tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042651517714903022024-02-08T14:31:09.804-05:00Write Now!We're here to get writers writing right now; With prompts, edits, and feedback we will hone your fiction, poetry, short stories, novels, smutty fanfiction, anything you can put on paper. So get writing!Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01201205410257616456noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-70912873242735332272011-02-03T21:57:00.001-05:002011-02-03T22:03:33.460-05:00Virtual Expressionism by KenThis is a bit I did for my film class a couple years ago. Enjoy.<br />
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Virtual Expressionism</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “So what exactly is this special scenario you’ve got queued up?” I asked as I pulled on the gloves of the suit.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “It’s an experiment.” Chris replied. “You’ll find out soon enough.</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Chris had been my friend forever. He was a great guy and a brilliant programmer but, well, he was weird. He was always collecting all this outdated media. CD’s, DVD’s, even VHS. VHS! Where in the world can you get VHS? He’d written award wining scenarios for all the big VR outlets, but he never took part in any of them himself. He spent every free moment with his collection, always watching. To tell the truth I couldn’t see the point. It’s got to be damn boring, just watching a flickering screen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “You ready?” Chris asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “As I’ll ever be.” So saying I put on the headset that would connect the final circuits and start the program.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> My vision blurred and swirled. No matter how many times I dive in, I never get used to it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Jake? Hey, Jake, can you hear me?” He was coming in over the ear piece. It was standard equipment. Communication was essential in case something went wrong. No VR tech wanted to consider what could go wrong though.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Yeah, I hear you.” I replied. My eyes were still shut tight. I opened them as slowly as I could. Being immersed can wreck havoc with your senses. “This, this is…wow.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe Viet Nam, or the Crusades, but not this. Thick fog was everywhere, and there wasn’t even a hint of color. Black, white and grey as far as the eye could see.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> And the buildings! They were all angular and bent. The entire block seemed bereft of straight lines. I caught sight of myself in a shop window. Now that <i>really</i> threw me for a loop.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I had no armor or weapons, no uniform or trench coat. No, just an <i>extremely</i> retro looking suit. Waistcoat, slacks, white gloves, it was all there. There was even a pocket watch. My hat was a Derby. I made sure not to try to take it off. The headset was linked to whatever kind of hat you wore in the scenario. It was easier to reach up and pull it off if you had something to grab hold of, figuratively speaking.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “You know, I’m getting some seriously bad vibes from the scenery.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I thought I heard Chris chuckle. “That’s the whole idea. Good to know I’m doing me job.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “You might want to get off the street now.” He warned me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I hopped up onto the sidewalk as a huge procession came around the corner. They were all men, dressed in identical, drab uniforms. They carried lunch pales, and there was not a smile to be found on any face.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Factory workers?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “How do they make you feel, Jake?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “What does that have to do with anything?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “It’s a valid question.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I sighed. “Soul crushingly depressed.” I admitted</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “That’s appropriate. After all, they work a ten hour shift.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “There must be hundreds.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Thousands actually. In the 1920s they did it with mirrors, now it’s just a duplication command.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “What is all this?” I demanded. “Why do you keep asking how I feel?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Because that’s the whole point Jake. This is German expressionism. The visuals convey the emotion. The city skewed like a crazy person, the downcast workers, it’s all to pull on your heartstrings.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Well this is very well put together, but all this psychological stuff is just not my thing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “As you wish. Just one more thing though.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “What is it?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Watch out for the somnambulist.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Without warning a tall man in black with dead eyes lumbered out of the shadows and went for my throat. I screamed and pulled off my hat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Back in the real world Chris greeted me. “The movies are dead.” He said. “That doesn’t mean we can’t learn from them.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> </div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-85966145367642188792011-01-14T16:23:00.001-05:002011-01-14T16:28:09.766-05:00Rubicon by Ken<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">Rubicon</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He made his way down the hall carefully, ever alert for the telltale swishing of robes. There it was, up ahead. He ducked down a side passage. There was brief glimpse of blue as the figure passed by. Still safe.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Would they find out, he wondered? Would they find the pillow under his blankets, come running? He hoped to any kind of god they wouldn’t. He was getting out of here, one way or another.</div><a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> But how- <br />
