Jedi Gali

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

Member Name: Jedi Gali Theme: Sunset Word Count: 835 Link: http://www.bzpower.com/board/index.php?showtopic=10040]PB & J[/url] -JG

PB & J Matt was crushed. His friends told him had a flair for the dramatic, but this time, he was not exaggerating. His heart, crushed. His happiness, crushed. His mind, crushed. His body, crushed. Well, maybe not his body. That would be unfortunate. “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Ryan slapped him across the shoulder as he swaggered by. The guy could never simply walk, could he? Matt gave his best grin. “Great, just fantastic.” “You sure?” His mouth was concerned, but his eyes were laughing. “Thought I saw you had a spill on the waves out there.” Matt wanted to punch him. He didn’t. “Yeah, fine.” “Let me know if you need any help, all right?” The lifeguard punched him again, this time on the opposite shoulder. “I’m getting on the stand now.” As soon as Ryan continued his strut to the lifeguard stand, Matt stomped off, sand puffing up in little white clouds with each step. That guy. On top of everything else… He stopped himself from muttering a few appropriate curses as a family tramped onto the beach and crossed his path, lugging their cooler, chairs, umbrella, and buckets full of plastic toys. He could have moved around the train of people, but his muscles were too sore for him to be overexerting them. So he waited. For all he knew, it could have been a railroad crossing. The twin red-headed boys galloped ahead, yelling about finding sharks. Then the pregnant mother and a swarm of elementary-aged girls inched along, squealing something unintelligible. A toddler boy came tripping along next. A beautiful girl with golden hair and freckles speckling her arms held the little boy’s hand. Matt didn’t stare. They moved by too quickly for that. So he ambled closer to the water, his surfboard tucked underneath his arm, and plopped down onto the sand. As he closed his eyes and lay his head down, he felt the late afternoon sun baking his skin. He knew he’d wake up looking like a lobster, but he didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t believe his misfortune. He had been sitting on the beach after his humiliating fall on the waves, minding his own business. His delicious roast beef and provolone sandwich on a hoagie roll was on the sand, just waiting for him. So he waited till his hands dried, unwrapped the perfect specimen, and opened his mouth to sink his teeth into that delicious sandwich. Then it was gone. Quick as lighting, the evil gull darted in, snagged his entire sandwich, and flew out. Matt’s stomach rumbled. He was so hungry he could have eaten a cow. Well, if he couldn’t eat, he might as well sleep. **** The scream jerked him awake. His eyes flew open, and he jumped to his feet. He instantly saw two heads in the water, disappearing and reappearing. A quick glance at the lifeguard stand revealed it to be empty. Ryan was already in the water, his arms cutting through the choppy waves like butter. At least he was doing his job. Matt watched for a few seconds before he realized the kids were panicking. Ryan couldn’t do it alone. Matt leapt in. He was on swim team at school, but none of that mattered now. He reached them in fourteen strokes. The two red-headed boys were kicking and flailing their limbs in every possible direction. The ‘rescue’, if that’s what it was called, was a blur. Matt just knew he somehow got back to shore, a five-year-old boy in tow. Miraculously, the boy hadn’t strangled him in the process. His mother scooped him up, and the entire family swooped around them. Matt got lost somewhere in the fringes of the circle. So he strolled a little farther down the beach and dropped down to the sand. He wasn’t much of an artist, but the sunset was pretty, a swirl of purple and orange and yellow. Suddenly his stomach let out a monstrous growl. “Shush,” he ordered. “Matt?” He turned and stared. It was the beautiful girl with the golden hair. “Are you Matt? Ryan told me that was your name,” she explained and smiled brilliantly. “Uh, yeah,” he nodded. “I wanted to say-” “You saved my life!” Matt felt a pair of chubby little arms squeezing his neck. Trying not to cough dramatically, he simply extricated himself from the clutches of the boy. “Yeah, kid,” he said, awkwardly. “How about making a huge sand fort with your brother now?” The boy’s eyes grew huge. “Jeremy!” He yelled, running off. “That fort will be bigger than the beach,” the girl said seriously, her brown twinkling. “Thank you.” She sat down next to him. “Well, you’re welcome.” Matt didn’t know what else to say. “Oh, want a sandwich? My mom made too many.” Without waiting for him to accept it, she handed him a sandwich. “Sorry. It’s only PB and J.” Matt looked at the sandwich, then at the sunset, and then back at the girl. He was a whole man again. ***** -JG

