twelve years worth of friendships he had to say goodbye to. It was only the afternoon, but the sun was already down. He put on nice clothes and ran all the way to Diana's house. All my bags are packed I'm ready to goI'm standin' here outside your doorI hate to wake you up to say goodbyeBut the dawn is breakin' it's early mornThe taxi's waitin' he's blowin' his hornAlready I'm so lonesome I could die He knocked on the door to her apartment. The sound of feet coming down the stairs. She opened the door and he leaned against the railing on the front steps. Her short, golden hair framed her face perfectly. “Does it hurt to say goodbye one last time?” he asked. The coldness of the air turned his breathe into light clouds. “I was worried you wouldn’t say goodbye enough. It’s hard not having you around as a friend anymore,” she said. “It happens,” said John. “It’s an inevitable thing in life you have to get over.” “I’ve never actually…” she said. “Never?” inquired John. “Never ever?” “No,” said Diana. “I guess I’d consider myself lucky. But you get over it, I imagine.” “Maybe,” said John. “It depends on the person. I had friends for my first two years of college who then went their separate ways. I still wish we could keep in contact, although there’s nothing we can do for each other when we’re on separate coasts. I still really miss them. I can live still, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever forget them and be nostalgic from time to time.” “You look cold out,” said Diana. “Come in!” Inside they prepared hot chocolate and sipped at it under the warm orange lights of the kitchen. It was an exceedingly nice apartment. It only lacked a fireplace. He wondered of Diana was expecting him. She was wearing sleek pinstripe pants and a beautiful violet blouse. Even though she was just his best friend, he felt oddly attracted to her. It brought back memories of when he so insecurely wondered if she was the one. He had to mentally slap himself, then and now. It wasn't right to think that. So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh baby, I hate to go “Nothing heals the soul like a good cup of hot chocolate,” said Diana. She smiled and leaned her elbows against the table, closer to him. She really seemed to be waiting for him and didn’t have much to say. John sipped at the hot chocolate, and winced at how hot it was. He winked and smiled with one corner of his mouth while lifting the cup up to his face again. No, it couldn't be done. He had to put it down. Maybe it would get colder after a long while of conversation. “I really wish I could see you again,” he said. “I do, too,” said Diana. “What if I do come back?” “I’d still be here,” said Diana. “As nice as this place is, it’s still just an apartment. Sooner or later, with your upward mobility, even you will move on. This isn’t the house of someone who’s settled down.” “I’ll send you a letter if that has happened,” said Diana. “That’s very thoughtful…” said John. He tapped his foot. As inevitably happens in all such conversations, there was an awkward silence. “I think I’ll get working on that hot chocolate, then,” he said, and he continued to sip at it one bit at a time. “In case you’re labeling this as an awkward silence, John, don’t worry. I choose to think of it as savoring the moment.” John put down the cup. She leaned in and kissed him. John was conflicted, but he kissed back. “I just wanted to do that once before having to say goodbye,” said Diana. John felt ashamed. He kissed her back and he hadn’t even the slightest reason to. He was moving away, never to see her again. It was a shallow jab at pleasure. Yet it felt so good. It felt so sincere. It felt right. He looked into her eyes. “Maybe we’ll see each other again,” he said. “Would this be motivation for you to come back?” she said. Then the bombshell: “I think I’m in love with you.” John thought about how far away he would be. He would be on the West coast, thousands of miles away. He couldn’t come back regularly. He would have to prioritize her over so many other things in life. Yet, he could afford it. “Yes, I think I will,” he replied. He scooted his chair next to hers and embraced her. “I’ll never let you go.” “Tell me that you love me,” she said. “I love you, Diana.” There's so many times I've let you downSo many times I've played aroundI tell you now, they don't mean a thingEvery place I go, I'll think of youEvery song I sing, I'll sing for youWhen I come back, I'll bring your wedding ring The cups rested empty on the table now. In the next room, they they were both on the couch with John’s arm around Diana’s shoulder, both looking through old pictures that they and their friends had taken together. “Hey look, here’s that one time we met that girl named Aristotle,” said Diana. “I don’t mind that name,” said John. “I actually like it.” “So if we had a girl, you would consider it?” “Would you?” “I guess I would.” John could feel himself sinking ever more deeply into the couch as he grew more relaxed. Somehow, the ideas that were coming to his mind weren’t intimidating him anymore. They were so easy to articulate, so easy to share. “Diana, when I come back, will you marry me?” “I’ll have to remember that this is how you proposed,” she said. “Do I get a ring?” “No, it was just a spur of the moment idea,” he confessed. “But I’ve thought about it. We’re both established. We’re both ready to settle down. We’re best friends. We’re stable people. And we love each other. In our adult capacity to know what love is, it’s making sense to me.” Diana leaned her head into his shoulder. “Yes, John. I will marry you.” John rested his head on hers. So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh babe, I hate to go The next day John was at the airport. He had called all of his guy friends to let than know and Diana had called all of her gal friends to do the same. It was now officially confirmed. Everyone knew. The held each other’s hands as they walked through the airport, an engaged couple. They both wore their business clothes. He had on his black tie and trimmed suit and she was wearing a woman’s business suit. While it was true that they both had work that day, they also wanted to make these last few moments count for each other. This was dressier than their usual business attire. He turned to Diana before he got on. “I don’t know what to say without being overly romantic.” Diana hugged him. “I’m fine with ‘I love you.’” “I will love you. Always.” They pulled apart. John looked at his watch. The plane left at five in the morning, and four o'clock right now. Passengers were expected to get on the plan a half hour before it took off. He picked up his roller. They were right next to the flight terminal. With half an hour left, he didn't have to hurry, so he wasn't picking it up to get going. He pulled out from one pocket a cube-shaped, fuzzy case. “I bought this at the last moment,” he said. “It’s beautiful,” said Diana, before she even opened it up. Then she did open it up, and it was, of course, an engagement ring. The only thing that could perhaps be an unexpected touch was that it was aquamarine instead of diamond. Diana had been born one month too early for diamond. “Can you say it again, now that you’ve actually seen it?” “It’s beautiful,” she said. She kissed him in the cheek. “When will we see each other again?” “I’ll be back on the holidays,” said John. “I’ll send you letters every weekend. Whatever you do, though, don’t send me letters back starting with ‘Dear John…’’ He looked into her eyes. They matched the aquamarine gem around her finger. He rested his forehead against hers. For just a moment, he could sleep before getting on the flight, let his mind escape to those far off places that it desperately wanted to go, and just rejoice in the comfort she gave him. Now the time has come to leave you One more time, let me kiss you Close your eyes and I’ll be on my way Dream about the days to come When I won’t have to leave alone About the times I won’t have to say… John was leaving on a jet plan. He didn’t know when he would be back again. Looking at his schedule, he just knew he would miss the first few holidays. As the ground grew smaller, he rolled his head to face the window, and just let the ever-changing scenery to lull him asleep. Then he dreamed of Diana. After all this craziness, he could finally settle down. So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh babe, I hate to go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh baby, I hate to go