PAIN</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>No! Oh God not now! The pain began as it always did, in the back of the neck, creeping upward, until in a moment his head was wrapped in a vice. Vision blurring, he fumbled for something, anything, to keep himself steady. He found purchase, but his handhold turned in his grip, and some tiny part of his mind that wasn’t on fire told him he’d found a door handle. The door swung open, and he sprawled into the room, blind, head screaming.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Louis, if you can hear me, relax and breathe deeply.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>It wasn’t a voice that was heard as much as felt. Direct and commanding, it cut through the haze of pain like a knife, and the man, Louis, found himself doing as he was told, breathing slowly, in and out. Amazingly, the pain began to ebb. It didn’t go away completely, but it was easier to deal with now that he wasn’t panicking. Finally it was down to a dull ache, but Louis still didn’t get to his feet. Hard experience had taught him not to move too quickly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Who...Where are you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Right here</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>Louis risked looking up. The room was dominated by a tank, cylindrical and filled with fluid. Within this vessel was a strange creature. It was like some kind of three-eyed octopus, bright red with white spots. For a moment Louis was a t a loss for words. Then he understood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “You’re a patient. You’ve been Shaped.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The voice in his head seemed to laugh. <i>Why else would anyone come to Proteus? At any rate, yes, I am a product of the Shapers craft. You can call me Daniel.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I’m-“</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Yu. Louis Yu. Earthborn, accountant, married, no children. And there is a malignant growth attached to your brainstem.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Louis got to his feet. “How the hell did you know all that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Daniel bubbled. <i>For whatever reason, the Shapers decided to “enhance” my faculties. In the days since my procedure I have found I am quite the powerful psi, though I can no longer survive outside of a liquid helium environment. Such is the price for surviving lymphoma. However, I do not need to read your mind to know that you have lost your nerve and are running away. What would you do if you snuck out? Where would you go? Your ticket from Earthport was one way. You’ll be stranded.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“I’ll think of something.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Will you? Why are you running?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Louis stopped short. “What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>You have terminal cancer Louis, and yet you are running away. Why?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“I’ve, I’ve heard stories about what Shaping does, how the cure is worse then the disease. Look at you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>I’ll admit my form comes with disadvantages, but consider yourself. Despite all those rumors, you came here. You have little time left, so you’re grasping at straws.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>Louis took a seat in a nearby chair. “So what if I was grasping at straws. I want to live.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>As do we all. But you didn’t understand what you were getting into.</i> All of Daniels eyes closed halfway. To Louis it gave the impression of looking thoughtful. <i>There’s an idea. Perhaps you could decide if you saw what Shaping has accomplished.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>Louis raised an eyebrow. “How could you show me anything? You’re a squid in a tank.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>You’re thinking physically.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">In a blink Louis’ view went topsy-turvy, and he was looking at himself, still seated in the chair, staring vacantly at nothing. Experimentally, he tried to touch the body. His hand went straight though. “Holy shit!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Pretty cool, huh?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Who…?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Standing behind him was an older man, with a beard, dressed in a fine suit. He looked to be about 40.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>It’s me, Daniel. This is how I looked before my illness, before my transformation. This way we can observe without the guards coming after us.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“Man, you weren’t kidding when you said you were powerful.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>I’m just getting warmed up.</i> Daniel gestured at the door handle. There was click as it locked itself, and he walked though the door. Somewhat bemused, Louis followed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Just as they stepped into the hallway, attendants stepped around the corner. Like everyone in the hospital, they were dressed in the blue robe and black goggles of the Shapers. At first Louis was sure he had been found out, but neither man gave any indication that they had seen either him or Daniel.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “They can’t see us.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>You have a gift for the obvious Louis. This way</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Louis followed. He was led to a room with transpara-steel walls. Beyond, the airless surface of Proteus was visible to all. Louis figured Daniel just wanted to look out the window, but surprised him again by going right through it. Louis hesitated. Daniel, for his part, simply crossed his arms and looked impatient. Louis phased through the wall. Carefully.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>What good is a mental body if you treat it like a real one?</i> Daniel asked when they were both on the surface.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Have I mentioned that this whole situation is completely crazy?” Louis replied. “Why are we even out here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Look there.</i> Louis followed Daniel’s pointing finger. Three figures stood in the distance. Two of them wore pressure suits. Like the robes of the shapers, these were blue, emblazoned on the back with a double helix. The third had no space suit.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> At least eight feet tall, he made the other two look tiny by comparison. He was a humanoid figure sculpted entirely out of crystal. Diamond growths jutting from his shoulders and elbows added to the impression that he was some sort of ancient elemental. He spread his arms wide, basking in the glow of the blue star.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>That’s Niven. He was quadriplegic. Now he’s almost indestructible, and doesn’t need to breath. Wonderful what biotech can do, no?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“There’s got to be downsides.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Daniel smiled. <i>Oh, there certainly are. If something hits his flaw-kaboom-he’s history. Otherwise I think he’s got a pretty sweet deal.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“Doesn’t look like he’s got any balls.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> At this Daniel laughed. <i>It beats being dead though, doesn’t it?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>Louis gave the crystal giant one last look. “Show me more.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>As you wish.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>There was no walking this time. A snap of the fingers and they were gone. Louis blinked, and they were standing in a long hallway, lined with doors. Without exception they were reinforced ferracrete. Daniel motioned him over to a door on the east side. As before they walked through.