Your description of the Tohunga's slow but sure transformation of mind and purpose was... eerie. But beautifully written. Beautifully haunting. Well done. -JG

This may sound strange, but I feel I didn't picture them much at all...They were always such living characters for me. Perhaps, they had too vibrant of personalities for me to put a mask on them. I'm just brainstorming now, but that may have been due to Farshtey's writing being heavily action and dialogue based. He didn't mentioned the physical aspects as much. Of course, correct me if I'm wrong there. -JG

Stuck The black mud could not have smelled worse. It couldn’t have felt worse either, warm slime mixed with weed tendrils that oozed around the ankles. Ka’lir tried to be thankful he had the good sense to put his boots in the cart a league back. If the mud had touched the shoes, he never could have cleaned the stench from the sturdy leather. As it was, he’d have to wash himself in the River before he entered the city. If he entered the city. The traders told him the way to A’bishar was smooth traveling, the River crossing being the trickiest part. They said nothing of this blasted mud! Ka’lir scowled at his caravan of carts, their once-beautiful wheels a quarter deep in mud. How in the pits was he going to restore them to their previous luster, let alone clean them well enough to be sold tomorrow? And what would his father say? Ka’lir imagined the crotchety old man, his enormous white brows furrowed in anger as he shook his saw at him. The first time I sell my carts outside of our village, you ruin them! Disgrace my name! Craft me as an idiot who’d be better off dead! Yet Ka’lir had made one of them himself. And he would be the one dragging the three mud-stained carts into one of the most renowned markets in all of Ra’oha. He’d be the laughingstock of the village. He draped the straps he’d been using to pull the carts over the high wooden front of the first. Shoving his rough woolen sleeves up past his elbows, he stepped back and studied the situation. Judging from the sun, he had already traveled all afternoon in the muck. Yet he still didn’t see an end to the waterland or whatever it was. Night was fast approaching. Yet he couldn’t stop to sleep until he pulled the cursed carts onto solid ground, a place where he could lay out his blanket roll and fix a small fire. Here, he was stuck. He could only continue on. The straps firmly affixed around his shoulders, he took another step. And then another. And another. Walking became easier, he found as he settled into some sort of a rhythm. It helped if he didn’t think about it too much. His stomach rumbled, and he wistfully imagined the fried beef and potatoes in the large brownstone bowl on the table at home. The soft mealy potatoes soaking up the savory beef juices. And perhaps a great mug of cold milk. He could see Mother covering the food with a cloth until Father came in after finishing the evening chores. Then Mother would ask him how hoeing the garden dirtied his face so much, and he’d splash icy water from the washbasin onto his dirt-covered cheeks. He would smear it around until Mother came and gently wiped his face clean with a rough cloth. At least, that was true until Mother died from the fever and Father sold the farm. Every last pace of land, every gentle wheat-covered slope was gone. The small gray cottage, with its windows’ white curtains waving in the summer breeze, was gone. His home was gone, traded for countless cures meant to heal the fever, not steal his mother’s last breaths. Perhaps it was better to think about the mud after all. He continued on. **** -JG

My sibs, Israeli Toa and The White Lady. They're pretty cool. -JG

It's a toss-up between a Ga-Matoran and a Le-Matoran... would I rather live on the water or in the trees??? It's such a tough question, especially because I'm similar to both in personality. A Legatoran. Or Galetoran. That's legitimate, right? -JG

My bro (IT) joined back in '02. I remember frequently looking over his shoulder and seeing him on the forums,,, I finally joined in '05. -JG

JG? (Look below. ) And lessee: I've called Israeli Toa 'IT' quite a bit. Exo-Fat I dubbed 'Exo', Hahli Husky was/is 'HH', Republic Commando Sev became plain 'Sev'.... I could go on, but I've only recently returned to BZP and sadly, I don't remember the names of a lot of my friends. I know, I'm terrible. -JG