-
ANDREW FOUND A PICTURE OF HIMSELF HE NEVER RECALLED TAKING. What was more, he couldn't make sense of it. His hair in this picture was just a tad bit longer than he had ever grown it out, which wasn't very far. He never recalled wearing that striped shirt, nor dd he recognize the setting. What was this doing in his father's closet? He heard his father coming. He couldn't afford to be caught rummaging through his drawers. He put the picture in his shirt pocket and hid in the closet. For good measure, he tossed clothes on top of him. It wouldn't make a difference if he covered himself or not, though. If his father opened up the closet, he would be doomed. His father entered the room. There was a groan, the sound of tool being dropped to the ground. The Old Man mumbled and shifted through his stuff. There was a pause. Had he noticed that the drawers were open? Andrew's heart beat. An hour passed, and his father didn't leave the room. Andrew was trapped. He kept on reminding himself to control his breath, and the logical thing to do would be to go off to sleep to keep his nerves down, but if he was caught during a lull of attention he couldn't run out as fast as he could have. He would be vulnerable. Still more time passed. It seemed his father was taking a nap in the afternoon. Why did he always have to do that? Also, there was the question of whether or not he would notice Andrew's supposed absence. There had been no school today due to a teachers' meeting, but Dad didn't know about that, so he assumed Andrew was at school. He should have been home now. He would be making noise. His father was always a creeper who looked inside the room to see how Andrew was doing, whether he made noise or not. Then Andrew heard the sound of floorboard creaking the door opening, and his father walking through the living room. It sounded like he was checking his room. Since Andrew was light on his feet and only a hundred pounds, he cast the clothes off of him and opened the closet door just as he heard his father enter the living room, all the while closing the closet door to cover up his tracks better this time. He had only one chance at this. Father had left the door to his room open, and Andrew managed to make his way out into the living room. His father's back was to him. Andrew slipped through the kitchen and into the breezeway, where he crouched. He listened carefully, but from here he couldn't hear his father's movements. It was safe to assume that if he was careful, his father wouldn't hear him if he slipped through the door, either. Andrew left the house and jumped on his bike, which was hidden in the weeds of the backyard garden. He kicked off with his feet and peddled off, taking the emergency route of the gravel alleyway that ran down the middle of the block, connecting all of the backyards. And then he was far away from home. He took a detour to get to uptown, where his friend Trenton lived in a bright blue house with an actual driveway. He knocked at the door, and Mrs. Van Holland, Trenton's mother, answered the door. "Hello, Andrew!" said Mrs. Van Holland. "Trenton's upstairs playing video games." Andrew thanked her and ran to Trenton's room. It was filled with stuff on the wall and LEGO sets, along with all the coolest action figured. He was sitting on his bed, with his hair wet from a recent shower, and was busy playing a Mario game on his Gameboy Color. "'Sup, man?" said Trenton. "Hey, I have the money to buy that new game, Fallout," said Andrew. He pulled out a couple of Benjamin Franklins from his chest pocket. Trenton set down the Gameboy and leaned forward. "Nice!" It was better than nice. Two hundred dollars could get them several games. The best part was that Andrew's father wouldn't notice a thing, given how disorganized and cluttered his room was. Then Trenton added, "Hey, what's that in your pocket?" Andrew drew up his hand. "It's just a picture of me." "Let me see it," said Trenton. Andrew was hesitant, but he wasn't about to deny his best friend something. It would have been uncool. So he took it out of his pocket and let Trenton look at it. Without hesitation, Trenton said, "You look like a girl!" "I do not!" said Andrew. "Do to!" "Do not!" "Do too!" Andrew checked the picture again and hated to admit that his friend was right. At nine years old, he had a certain androgynous freshness about him and a roundness of face that had yet to mold itself into the features of a grown man. Combined with how this was clearly the longest his hair had ever been before he cut it last spring, he looked like a generic kid, indistinct from a girl or boy. He wished he could be a little cooler and more handsome, like he thought of Trenton, instead of pretty. He put the picture back in his pocket and looked defeated. "Chill, Andrew, I'm only teasing you," said Trenton. "Yeah, well I don't like it," said Andrew. "I'm sorry, man," said Trenton. "I just want to get those video games," said Andrew. "What are we going to do with the extra money?" "I don't know," said Andrew. "I'll save it for later." "Sure thing," said Trenton. "It's your money." They left Trenton's house, went to the local Wal*Mart, bought Fallout, and came back to Trenton's house to try it out. Unfortunately, it was single-player, so they had to take turns playing it and decided that they could spend more time shooting hoops in Trenton's driveway. They went out and lit up the porch light, playing basketball even after the sun went down. After a while, Andrew gathered up a sweat and it was time to stop. Besides, one could only stick to one activity for so long. "Hey Andrew, are you thinking of joining the basketball team when you get to middle school?" asked Trenton. "Sure," said Andrew. "We actually practice. The only question is whether I will be better than you." "No chance," said Trenton. "You'll be following me." "Then I'll be the second best on the team," said Andrew. "And I'll keep you on your heels, because I'm awesome." Andrew got down on his bottom and rested on the grass. He grabbed his sweaty shirt and tugged back and forth at its chest region, using it as a fan. He needed a shower. That really sucked because his father's shower didn't have a water softener and he ended up smelling worse coming out than going in. He was going to have to spend the night at his grandparent's house. Mrs. Van Holland opened the door. "Trenton, you'd better come back in and prepare for bed." "But mom, can I at least have supper?" asked Trenton. The Van Hollands were awesome. Half the time they had pizza for supper. That might have been today, too, except Trenton had gone with Andrew across town to visit Wal*Mart. Andrew really should have waited until the next day so that he could do that in the immediate afternoon instead of during the bad timing that came upon him today, and then he could have had supper with the Van Hollands so long as he lied about having his father's permission. "No, Trenton, now come inside. Andrew! You'd better go home before your father wonders where you're at!" "Alright, mom..."said Trenton, disappointed. "Yes, Mrs. Van Holland," said Andrew, playing the part of the role-model friend. Mrs. Van Holland smiled at him and waved him off on his merry way. He got on his bike, said goodbye to Trenton, and biked off. To the eastern 'burbs, where Grandpa and Grandma Penn lived. They were on his father's side, and they were far nicer than his dad, who was uncool and just plain didn't get him. When he came up to the front porch, he let the bike drop as he ran to the doorbell and rang with one long press of his thumb, letting it go on and on until one of them answered the door. Grandma Penn opened the door. "Andrew, what are you doing out so late?" "I'm sorry Grandma. I just lost track of time." "You're sweating like a bull," she said, and brought him in. Inside, Andrew saw his grandfather, a big, burly man, looking at a newspaper on the living room chair. He thought he was off the hook, but he didn't stand a chance with Grandpa Penn, who said at once the very last thing he wanted to hear. "Does your father know where you are?" Andrew's face flushed. He looked at Grandpa Penn with a dear-in-headlights look that gave away everything. Grandpa set down the newspaper, adjusted his suspenders. Trying to keep his innocence