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> There were no windows in the room. All light came from lamps in the ceiling. Most of the cell was taken up by what looked to be a massive glass tray, square in shape. Within was a massive blob of pink flesh. It shifted slightly, and Louis recognized the barest hint of features within the mass. A nose, hair, a mouth. And the eyes. The eyes were the worst, silent, pleading.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Behind them, the door opened, admitting a pair of Shaper attendants. One carried a tray of slurry, the other a funnel. Daniel and Louis watched in silence as the thing in the glass bed was fed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “What is that?” Louis asked. He wanted to throw up, even if he didn’t have a stomach.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>That,</i> said Daniel, <i>is Lydia. A degenerative disease was destroying her eyes. Now she can see just fine, but that’s about all she can do, having no bones and all. She stares at the ceiling, just like all the other failures.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“Failures?” He looked at the mass of flesh called Lydia, and shuddered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Despite what the net would have you believe, Shaping isn’t an exact science. They make mistakes, mistakes that never see the light of day again. Nothing is without risk. Raise your arms to the sky as a crystalline god, or rot in the darkness.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“Or be a mind-reading squid.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Daniel smiled sadly. <i>Indeed.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Louis took one last look at Lydia before he spoke again. “Take me back.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Instantly they were returned to the room where it all began. Slumped forward in the chair, Louis’ body looked like it had simply fallen asleep. Daniel’s own form simply stared straight ahead, and it was hard to tell if he was awake one way the other. Perspective flipped, and Louis was once again looking through his own eyes. He got right down to the point.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “You say you’ve got power.” Louis said. “Just how much?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>I haven’t found a limit, but then again I haven’t tried to stretch it either. There’s no telling what the Shapers would do if I could, say, set people on fire.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“I think it’s time you tested those limits.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>I don’t like where this is going.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Louis stood. “I’m going back to my room. In thirty minutes, I want you to kill me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>What?!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“You heard me, and if I’ve understood you right, you know what I’m thinking. I want to die, die in my sleep. I’ve got a malignant tumor right? Won’t be much of a stretch.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>Why?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “You <i>know</i> why. Sure, I’ve got a chance to be a god, but I could just as well end up like…like Lydia down there. I don’t want to risk it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Daniel’s mental voice seemed to sigh. <i>I can see there’s no dissuading you. Very well.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It proved surprisingly easy. Louis managed to bluff his way back to his room with a story about how he was taking a walk. The attendants perhaps doubted his story, but since he was returning to his room willingly, they didn’t press the issue.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Louis lay in bad, staring at the ceiling until he was suddenly sized with an overpowering drowsiness. “You’ve really got it Daniel.” Was his last thought. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Daniel floated serenely in his tank, probing the minds of the patients and staff with his mind, as he always did. News had already arrived of Louis’s death. As he had predicted, his passing was ruled a result of his cancer. Daniel couldn’t say he approved of Louis’ solution, but it wasn’t often someone could so quickly and decisively cross the Rubicon. <i> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i> </i> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i></div>But how-Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-8050831554901187032011-01-11T13:06:00.003-05:002011-01-11T13:07:34.029-05:00Writing Contests!Hey guys! I've been looking into some writing/publishing contests so I figured I'd share what I found with you all here, in case anyone is interested. Some of them pay well, others don't, but I'm more interested in winning a contest and getting something published than money (although it sure is a nice bonus). Also keep in mind that most of these contests do have some kind of submission fee! <br />
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Feel free to add to this list if you know of any upcoming contests! And be sure to let us know if you enter a contest so we can root for you!<br />
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<a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/annual">Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition</a> - accepting poetry, short stories, scripts and more. Grand Prize is $3,000. Deadline is May 2, 2011.<br />
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<a href="http://www.writeonwhidbey.com/Publications/ContestGuidelines.htm">Northwest Institute of Literary Arts</a> - multiple contests for poetry and fiction, deadlines are ongoing. Prizes between $100-$300. <br />
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<a href="http://snagtoday.com/dolph/blogs/entry/Snag-Today-Writing-Contest">Snag Today Writing Contest</a> - short stories, essays, prose. Deadline is January 31, 2011. Prize is $50. <br />
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<a href="http://www.americasgotstories.com/">America's Got Stories</a> - short fiction or non-fiction, theme is "supernatural." Deadline is February 28, 2011. Not sure if there's a cash prize. <br />
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<a href="http://www.cutbankonline.org/page/contests">Cut Bank Literary Journal</a> - fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry. Deadline is February 28, 2011. Prize is $500. They also have an essay contest and flash fiction/poetry contest later in the year.<br />
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<a href="http://www.thepinchjournal.com/">Pinch Literary Awards </a>- fiction and poetry. Deadline is March 15, 2011. Prizes between $1000 and $1500.<br />
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<a href="http://booth.butler.edu/contests/">Chapter One Contest</a> - submit up to 25 pages from a novel in progress (I think this applies to a lot of us!). Deadline is March 15, 2011. Prize is $500. <br />
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<a href="http://www.gemini-magazine.com/contest.html">Gemini Magazine "No Boundaries" Contest</a> - short fiction, novel excerpts. Deadline is March 31, 2011. Grand Prize is $1000.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-84561402835456238102011-01-11T09:39:00.002-05:002011-01-11T09:39:57.252-05:00Of What Measure Chapter 4b by Ken<a name='more'></a><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Carter spent nearly a week in bed before Dr. Smythe pronounced him fit. He had spent the time reading selections from the fox’s library. As to be expected, most were medical texts. They proved to be an interesting read. While not as advanced as Terran medicine, many concepts were well understood, including germ theory, though prevention hadn’t gotten far beyond urging cleanliness. Drugs were blunt objects, with heavy reliance on painkillers like morphine. Carter wondered if he could send a letter to the Colonies for a med kit.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The most intriguing read by far had been <i>Magic: a Guide for the Everyman</i> by one Tobias Buteo. In it the author laid out the basics of magic as he understood it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The magical arts are divided into four broad Arcana, or Arts. Each manipulates a different aspect of our universe. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Forces</i> has been described as ‘physics, and the breaking thereof.’ Indeed, the conjuring of fire and the inversion of gravity makes a mockery of the theories held so dear by the Royal Society. It is the least subtle of the Arts, and is what many gentlemen think of when they hear the word Magic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Mentalism </i>is a much more subtle discipline, focusing on illusions and mental powers, as its name would suggest. Mind reading is a quintessential example of this Art.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Connection</i> is most famous as the magic of travel. The popular image of the Magician snapping his fingers and disappearing, only to reappear somewhere else is the classic expression of this Art. Many labor for years to reach that level of mastery, but more complex rituals achieve the same result.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Alchemy</i> is the changing of states. It involves the transmutation of certain elements to achieve various ends. Certainly an adept can make lead into gold, but a true master can effect living matrices. All have heard tales of Magicians who change an animal’s gender, or even their species. Such Arts exist, but they are difficult and often dangerous.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I must caution you dear reader, that these divisions are made for the sake of convenience, and that the Arts of a Magician often overlap. Rigid thinking is the bane of the Magician.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When he was alone, lying awake late at night, Carter would try some of the exercises. They were supposed to be the basics of the basics; he couldn’t so much as conjure a ball of light. He kept the book around though, figuring it would be useful as reference. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One morning he had awoke to find new clothes on his bed, nothing fancy, a simple shirt and pants, with the tail hole thoughtfully sewn shut. Boots and a blue jacket added a small measure of style. He found a surprise in the coat pocket.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A day pass.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dr. Smythe nodded. “With that you’ll be able to move about the city without being grabbed by every constable on the corner.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Even a curfew is better then being stuck in bed all day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fox laughed. “Indeed! Say, there’s a café that I know. Care to join me for breakfast?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Doc, after a week of your soup I’ll eat anything!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The café was called the Wild Wood. The coffee was good, the bacon and eggs even more so. Carter had expected the Doctor to order poultry. What he didn’t expect was for him to order a salad with his chicken and biscuits, and eat it with no trouble.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Man, anatomy must be <i>really</i> robust in this world.” Carter thought to himself. The human was all too conscious of the stares of the patrons as he ate, but it couldn’t be helped. The dining room was filled with the sounds of their whispering. At least they didn’t throw him out as a freak.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A chipmunk called over the head waiter, a stuffy looking hare, and whispered into his ear. So much for that thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The hare made his way over to their table. His face was blank, but Carter knew in an instant what he was going to say. When he finally spoke, it was to Dr. Smythe. “Sir, your companion is disturbing the other guests.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m right <i>here </i>sir.” Carter said, putting down his fork. “If you have something to say, say it to me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The manager’s ears drooped. He acted like he genuinely didn’t expect Carter to be able to speak. “Well, that is…I…” He looked visibly intimidated. Most natives stood slightly close to human height, but a hare was tiny compared to say, a bear. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I haven’t done a thing to harm your guests.” he went on. “The Doc and I just wanted to enjoy breakfast on a beautiful morning. But, if you truly feel like I’m disrupting things, I’ll leave.” Carter stood up. “Doc’ll foot the bill.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hold up there! If you’re leaving then so am I!” Leaving several bills on the table, Dr. Smythe followed after him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You were awfully quick to leave when they asked you to.” The fox said when they were outside.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter put his hands in his pockets. “There were people like that in my own continuum, before the Crash. They can be nice about it, but the message is the same. You’re different, you’re strange, and even though you’re doing harm to no one, you can’t stay because you’re bad for business.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The doctors ears drooped. “Humans are bigoted against humans?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter nodded. “Not as much as before, but it’s still there. When we arrived here there was suddenly something else to be afraid of.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I see.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly there was a sound from across the street, a sound that to Carter was eerily familiar. “Capacitors? But I’m thousands of miles from any…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He didn’t get to finish the thought as the wall of the bank exploded outward. A searing column of green energy enveloped several pedestrians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air was filled with the stink of ozone and burning fur.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It can’t be!” Carter cried, taking off at a run.