going for him, Andrew made up an excuse, "But I'm going to take a shower here. I don't want to smell in Dad's icky shower. Isn't that a good idea?" "Where have you been?" asked Grandpa. "I was at home with dad," said Andrew. "I was with him the whole time. I just decided to come over here for a shower." "Margaret..." said Grandpa. "Andrew," picked up Grandma. "You do smell. We'll show you the shower, but you can't go running off at night like this. Now for goodness sakes, that shirt smells. Let me remove this." She removed it. Meanwhile, Grandpa leaned over to the phone next to the chair and piked it up to call Andrew's father. Andrew was busted. Then Andrew took his shower, came out smelling nice, and Grandma had a blue shirt out and ironed for him. "And tomorrow's a school day, Andrew. You're going to have to wake up early and catch the bus. Oh, what are we going to do with you?" Grandpa was at the kitchen counter. He was looking down at a crumpled wad of dollars and scattered coins. It was the change left over from the video game. "Where did you get this money?" asked Grandpa. "I earned it," said Andrew. "I mowed Trenton Van Holland's lawn." "And they payed you a hundred dollar bill?" "Their family is rich," said Andrew. "And they really like me." "I'm giving this back to your father," said Grandpa. "And when he comes here, you're going to have to apologize to him for stealing from him." "But I really got that from my friend's house!" said Andrew. "I'm not stupid, you know." "Where is he, by the way?" said Grandma. She was right. Andrew's dad wasn't there yet. "He said to just wait a bit. It would take him a while to get ready. So I'm waiting. And Andrew will have to sit right here next to me." "You're terrible!" said Andrew. "You're just like Dad!" Grandpa took Andrew and put him on his knee. "Your father loves you more than you could know, and you're just too young to see it." "You're just saying that because that's what adults are supposed to say!" Grandpa just held him down while he squirmed, and Grandma went to the front door to wait for his father. He was still taking some time. After he had slowed down and retreated to a mode of skulking, Andrew noticed that his picture was in Grandpa's plaid shirt pocket. It was crinkled up from when it has been in his own while he was playing basketball, but he wanted to reach out and grab it. It felt like it belonged to him. The money maybe wasn't his, but he felt he had a right to the picture. His father didn't have a camera. Nobody ever took any pictures of him. It was special. "Grandpa, can I please have my picture back?" Grandpa reached into his pocket, as if just remembering that it was there. "You might as well." He placed it in Andrew's shirt pocket. Andrew took it out. "That's this, anyway? I don't remember taking this picture. Who was taking pictures, anyway?" he asked. "Nobody takes pictures in this family," said Grandpa. "It wasn't me. But this isn't a picture of you, anyway. This is a picture of your mother." "What? So it really is a picture of a girl?" Andrew now sat on Grandpa's lap in such a way similar to a child listening to a parent reading a story. Grandpa held out the picture so they could both see. "This was Ellen when she was your age. She changed when she got older. You look a lot like her." "That's my mom?" said Andrew. "Yes, you know what she looked like," said Grandpa. "Actually, no, I don't," said Andrew. Grandpa looked confused, and then sad. He sighed and shook his head. "That's right. They never took any pictures together when she was still alive. I believe your grandparents on your mothers side had a few wedding photos before they died, too, but your father wouldn't have any, save for some old stuff from her album. He must have something on hand to cling on to. He doesn't loom so much on the paste, though. He's very internal. I wouldn't expect this to be out much. I'm so sorry. I thought you knew what your own mother looked like." He sighed again. "Well now I just had a revelation." Andrew didn't feel the need to cry. He had never known his mother. The subject wasn't sad for him. However, it did feel odd, once he thought about it. Maybe other people could feel sad for him because they experienced something he had to miss out on. "Do you think I should give this to Dad?" "Maybe," said Grandpa. "Well, in this case, I think it's okay just once for you to take something from your father. Just ask him for it, though. I don't know what the story behind his reason for keeping this is. Maybe it's important that he keeps it. But you should know more about her sometime. I'm sure I have many stories to share with you." Stories. The Penn family tradition. They didn't keep collages of photographs to preserve memories: generations of knowledge passed down by word of mouth. To this day, though, Andrew had always heard of the things on his father's side of the family, and his father never had anything to tell him about his mother. He thought about it and decided he would like to hear them sometime. "The important thing that you know right now, Andrew, was that your father loved your mother, and your mother loved your father very much. She would want you to love him, too." "Do I have to?" "No, kid, but you ought to." From the kitchen window, the lights of Dad's pickup truck came in. He would put Andrew's bike in the trunk. Then his father came in and picked up Andrew off of Grandpa's lap. "Don't touch me..." said Andrew. He hated it when Dad assumed that he couldn't do stuff for himself. "Son," said Grandpa, referring for Andrew's dad, "take care of him. And also, one day you'll have to spend some time with me and your mother, alone. You can send Andrew off to his friend's house. I bet he can mow the lawn to make up for the money he spent, but what I think we really need to have is some of our old father-to-son time so you know how to be a genuine symbol for strength for your son." Andrew left as soon as he could and didn't want to hear the rest of the conversation. It was Grandpa just trying to negotiate a peace treaty. That's all those adults ever did. They didn't care about him, though. He left the house, got into Dad's truck, and cried. Why did everyone always have to side with Dad? Dad didn't care! He looked at the wrinkled picture of his mother at his age. Seeing her for the first time, and seeing such a radiant smile, she looked like the person who would care. He found himself really wishing he had known her mother and had more than just a picture to work with. Who cared about knowing some story when someone could have a whole other important person in his life? Dad got into the truck and drove off. Andrew sat on the far side and made sure he was close to the window. it was silent the whole way home. However, Andrew underestimated the wisdom of his grandparents. They taught his father as a child, and they would continue to teach his father. All he had to do now was to learn the lessons he was given from his late wife, whose story still lived on through him.
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Dark Dreams A cold light dawns. He is alive again; unsure of where he is, but alive. He will have to figure this out. He has been asleep. For a long time. This he knows for certain. Something has kept him from awakening, only to finally decide to jolt him up. He ponders whether to thank or kill this person. In the distance, a large building emerges. A temple. Why is it here? Again, he is not sure. It stands before him, unmoving, as if to mock him for his incompetence. This does not seem right. Nothing has ever mocked him before. He remembers always being in control; once again uncertain, but the feeling is there. He walks towards the temple. Many inscriptions lay on its front. He does not understand many, but there is one that strikes him: Unity. Duty. Destiny. Of course, he does not care to figure out its meaning. It seems pointless. Getting out of this place is more important. All the same… He somehow feels a connection to it… like he has seen it before. The thought bothers him. Something is not right here. His gaze stays on the words for a long time before a loud noise suddenly shakes him out of it. As if in a dream, he moves toward it. It feels like he is in water, but he is moving. Nothing is there at first; then, in a bright flash, something else emerges. A large rounded stone, simple face etched up top. This