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where are you going?! You’ll be killed!” Dr. Smythe shouted, following after.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The explosion had slowed traffic to a halt so it was quite easy to get to the other side of the street. That was a small comfort though. When he looked through the gaping hole in the building his worst fears were confirmed. What he assumed to be bank robbers were holding up the tellers. Most were stoats and weasels. They were armed with lasers, both of the pistol and rifle variety. But one, a bear, held something far more dangerous.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. A plasma caster.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A plasma caster was the most powerful weapon the Colony militias could bring to bear. They could obliterate anything they were aimed at, and when they charged for a shot, they were loud. That was the sound Carter had heard. Some poor fools had tried to be heroes, and were now in blackened pieces on the floor.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Anyone else wanna try to save the day?” The ursine bandit asked. “Man, these naked ape toys are awesome!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And playtime’s only just begun!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Out of nowhere, upbeat, frenzied music began to play, though there was no one to play it. Figures bounded through the hole the bear had made in the wall. They were quite bizarre figures indeed. There were at least a dozen of them, of various species, a pig, a duck, quite a few rabbits, and one kangaroo. They smiled manically. All were outlandish, impossible colors, and had what looked to be some kind of malleable, rubbery flesh in place of fur. Their eyes were the size of soup plates, and wide open. Quite a few had no pants, though they didn’t have any genitalia either. A couple had no clothes whatsoever, save for a tie. The one constant were the strange white gloves all of them wore.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Howlers!” someone shouted.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter and Dr. Smythe, who had joined him by this point, watched as one by one the robbers where made a fool of. What was strange that there didn’t seem to be any reason why they were being made to look foolish. In the presence of the howlers, it seemed as if the bottom had dropped out of their brains. Their weapons were twisted into knots, yet they would still try to fire, with explosive consequences. The bear had his suspenders cut, got tripped up, and fell on his face. His men fired at the ceiling, and tripped over comically placed banana peels. All the while the Howlers bounced around like living springs, smiling and well, howling with laughter.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Surreal and bizarre as all this was, it gave some prudent fellow time to hit the alarm. When the bell sounded, the Howlers bowed melodramatically and skipped out the way they had come in.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tttt-That’s all folks!” The pig said as he bounded off after his fellows.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter summed it up. “What. The. Fuck.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-71484360625597740262011-01-06T08:10:00.000-05:002011-01-06T08:10:08.444-05:00Of What Measure Chapter 4a by Ken<a name='more'></a><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">4</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Orion slept the rest of the day, and most of the night. It was midnight when he got out of bed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As usual he paid a visit to the soda shop. Smedley was sharing a table with Hemingway and Dunwin. When they saw him they waved him over. Orion noticed that Smedley was wearing a blouse and riding breeks instead of a dress. That meant that she had “been about” as they say in the magic business. All three of them were panting heavily, and their fur was frazzled.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Had a rough night I take it?” the cat asked as he sat down.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We just got back from a sting.” Smedley replied. “I think you’ll want to hear what happened.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion smiled. “Then by all means do tell.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The trio had been investigating rumors of infernalist activity up the beach, near an ancient circle of cairn stones. They couldn’t afford not to check it out. Among the lose society of Magicians, one of the first laws was “censor thyself.” Magicians who wanted to live cleaned up their messes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway sat in a lotus pose behind a sand bank, utterly still. The sea otters mind was elsewhere, quite literally in fact as he scouted out of body. Smed and Dunwin watched over him, to make sure no harm came to his body.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As Hemingway moved invisibly among the stones, he found a squirrel with wide eyes and a shit eating grin, bent over a corpse. It was human, and female, tied to the alter stone in the center of the circle. She had been decapitated.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Og Glutrgra, Eater of Stars!” The squirrel cried to the sky as he hoisted the poor girls severed head up high, “Accept this wretch’s life as an offering to your terrible might!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway gagged and covered his mouth with a paw by reflex. That nutcase would pay.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back in their hiding place, Hemingway stirred. “What did you see Hem?” Dunwin asked. “You look positively spooked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway got up, pulled on his coat. “A virgin sacrifice and a squirrel that looked halfway to going Howler. What’s more, the offering was human, just like Orion’s case.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How powerful did he look?” Smedley asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Strictly small time. It shouldn’t be too hard to take him out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It goes without saying we can’t let him run around killing people.” Dunwin put in. “Maybe there’s a connection between this one and the man Orion rescued.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway nodded. “I’m betting on it. Let’s move fast. He’ll leave when he doesn’t get a response from his god.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dunwin wasted no time, pulling several items from the belt pouch he always wore. Setting these aside, he grabbed a nearby stick and, as best as he could with a time limit, scratched alchemical symbols in the sand. This done, he took the first vial.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sand shall be thy body.” He intoned. “Enlivened with mine own blood, and strengthened by the bark of the world tree, rise and serve.” The mole emptied the contents of the two vials, containing blood and ash shavings respectively into his runic circle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The sand within the boundaries of the circle began to rise up, shifting and coalescing into a roughly humanoid shape. The homunculus bowed before its master.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your enemy stands within the stones.” Dunwin said, pointing to the cairn. “Smash him to a pulp.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Without a word the magical construct lumbered off to fulfill its master’s command.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smed looked incredulous. “Is that monster of yours really going to stop him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course not, but Homunculi are extraordinarily stupid. It won’t know when to quit, and being made of sand means that it can take plenty of damage, plenty enough for us to come up from behind and whack the blighter.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway smiled. “Shrewd.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dunwin only smiled back. “Let’s go. As you said, times a wasting.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the end the squirrel had been a pushover. The fire he conjured only served to briefly turn the sand monster to glass (and make it angry). A duplication illusion from Hemingway was all it took to confuse the infernalist long enough for Smedley to clubber him with telekinetic force.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We found this among his possessions.” Smedly said, placing some paperwork on the table. It was a ticket of bonding, the kind used to certify ownership of slaves. Most of it was legal boilerplate, but the final page caught Orion’s eye. It was stamped with the crest of the auction sponsor. It was a stylized unicorn head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is the crest of House Galador.” he said. “A very well respected Mythic line. They have scions here in Kingsport.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway sipped his shake. “Well-respected my tail! The noble families with the best reputation always have the most dirty laundry. You’ve heard the rumors I’m sure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course. The wild parties, the ties to the Decadanti, murdered siblings and other unwholesome things. I suppose we can add slave trading to that list?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not without more digging.” Dunwin said with a chuckle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then dig we shall.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-54526070544021959022010-12-29T09:03:00.002-05:002010-12-29T09:10:08.860-05:00Reinvention - Amanda A. ArcieriThe night wind gently treads<br />O'er the meadow's darkened mist;<br />A silver sphere rises<br />In the northern sky amidst<br /><br />A glinting cosmic wonder<br />Of starlight aura glow,<br />Glistening--e'er whimsically--<br />Upon a sheet of powder snow;<br /><br />As each lies in wait<br />For that single moment, true,<br />In melancholic solitude:<br /><div align="left">The Rite of Beginnings Anew.</div>Aarcierihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16751754959278669123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-68362828576302523252010-12-28T08:58:00.001-05:002010-12-28T09:00:37.495-05:00The Dragon and the Spire by KenA rather surreal mood piece. Dreams have always fascinated me, by virtue of the fact that anything can happen when your asleep. This story is an attempt to capture the proper feel.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">The Dragon and the Spire</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> I dreamed. Odd isn’t it, to know your dreaming? It’s not unheard of right? I stood on a mountain. The wind was whipping around me, but it wasn’t so bad. I had my favorite duster. It looked like it was only a short walk to the summit. Only once I reached the top did I understand how high up I was.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Mountain” was a towering understatement. This thing was a spire. The tiny path I’d climbed was the only hand or foothold anywhere. As far as I could see, the way down was a sheer cliff.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> I sat down. The stars were out. The Milky Way was perfect. I had never seen the night sky that well, not even when vacationing with my folks at the beach.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “It is good to have some company, here at the end of the world.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> I started. There was a massive dragon sitting not ten feet from me. Pure black, with wings a deep red. He should have been scary as hell, but hey, it was a dream. Just go with it right?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Who are you?” I asked as I stood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I am the last dragon. My time is ending and soon I will leave this place.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Where will you go?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Beyond the horizon, to the Realms Invisible, where the Gods wait for me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Why do you have to leave?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The dragon craned his neck down, so he was looking me straight in the eye. “Will you fly with me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> I said yes, what else could I say? We winged across the sky, he and I. Together we sampled the wonders of the true prehistory.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> In Iqqua, the city of Librarians, we looked though books written in colors and scents, helped by spider-like librarians that climbed on shelves.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> In Nasir, in the temple of graphite, we were blessed by the Saber-tooth priest in his mask of ruby. Before resuming our journey we paid homage to a god of quixotic delusion.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> In the jungles of Kled I ran with Velocorapter lords, hunting mammoth while the last dragon spotted for us. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> On the floating island of Zura, we had our fortune told by skeleton seers who divined the future from the dreams of cats.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Man, I was getting poetic there for a second. We had more adventures that night then I can count.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Finally I asked, “Why did all of this go away?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Without a word the dragon flew east. We found what I could only describe as a garden. There had to be every kind of tree there. In the very center was an apple tree, with perfect red ripe apples.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Nearby there were two people, human, male and female, completely nude.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Is this Eden?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “You will call it that in time yes. Soon man and woman will taste the fruit and understand that wonders such as we have seen tonight cannot, and will never exist. I am leaving because I do not wish to die.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Is there any way to bring it back?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> He only said one word: “Remember.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> A second later I woke up. It was still dark, but that didn’t matter. I got up and went to my computer to write the whole thing down. It’s just a dream, you might say? If that’s true, why do I have this tusk around my neck, given to me by a dinosaur prince?