he knows. It has been in his subconscious many times before. Something tells him it is important. The stone lays still, unconscious. Of course it cannot shift a muscle, ###### around. It is immobile. Yet it seems he is immobile too, made of some sort of metal. Very confusing. He is just about to go up to the stone to see what is up when a large KRAKOW interrupts his train of thought and it has grown dark. Too dark. Unnaturally dark, even. The thought scares him. He does not know whether to walk or run. The stone that was once lively beige has soon turned black, completely overshadowed by the darkness. Now he is indicted to run; however, despite his greater intentions, he stays put. He cannot help but be concerned. Any competent individual would think better of this. He actually inches towards the stone for a bit. The fact that such an innocuous object is now suddenly dark is alarming. His slow march is suddenly interrupted by one more object. This one is dark from the start. It is not comforting, either; jagged skin and blood red eyes line its skin. He stays his ground. Crimson light is soon upon him, staring as if to say, “I know you are here.” Then it actually speaks. Laughs, even. He is angered; nothing has ever mocked him like that. Something inside him tells him to blast this freak in the chest, show him what he is worth, but he does not have the means to do so. The shadowy figure continues to mock him. Its voice is deep, grating, and chills his very soul. What should he do? He knows this guy is dangerous, but it seems there is nothing he can do to- Wait. Who are those people? They have different colours, red and black and blue and green and brown. Yet they appear similar to him. This is confusing. Are they his cousins? Brothers? Is he a robot? They stare at each other for a minute, each examining the other. He finds himself looking deep into piercing pink eyes. He has never felt any strong emotions before now, but he quickly finds himself… jealous. This red man must go. The red man surprisingly feels the same. He looks angry for a moment, annoyed probably with him; then a blue girl is on him, her hand on his shoulder. He nods then gestures to the others to follow him. They are going to take the shadow out. The robots walk towards the dark stone. It gazes at them, rubies bloodshot as ever. It does not show on its face, but it is angry. Irritated. Smug. He will have the first shot. They stand before it. It is still. The red man points up. “We will take you down!” he yells. It continues to be still. The robot growls before pulling out some weapon. A sword. He realizes that he probably has the same weapon, as do the others. His is not exactly like the red man’s. It is longer and more streamlined. He also has a curved piece of metal- a shield! That will be useful. The red man shouts out some commands and everyone aims their weapons. Nothing happens for a while. The villain does nothing; then, in barely a second, it flinches. Then it is on them. A large beam of coloured light has only barely pierced its rocky skin before it has been overpowered by a large shadow. His breath catches in his throat. This was not supposed to happen. They were supposed to use their weapons to dismantle this evil rock, the scoundrel who had defeated the stone. How could it have won? Red man freezes. He is obviously unnerved as well. For a moment, he looks at the shadow as well; then, he gestures at the others to fall back. It takes a bit of effort to escape the suction the rock has created, but before long everyone has fled. The robots enjoy their success, if only for a bit. They run through the piercing blackness. It is no longer light; the only source of illumination is their brightly coloured eyes. Before long it is upon them. It has managed to fly. How this occurred is unknown. It, once again, is silent for a while. Then it attacks. A simple shake at first, then a violent tremor. The same shadow is upon them. He cannot do anything. He tries to do something, but find this impossible. He does not know why- he tries to figure out, but his thoughts are soon overwhelmed by darkness. His mind is no longer happy. They had not been particularly cheerful before, but these new feelings felt… unnatural, gloomy and sinister. At first he finds himself on a beach, enjoying the sun and sand, only to be swept away in a tornado. Then he is on top of a volcano and ends up being pushed in. A lake, drowning. A mountain, hypothermia. The worst thought of all occurs in another chamber. He does not recognize this very well, but a vague splinter of his brain seems to remember. Things are not dark here; a strange blue substance provides light. They stand together on a circle. The green one smiles. He is happy. This should cheer up everyone, but it does nothing. The rock has corrupted their brain. A larger robot stands before them on another circle. She is not happy. In fact, she seems angry. At what he does not know. She opens her mouth to speak, then stops. She smiles slyly. When her mouth opens again, it is black. She releases black. Soon everything is dark. He does everything he can to fight off this shadow, but is unsuccessful. This lady is just too strong. It does not seem fair. He must be able to do SOMETHING. But alas… He cannot. He is soon assaulted by visions. Beside him, the others convulse, shaking in fear. They must have been possessed as well. He is compelled to feel a small tinge of sadness for them. Right before his eyes, bad things take place. The people he has met are violently dismembered. It is too gruesome for him to take note of. Soon, he finds others are being destroyed- houses, animals, smaller robots- Children. This should not be allowed. The rock is a madman. It is murdering children. Surely he can stop this? He pleads. It should not be happening. The slashfest continues. He finds the robots being sliced apart again. The large one, even though she has really done nothing wrong, is crushed. The smooth stone is thrown up and smashed to pieces. And that is only for them. He is not so lucky. The shadows do nothing at first. He stands still, unmoving, and gazes at them. They are at least grateful to give a silent “hello” at first. Then they hiss and strike. It is surprising to him to find that being consumed by darkness is actually not so bad. The mind feels a pain at first, a sting at the loss to its morality, then… nothing. Only lightness. It is wrong. No. It is wrong. He liked the stone. This is injustice! The rock was a great man. It did many good things for its people. He thinks he will serve him- No. He is black now. Everyone else is too. Even the chamber is. Beyond, a small animal lays dangling. He can do nothing. No. The rock will save this one. He knows it. He must. He- No! Soon whatever the animal was hanging on snaps. It falls and is dead before it hits the floor. He should feel sadness at this, anger; there is only happiness. A threat to Makuta’s domination is gone. SSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Kopaka. NO! BUMP. Serve me. NO! HSSSSSSSS. He falls to the ground now, defeated. You are mine. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! BOOOM! *** He wakes up. A cold light dawns. He is alive again; unsure of where he is, but alive. He will have to figure this out. I have slept for so long now, he thinks. My dreams have been dark ones. He is not whole. That he knows for certain. His parts lay broken, scattered across the ground. The sand. Can he pick them up? He reaches over in experimentation. A small touch at first, then a large lunge. He receives nothing. This concerns him. He tries again, harder this time. He will not remain in this canister forever. It is a bit of a stretch, but soon- He gets it! An arm. It helps much, though. He is soon able to start rebuilding himself. He does not know how or why he was destroyed. But now I am awakened. A mask lies by his feet. It is cold metal, stark silver in contrast to the golden sand. Stupid to say, but he feels it is important. After all, why would it be there in the first place? He goes on his hunch and puts it on. It works. Blinking readings soon pop up in his vision. My mask, he realizes. He has used this before. It seems too useful to not be. There is only one last joint to go before he is fully normal again. An arm. Now the scattered elements of my being are being rejoined. For a moment, he is unsure. What will putting it on do? Allow him to move around? Where will he go? What will he do? Then he realizes. That is not important. What IS important is finding out who this… Makuta character is and putting a stop to his evil. He knows that man cannot be a vision. He… Kopaka… knows that such actions are too true to be false. He may have been dreaming, but the content is real. Now I am whole. Kopaka stands up. He will not let Makuta get away with this. And the darkness cannot stand before me. *** I honestly have no idea where this came from. Somebody on BZP was discussing what the heck was happening in the dreams mentioned in the beginning of the series, and then somebody suggested it might have been the Toa's subconscious influencing them before they woke up. And that inspired me. Then I wrote this. I am a dark, dark person, I know. That is Bionicle #1 dialogue at the end, there. So I suppose this fits into canon. Somehow.