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-35370350687083002572010-12-23T14:07:00.000-05:002010-12-23T14:07:28.936-05:00The Pastel Manse Conclusion by Ken<a name='more'></a><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Before they could plan any further Tobias returned.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was levitating a platter piled high with more sugar cookies then it should have been possible to bake. The aroma was so intense the three Magicians were almost overwhelmed. With a Gesture Tobias set the platter in the center of the table. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please, have as many as you like. Oh, we’re going to have so much fun tonight.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hmm. That’s wonderful Tobias.” Orion said. “But could you remind us where the water closet is?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, of course. It’s up the stairs to the left.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?” Hemingway whispered. “We’re trapped by a Howler and your brilliant solution is to take a-”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hush.” The cat whispered back. “Follow me.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The stairs were in the foyer. It was still as black as ever. Orion’s matches had been in his other clothes, but a simple spell made them a ball of light to see by.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You still haven’t told us what we’re doing here.” Hemingway put in.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t you remember, Hem?” Orion asked. “The bathrooms are on the top floor. So are Tobias’s chambers. When I served as his apprentice, he always kept a journal. I’m hoping he still does, and that it will shed some light on what has happened to him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s there to know?” Hemingway replied. “Whoa!” The otter grabbed on with both paws as the stairs suddenly took a turn. “He’s gone Howler.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“First of all,” Smedly said, “Tobias isn’t a Howler. He’s Tranquil.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pardon me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Their different manifestations of the same problem.” Orion replied as they reached the top landing. “We’ve all had to face Howlers. They never slow down, love their pranks and their pratfalls. And-This is where you should have been paying more attention Hemingway-They’re impossible to communicate with. I don’t know about you, but Tobias seems rather eager to chat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway nodded. “Now that you mention it, he’s the most well behaved Howler I’ve ever seen.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like I was going to say before Orion interrupted,” Smedley explained, “A Tranquil is a kind of Howler. I’ve only read about them in books though. A ‘regular’ Howler is like a storm, but look at what’s happened to us tonight. The bright colors, the pastry and postcard outfits” (She indicated her frock) “It’s like a storybook.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Or perhaps a warm blanket.” Orion said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“A warm blanket?” Hemingway asked. “You mean he’s insecure?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Or afraid. Or hurting.” Smedley replied. “If that’s true, runaway magic or not, he needs our help more then ever.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion smiled. “Smed, you would be a wonderful mother to any kittens you had I’m sure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By casting his magic light around the dark room, Orion found the entrance to Tobias’s rooms easily. There was no door, but there were thick curtains to keep out the light of the morning. The Magician pushed them aside and his friends followed him in.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was as dark within as without. The curtains, deep black velvet, were closed. A perch was in the corner, bolted to the floor. Unlike the childish flourishes in the dining room, the shelves in this room belonged to an old an accomplished Magician. Books on science modern and arcane, astrological charts and correspondences nearly spilled from the nooks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion found what he was looking for on an end table. It was just as he had remembered it, a sturdy Auroch leather bound daybook. Of course as a boy Orion had never been allowed to read it, but then his old master hadn’t been spiraling into a magical catatonia.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He flipped forward to the end of the journal. Starting at the current year the cat skimed until a particular entry caught his eye. “Everyone, look here!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I have just returned from the vet. The doctor confirmed what I’ve suspected for weeks now. I never did recover fully from my last bout with avian flu. I suppose at my age it’s impossible to have such a serious illness and just fly away. An immune deficiency caused by age and the flu, he calls it. All I know is I can barley stand, much less fly. Booby that I am, I insisted on teleporting myself home. Another bad decision.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Snow this morning. I am reminded of how I would sit in the schoolhouse desperate for class to end. The Solstice is coming, and I have to be dying. I haven’t told anyone. Why should I? They would only worry. Gods help me, I’m old but I wasn’t ready to die. I’m still not ready.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I sleep most of the day now. I don’t have the heart for much else. When I sleep, I dream. Nothing hurts. I feel as though were a fledgling again, sharing Solstice with my family and friends. Perhaps I will sleep now, and dream again.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>“I can’t believe he never told us.” Smedly said. “And we wanted to give him a surprise party.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Have you ever met an animal that told their friends they were sick outright?” Orion asked. “No one wants anyone to worry about them, even when their friends would be better for knowing. Look, here’s the last entry:”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, it’s Solstice eve how wonderful! I’ll need special clothes for a special day. Perhaps that sweater mum made for me? What’s this, a knock at the door? My friends have come to see me!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>“Looks like he never stopped dreaming.” Hemingway said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He can’t go on like this.” Orion replied. “If he’s as frail as he implies, the amount of magic he’s wrapped himself up in will burn him out. And yet…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And yet what?” Smedly asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s so happy as he is. Could he really enjoy the holiday if we changed him back, to remember his illness, the pain?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Surely you’re not suggesting that?” Hemingway asked incredulously.