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Seabed below Voya Nui – Two days before the arrival of the Toa Inika. Kyrehx sat on a rock a few bio from her home, the underwater city of Mahri Nui. She and a Po-Matoran friend were tasked with observing the surrounding waters, just in case any possible danger could approach the once-great city. “Tired yet?” asked the Po-Matoran with a slight smile as he walked through the sea floor. “Yeah, tired of you, old friend.” Kyrehx replied, smiling back. A mighty earthquake shook the seabed, the Ga-Matoran was knocked off the rock and was left staring at the heavens. The Po-Matoran was barely moved by the earthquake.“What's the matter Kyrehx? It was just a bioquake.” the Po-Matoran said while laughing. Kyrehx gave the Po-Matoran a look, and extended her hand to him.“Just help me up you silly Kohlii-head,” Kyrehx said. “And let's move it before another quake hits!” Just as the Po-Matoran helped his friend up to her feet, the pair heard a massive growl coming from the darkness of the ocean. A growl that both of the Matoran couldn't recognize. “What was that?” asked Kyrehx. “Uh, I'd like to believe that that bioquake was just the tip of the statue, sister,” the Po-Matoran muttered. “We better move quick and return to the city before--”Before the Matoran could finish that sentence, out of the darkness a Giant Squid had appeared and started attacking the pair with its tentacles.“A Giant Squid so close to the city? Sister, we have to warn the council!” the Po-Matoran yelled as he ducked under a tentacle. Before Kyrehx could start running, the Giant Squid whipped one of its tentacles at the Ga-Matoran's direction. Before the tentacle could hit her, the Po-Matoran jumped and took the hit, protecting his friend.Kyrehx walked to the fallen Matoran, as he helped him to his feet, she noticed his Kanohi mask was shattered to pieces. She gasped, and ducked to evade another tentacle.“Brother, your mask... It's shattered!” the Ga-Matoran said. “I know, I know,” the Po-Matoran replied. “Ugh. But I'm still active. Let's hurry back to the city.” The two Matoran started running through the seabed back to their city. On the way, the two Matoran managed to distract the Giant Squid by going through a field of Airweed and concealing themselves from the beast. They were close to the entrance of Mahri Nui, only having five bio to run. The Po-Matoran grabbed his chest in pain, he had spent too much time without a Kanohi mask."Are you okay?" asked the Ga-Matoran. The Po-Matoran nodded and ran to the entrance. As soon as Kyrehx stepped through the entrance, the Giant Squid attacked with its tentacles and caught the Po-Matoran's leg and started pulling the Matoran back to the ocean. Kyrehx quickly tried to free the Po-Matoran, but she was too weak.“Sister... I don't think I'll make it through.” the Po-Matoran said with his last strength.“Shut up, shut up! I won't let you go, brother!” Kyrehx replied while holding the Po-Matoran's hand. The Giant Squid started growling and pulled with more strength. Kyrehx's hold on the Matoran wouldn't last much longer.“It's okay,” the Po-Matoran muttered. “Just let me go, Kyrehx. I'll be okay. You know I don't go down that easily.”Kyrehx's hand started to lose its grip on her friend's hand. Seeing his upcoming doom, the Po-Matoran muttered his last words.“I'll see you soon, sister.” As soon as the Po-Matoran finished that sentence, his chest light stopped shining and the Giant Squid whipped Kyrehx's hand, dragging her friend back to the depths of the ocean. Kyrehx couldn't help but stare how the ocean had claimed his life-long friend without any explanation why. Kyrehx returned to the seabed where his friend met his demise. There, she found the shattered Kanohi Miru that he was wearing. While sobbing, she recovered all the shards of the Kanohi and left them inside a backpack. She stared to the depths, and wished that someday, the ocean would give her another chance to be with her friend.
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To Soar She walked into the abandoned factory. Her companion, a thirteen year old boy named Eli, grabbed her shoulder gently, his eyes directed towards the middle of the room.Two swing sets.“How did you find this?” She asked, then suspicious, continued, “’Why’ did you find this?”“I have a lot of time on my hands,” he replied easily.She could only sigh. So, instead of actually doing something important with his time, finding a new job for example, he was off looking inside broken down factories.“Look, I want to take a break. I found this place and was happy to show you.”She rolled her eyes and moved closer to the two swings. Immediately she wondered who would set up such a thing. Why would anyone want to make a swing set in a factory? A quick glance at Eli revealed he was just as puzzled by their appearance. Of course, she knew he wouldn’t question why. He’d simply accept it.They composed of two plastic seats, with two long chains, reaching up towards the metal scaffolding connecting from one end to the other across the room.“What’s so great about them?” Catherine asked.“I remember swinging when I was younger,” he explained walking towards the swing. He held on to one of the chains, giving it a sudden sharp pull. He smiled and sat down, lifting his feet from the ground and swung his body in a smooth motion. “It helps you relax, gives you perspective.”It was ridiculous. Who cared about swinging on a swing set, out in the middle of nowhere, when there were simply more important things to do? Glancing around the factory, she noted the windows aligned across the upper floor. Some only held minor cracks in them. Some were completely shattered. The floors were dusty, both dead and alive bugs littered the floor. She was blessed for wearing shoes as the room was covered in small pieces of glass.Dirty, gray, run down, abandoned. No smart person could enjoy this place.But of course Eli, who was having the time of his life swinging, in a nostalgic state. He soared a little higher…She stuffed her hands into the coat she wore to keep warm. Glancing upward, she caught sight of what was left of the roof, a huge glass plane that had long since collapsed, raining down most of its shards a few yards away from the swing. In that pile only a minor leap away from the suspended seats, were pipes, pieces of glass and steel frames of metal. It was an accident waiting to happen.“My dad would always take me to this park when I was younger, and there was always a swing. Sometimes, that would be the only thing I would play on all day. I miss swinging.”She looked away at his comment. His father was one of the soldiers now. He had left only a month before. Eli and his mother weren’t taking it very well.He would never show it of course, not in front of Catherine. She was annoyed by his barrier and grateful for it. If he didn’t express sorrow over his father, she wouldn’t think about her sister…And they didn’t have much money. Their bills were higher now, and the cost of even simple medicine…“Let’s get out of here. I don’t like it,” she exclaimed, letting her thoughts get to her. She wasn’t afraid, but still, it was a dead factory. And she had seen too much death lately. Why think about it?“Aw lighten up,” he replied. His body began to move faster, and he began to gain more altitude.“W-wait!” she shouted, exasperated. “Stop it Eli!”Immediately he grounded to a halt, the propulsion skidding him slightly as the swing moved erratically without its master.“What’s wrong?”“You’re facing the wrong way. If you fell off, you’d land in that…” Her eyes shifted towards the mountain of trash. The tallest piece of metal jutted out only a foot. If he were to fall on top of that …She didn’t finish the idea and shook her head.Walking around, facing the other way, he sat once more and began to swing. After a few moments, he stopped once more.“Aren’t you coming?”She hesitated, frowned and shook her head.“We should be leaving. We’re supposed to see if there is some work for us to do around town.”“One day won’t matter,” he answered, looking serious. “We’ve been looking for some time now, and there just aren’t many around. We need to relax a little anyway.”She nodded slowly, but was unsure. His statement was true. Ever since the war had taken place, spreading across the country like wild fire, people’s troubles and worry had increased. Taxes became almost impossible to pay, jobs gave less, food was becoming scarce and everyone constantly lived in fear of being attacked.Her stomach growled as she thought of the bread and soup her family had feasted on the night before. There seemed to be more and more dinners like that lately.How could two swings help any of that?“We’ll play for a little while,” she decided, for Eli’s sake if anything. Speaking slowly, she finished, “But then let’s leave.”“All right. Good deal.” He waited a few moments, just staring at her.She became indignant.“What?” It was a blunt statement.“You haven’t moved.” He gave her a look that seemed so innocent, yet … suspiciously crafty, “Aren’t you going to soar? You’d be good at it.”Her mouth twitched for a moment, and almost cracked a smile. She couldn’t be sure if the remark had been a charming or an annoying one.“I … don’t have a need to.”The boy continued to study her face.“Come on. Are you scared?” he teased.She didn’t reply.“You are?” he asked, his eyes showing surprise. “Hey, it’s safe. I promise.”“No, it isn’t that.”“Well?”She rolled her eyes once more. It wasn’t … important. And she didn’t feel the need to just explain it.“I’m afraid of heights,” she replied instead. It was a half truth after all.He leaped off the swing and walked up to her, his boots crackling as he broke the fragments of glass around him. With a grin, he spoke her secret allowed.“You’ve never swung on a swing set before have you?”***“Look, I promise, it’ll be easy.”“No way.”“I’ve already got you on the swing,” he answered obviously, then shook his head.“I said I would sit! I didn’t say swing.”He frowned, “Not swing. Fly.”The snow poured in from the weather outside. She was wearing a strong winter coat, but still, she shivered as the soft ice found its way through the broken window. Sitting wasn’t the best way to keep warm.“You’re crazy.”“Look, I’ll take it one step at a time with you.”Then he began to instruct her on what do, how to move her legs outward when falling forward and pull on the chain in a hard motion.It was a stupid lesson, since she wasn’t going to swing anyway-Catherine caught her breath, sharp and cold, as she was pushed forward. At the small peak of her soaring, she felt herself remain in the air for just the simplest of moments, before swinging backward. It was a surprise that shouldn’t have been one.Eli caught her as she yelped.She dug her shoes into the ground, determined to never leave it again, and turned at her friend with look of fury.“Fun huh?” His eyes held the look of a challenge. He dared for her to try it again.She could have hit him. But it was a little fun, and she couldn’t deny it.***“Sometimes, when I’m on this swing, I feel like …” he paused, thinking. “I don’t know.”“Hmm?” she mumbled with a mouth full of cheese sandwich.Catherine and Eli had been neighbors for as long as she could remember. When they were younger their parents would invite each other over for dinner and the two of them would play. Catherine had always been the mature one. And Eli … they were just really different. Why did she spend so much time with him? Well, they had known each other a long time.Always, whenever she was given a problem there were only two choices. She could solve it, or she couldn’t.Eli acted like solving it wasn’t the point. He was only half a year younger, but youngish all the same. He made many friends, goofed off, explored outside his neighborhood –finding old factories, and always seemed to drag her along wherever he went. She didn’t mind, but sometimes the places they found, weren’t interesting or safe. Why would he just walk inside these kinds of places so easily? What attracted him to them?But now, a rare moment for the boy, he was being serious.“I love the air and I’ve always wanted to fly.” His hands tightened around the swing as he looked upward at the chains. They were both just sitting today. It had been two weeks since they had found this place.“I think these swings are a good substitute. I like them a lot.”Catherine raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t help but chuckle.She didn’t like heights. But she was able to swing a little and it was … fun. Kind of. But it wasn’t that great.“I’m serious!” he exclaimed. “When I swing, and go really high, there is a moment where you just stay there … and time stops.” He was finding it difficult to explain, she could tell … “You aren’t moving. Nothing is holding you.”It’s a good feeling to let go sometimes.”When she glanced at him again, she could see his eyes closed.Suddenly, he began to swing again, rising higher and higher until without warning, he leaped off in mid swing.She flinched as he landed near the wall, sticking the landing.“Why did you do that?” she asked somewhat surprised. Catherine had seen swings before. It’s just her parents never really bothered taking her to parks when she was little. It was naïve to think jumping off wasn’t possible … still she was a little unnerved.He shrugged, his mouth slightly frowning in disappointment. “I would be able to go further if the wall wasn’t here.” He took a glance in the other direction where that dangerous pile lay. Catherine was right, it was stupid to try and leap that thing.But that yearning to soar, she secretly knew, hadn’t gone away from the boy.***“Why don’t you ever swing higher?”“I don’t like heights.”How many times am I going to respond to that question? In the factory, she had to sigh. He knew why. They were here yet again.But things had brightened for her. The war’s impact seemed to lessen over of the course of the year. The town’s people seemed to be healthier as well, even happy. Everyone was in an optimistic mood.Eli glanced over at her. “Hey, job hunting is over for the both of us. Money is coming back in, that means all delivering errands are done and we can focus on school.”Eli studied her as they swung. She was fifteen now, her hair rained down her back, sometimes a few bangs covered her eyes. Her posture was as always, almost perfect, like an adult ready to face the world. Her eyes, they still glinted in that same way he knew so … Lush green, like a summer tree.He shook his head.It was becoming more difficult lately. They were a little older now and certain aspects of their friendship, he found uncomfortable. She didn’t seem to show any concerns though. Not all the time, but at moments Eli felt that way.“I do feel like swinging today though,” She pushed herself a little higher than usual.She moved swiftly, with her head up.“Hey …” Eli rarely wanted to discuss these things, but since he had heard good news about it.He felt the air current she created as he swooshed by her, twice before continuing.“How’s your sister doing?” He paused, continuing only when Eli could see her face brighten, “I hear she’s feeling well.”Catherine met his eyes as they moved and smiled. They gleamed once more.“She got out of bed and actually sat down at our table this morning. It’s been weeks since she’s eaten with us like that. Her headache is almost gone too.”“Meds are kicking in huh?” They would have always worked, had her family had the money to buy them. Now, it was possible.She nodded, “It’s nice, man I’ll tell you, it is.”She couldn’t help being in a good mood Eli, noticed. Her sister, her five year old, was feeling well. She looked like a person who wanted to shout it out aloud. Scream the news with joy. Then, swinging in the air discussing her sister with a friend was probably just as good.Wrapping her fingers around the chains of her swing, she dared to soar a little higher…***Catherine entered the sliding door of the factory. It screeched open as metal scraped against metal. The rust on the door was becoming worse.How long has it been now? Six months? Why would you think to come here of all places? Eli wouldn’t surely have…But she somehow, deep in her gut, knew he was here.When Catherine hadn’t seen Eli at school and later had heard Eli had left his home, having been gone for hours, she had begun to worry about him. Of all places he would go to, this was the only one she could think of.After all this time, it still amazed her, the conditions of the factory seemed to become worse each passing season, yet it remained uninhabited and untouched by the people of the world. What was this place before they had found it?Shaking her head to dismiss the thought, Catherine paused in sudden surprise. Eli sat on one of the swings. His head was down. In his right hand, he held the letter.She closed her eyes for a moment, daring herself to take that first step towards him. He would do it for her, wouldn’t he?Eli must have heard her as the glass crackled beneath his feet. He didn’t move.She sat down beside him, comfortable in her own swing.It had been a long while since the two of them had sat here. Rushing off to who knows where, didn’t settle to well with her parents, especially at their current age. Catherine was almost seventeen now, Eli was sixteen.When she came home this afternoon, and received word from her father as to what had happened to Eli’s family … It was her duty to follow him. She had to know he would be okay.Catherine missed their time spent here. She wouldn’t admit to enjoying the swing sets too much, but those few moments where they could talk about the small things and forget the big ones, were precious to her.She sat in silence. Words couldn’t be enough for this … What could she possibly say?“He doesn’t talk to me,” Eli whispered.I know, She mentally replied. The girl couldn’t speak that yet.“I can’t hear him Catherine.”She didn’t know what it was like to lose a parent. If she had lost her sister … would the world stop spinning?Only difference was her sister was fine. She had made it through, when every single person had said she wouldn’t.Everyone had said Eli’s father would survive the war.Catherine didn’t want to be here suddenly. She truly had nothing to say, only aid with a listening ear.“You know, when I was younger, my father had always took me to the swing sets.” He had told her that before, years ago… “I could be free those days. He always had a way of making me look at things differently, appreciate what was around me. And I loved space and the sky.”He paused, and finally looked up. His eyes were red.“Maybe, if I swing long enough …” He slowly lifted his feet from the ground, staring at the long end of the factory. It was blocked halfway, by that pile of debris.What are you thinking ... She frowned in wonder.“Can I fly if I tried hard enough Catherine?” he turned to stare at her.She stuttered, and couldn’t come up with a sufficient answer.“Oh ...” She looked at him, trying to find some sign of the kid she had known for so long. “Eli. You have to stop.”“Maybe I could. I can make it over that obstacle.”“No,” she said in a matter of fact voice. “You can’t.”“I’ll try it.”Now she was afraid. She immediately stood up, not willing for him to continue. What he was saying … it was, suicidal. And in the deepest part of his mind, she somehow knew that’s what he wanted. She turned towards him, blocking the view he had held. She grasped the chains and met his face.“Eli. You won’t make it across that. It won’t solve anything.” He wasn’t responding well and even seemed to ignore her. Could he hear her? She spoke a bit louder, her voice echoing throughout the factory. “Eli! Listen to me.”He finally glanced up.She sighed and continued. Her voice was slightly shaky, but also firm.“If you try to jump it, you’ll die. You won’t fly Eli. You won’t soar. It won’t bring anyone back. You’ll be impaled, and your blood will spill across the floor. Your eyes will close, and you’ll never see anything again.”He stared at her with dead eyes. And he only replied with one question, a question that shakes faith.“Are you sure?”She hesitated. How could she be sure? She took a few steps away from him and watched along the walls of this factory. Outside, that was life. That was reality. Somehow these walls had over the years protected them from the outside. But now, it was going to serve another purpose.If they allowed it.“Yes,” she replied, the doubt in her voice cleansed. “I’m sure. You don’t want this.”He nodded. But it wasn’t one full of hope. It wasn’t a nod that showed he had made up his mind. It was a nod to satisfy her. Only for her sake.***Catherine gazed up towards the swings. The chains moved silently, aroused by the weak wind flowing through the factory. It had been one week since she spoke with Eli. He wasn’t any better.She held on to one of the chains. She could almost feel the imprint he had left behind as a boy. The metal felt almost warm to her.There was no doubt in her mind. Eli was going to soar. He was going to fly over that construction. If he missed that, it would kill him.You aren’t the only one living Eli. Have you considered what it would be like for us? For me? If you left us … how could you die with that?She reminded herself bitterly that if he died, he would no longer care anyway.Catherine sat down. She began to swing slowly. She gained a little height. Determination was her movement.There is that one second. I understand what he means when he talks about it. I know that moment when you swing and come to a stop in midair before the earth takes hold of you once more. Weightless. Thoughtless. When time ceases to exist and you have a moment that lasts indefinitely. To dwell on things and ask who you are. Her movement increased. Her sight was beyond the factory. She wouldn’t look at the fallen metal. It was something she had to conquer.To soar. It’s something we can’t fully do. And yet we dream about it. Create machines to aid us and give us the effects of it. We hunger to go beyond what we are capable of. And even though we can, we always seem to fall in the end. No matter what we do, it is impossible to fly forever.With one final push, she leapt off of the swing’s propulsion. Her body flew into the air, soaring higher then she could think was possible. She wanted to make it through this. She had faith in herself and closed her eyes. Her body fell closer to the cold collection of metal and glass…But, we have to fall. It’s the only way we can truly live. We can’t remain and dream of something that no longer exists or wish for something that won’t be granted to us. If we did, then we’d be lost.And then how would we find ourselves? How can we return?For everything that flies must land.I want to land now.And the young woman did.***Eli lifted her head gently from the stone floor. Her hair was messy. Her arms were etched with small pieces of glass. But it wasn’t anything serious; just a few bruises and a little blood. She lay only two feet from the fate that would have killed her.Her eyes opened. She could barely remember what had happened. And once she recognized where she was, life returned to her.“You …” his anger was apparent, but it wasn’t towards her fully. Half of him just seemed glad that she was alive. “You never do that again. You hear me!” he shouted and his teeth clenched together.“I’m sorry,” she whispered honestly, regaining her breath. But she produced a grin as she stared back at him. Her face softened so much.“You are an cool dude! You realize that right? Why … why – Never again ok?” he said, pleadingly and confused, a light glimmer under his eyes. “I … you really scared me. I just found you here and – ”He shook his head to clear the thought. “Are you alright Catherine?”“I’ll be fine,” she paused, as she slowly sat up. “Eli. Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve had enough practice in flying...”He moved back, watching her, sitting up, before turning. He stared at the swings for a long moment. They reminded him of his father. He missed him very much.And the swings were there. It’s just, his family wasn’t.He nodded to her, and then nodded again with more reassurance. He understood why she had done what she did. If he had tried to jump alone and if he had failed; he realized now what he would have lost.Eli wouldn’t want his family to through with that. No amount of flying was worth it.The two of them stood up, he still held her arm though she didn’t need it. Just in case she fell.Taking a few steps, feeling better, Catherine joked, “You know, there are other ways to fly Eli that don’t involve swinging.”“Yeah…” He paused, he produced a smile, “Maybe someday, we’ll fly on an airplane; if you can handle those heights.”She glanced at, him and could see that young face of his, that thirteen year old face. It was only a second, but still there. It made her want to laugh and smile, warmly. But she didn’t. She just grinned, like how they used to when they were kids.“I can. I’ll pilot it. Then I’ll teach you how to.”They opened the factory door and began to return home as the sun’s rays broke through the musty clouds, illuminating the blue, afternoon sky.____I hadn't thought to revive this, but I realized since all my other CoT stories are back on the new forum in some way, might as well. First off, this isn't new, and I wrote this more than a year and half ago (maybe two years ago). I don't consider it my best work, so if some of it came off as a bit cheesy, go easy on me. lol Anyway, hope you were able to get through it all, and enjoy it!I also had a lot of inspiration for this story, a little from the movie Inception, a little from the horrifying game of Limbo, and then a little from my own love and I mean LOVE of swings. :3
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In Your Absence From the journal of Henry Peterson 3rd of April Do you remember the games of hide and seek that we used to play, all those years ago? Our house was nothing exceptional, just two floors and eight rooms between them. But to us this house was our world, filled with such little crevices and caves for us to tuck ourselves away into and be concealed from everything else. I remember when you hid in our washing basket and nearly gave mother a heart attack. I searched these crevices today and found nothing. Our caves were bare. Why did you not answer me when I called for you? I had spent an entire hour searching and yet found no sign of you. When I cried that was meant to be the signal for you to reveal yourself. Where were you when I needed you most? Father returned home today with a tear-stained face. He said nothing when he entered, simply opting to walk past me and hold mother tightly, as though he was scared she might fly away. I didn’t understand their behaviour. You had been late home before so what made this occasion so different? Why did the rooms suddenly feel larger and emptier? And why did the tears now streak down my face? There were once a hundred hiding places in this house and I could no longer conceal myself in any of them. 4th of April I hate this. I hate the shallow expressions that everyone wears, those downturned lips, those red puffy eyes. I hate the restlessness that’s possessed everyone under this bloody roof, how they pace the rooms and then leave without saying a word. There is always something to be done and yet we’ve done it a thousand times over. Well, I’m sick of doing something and nothing at all. I’m sick of this stupid clock that hangs on the wall and screams every tick of every hand. The embodiment of my hatred looked me in the face today and so I smashed him into a million tiny pieces. There was a moment of pause when he collapsed to the floor, and then I laughed and danced in his fragments. I crushed him into a fine dust. I ground him beneath my heels and refused to wince as he bit back at me, drawing blood. Nothing would distract me from this high. The power of destruction was mine, the power to rid the world of all that I despised. I vowed that I would gorge myself in this chaos and I would find it good. If you could not be here to tell me right from wrong then I would construct my own order in your absence. My breath fell heavily upon my breast when I finally slumped to the floor. A fine cocktail of blood and broken mirror stared back up at me. I could feel its jeers and taunts, scolding me for the absence of control. The death of that reflection had brought me no consolation, no satisfaction from my loneliness. The dustpan and brush swept away the produce of my frustration and now the house sat even emptier than before. 5th of April Was it something that I had said? Was I the one who drove you away? If this is the case then I will take it all back, every mislaid word and every stupid, inconsiderate action. You are all I desire and I will swallow every last ounce of my pride if it leads to you walking through this godforsaken door just one more time. I can’t stand to be in this household any longer but it is all I have left. I leave and return in sporadic bursts, desperately hunting for somewhere to be and then immediately lusting for the comfort of a more familiar environment. The wind outside has picked up and it tears at my coat, pushing me back to my starting point. Yet when I stand inside, the stillness eats away at me, eroding my patience. What was it that you did that kept the peace in place? How were you the wooden groyne that kept things secure and homely? Why did you give up in your task and just what will it take to bring you back? Father has tried to console my grief by promising a trip to the coast. I thanked him and he left without another word. He would take me somewhere else, to another land, another place where you are not by my side. If this was his intention, he could have just taken me anywhere. Wherever I go, I will always stand without you. 6th of April Father took us down to the beach today. I remember when we used to travel here on a more regular basis, when the sun would shine its approval and the sea would sing to us its joy. We would take our pet Alsatian, Sally and we would laugh as she chased us across the bed of sand. The colours didn’t seem quite the same today and the song of the sea sounded mournful. It was as though in your passing, you had taken the heart of the world with it. The sun couldn’t bear to face us and hid behind its veil of grey clouds. The gulls wailed over our heads and in the distance I could see the faint outline of a dog and its master. I thought of Sally and almost cried. We had taken with us a picnic, mother, father and I. Our plans had been to sit on the beach and make an occasion of our venture, to create a memory that would fill the hole you had left behind. We hadn’t been there for more than half an hour before it started to rain and we were forced to flee back to the car. After a brief debate, we simply sat there awhile and watched as the world went by. The raindrops washed over the windshield accompanied by its constant, never-ending drumming that beat a rhythm into my aching head. To block its persistent torment, I wondered if the sky would have still emptied itself even with you here by our side. Would the gulls have serenaded us with such hollow cries if your ears were here to accept their song? I didn’t know but the need for an answer burned through my mind. Why does the world carry on without you? When I die, will it carry on without me? 7th of April The funeral service was held today. I walked through a sea of black coats and suits and knelt by your gravestone. The touch of the cold granite kissed the tips of my fingers as I caressed the last physical memory of your life. I was now closer to you than I had been in days. I laid my flowers by your resting place and said my goodbyes. I told you I was sorry and that the hole you had left in my heart could never be refilled. You were my brother and you were always there for me, through all the trials and tribulations of our relationship. I sobbed and I grieved until father finally took me by the hand and led me away. Now we are home and I simply sit in a quiet silence, writing for you in this journal, writing the letters that mark your passing. Photos line our shelves that tell the story of your life and your grave is to be an aerial of your death. But these words will tell the story of the transition, a time when the world adjusted to your departure. These entries are to be testament to the void you now leave in your wake. I will write my feelings for you one last time and then I will let the world carry on, lighter and yet at the same time heavier on my shoulders than it has ever been before. Goodbye. 8th of April I miss you. Come back. Please. Come back.