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We need to think of him.” Smedly put in. “They always say that when someone’s dying you should make them comfortable. So let’s make Tobias comfortable.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No! I won’t put up with any more of this! Not anymore!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hem, he’s your friend’s old master. Consider that. Do it for Orion.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion grinned. “Yeah Hem, do it for me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway threw up his paws. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I won’t like it.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And so began a night of fun and games, after a nice fish dinner of course. Orion conjured the food. It wasn’t often done. As they say “Give a man a fish…”, but it was better then eating cakes and pies all night and getting diabetes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion and Smedly threw themselves into the endless rounds of hide and seek and tag with gusto, dragging a reluctant Hemingway along all the while.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know it’s really hard to imagine you as a kit.” Smedly said. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then don’t” he shot back.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe it was the magic permeating the place, but even Hemingway started to loosen up when it came time for “Pin the tail on the Auroch.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally, as was custom for the Solstice, they brought out the photo album. “Oh look!” Tobias said. “That’s just after Ori and I took out the Dhole of Kenishire!” The picture showed cat and hawk standing atop the body of a massive, yards long worm, it’s body riddled with spears and bullet holes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion found another. “And here’s <i>Del Lago, </i><place w:st="on"><placetype w:st="on">Lake</placetype> <placename w:st="on">Monster</placename></place> of Mictlan.” Here the two of them were in bathing outfits holding thumbs up for the camera while an enormous carnivorous fish hung behind them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It went on like that for quite some time, looking though pictures of monsters killed and plots foiled. But then Orion remembered something.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait, there’s one very important picture that isn’t here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There isn’t?” Tobias asked. “Which one?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion gestured, and Tobias’s camera hovered so that it had its sights on everyone on the couch. “This one.” Orion said as he snapped his fingers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When everyone said goodbye that night they passed by a framed picture. There the four of them were, Orion, Smedly, Tobias, even Hemingway swallowing his pride and smiling for the camera, dressed like children.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The plaque underneath read: “Friendship Lives On, Solstice 1909.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-78183586397318823622010-12-21T11:50:00.006-05:002010-12-21T12:00:15.722-05:00The Amethyst - Amanda A. Arcieri<span><span><span style="color:#9999ff;">A gem so precious;<br />Hidden 'neath mound<br />Of powder snow-<br />Rarely found,<br /><br />for, angels themselves<br />Are far too impure<br />To lay eye on her heart,<br />Though they kiss heaven's shore.<br /><br />A stone, so noble<br />That even the wise<br />Bow at her throne<br />When'er her name sighed.<br /><br />And yet, I, less worthy<br />Of the lowest vicinity,<br />Dance, unharmed<br />In her eternal divinity.</span></span></span>Aarcierihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16751754959278669123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-66422600130030091592010-12-20T18:31:00.001-05:002010-12-20T18:34:01.490-05:00The Unpishtim Part 3 by Ken<a name='more'></a><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">3</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “So someone is <i>worshipping</i> Subject X?” Randolph asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Herbert paused from adjusting a lamp. “That’s what it looked like to me. I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised. Anything can be made into an idol with the right perspective.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “But a giant blob?” Randolph replied, tightening his gloves for the next experiment.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Herbert shrugged. “It takes all kinds.” Speaking more formally he addressed his recorder. “Experiment log Subject X 153: Response to tactile stimuli.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I still can’t believe you’re going to have me actually touch this thing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Relax; those gloves are insulated against every corrosive agent known to man. And even if they aren’t, well, that’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Just as Randolph was about to dip his hands into the chamber, there was an ear splitting cry of “NO! None may violate the Goddess!” and both doctors looked up to see a lab assistant charging them with a scalpel.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Unprepared, Randolph was bowled over, and one of his gloves came lose. It was this unprotected hand that came into direct contact with the blob. Things became fuzzy then. He was vaguely aware of Herbert pulling the crazed lab tech off of him and shouting “Gods Curwen, what’s with you?” But the rest was gibberish.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> All was darkness. Randolph could see nothing, nor did he feel any part of his body. He had no idea how much time had passed, or where he was.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>I AM (am i?)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“What? Who said that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>UNITY(progenitor) I WAS(will be) YOU(carter) NOT(other)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“Okay, this is nuts”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>SHAPE(form) STABLE(permanent) HOW(why?)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>“I don’t know what your-”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <i>LEARN(know) WAKE(see)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i> </i>And then he woke up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> When Randolph awoke it took a few moments for his eyes to focus. When they finally did so, they were drawn to Abbey, sitting by the bedside. Herbert was standing next to her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “You gave us quite a scare, Randy” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “The good news,” Herbert chimed in, “is that Subject X seems to have had no adverse effects on your system.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Randolph tried to rise, but found it tougher then expected. “How is that possible?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “The universe works in mysterious ways. We’re just glad to see your okay.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “What about the guy who attacked me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “We’ve got him in the brig.” Abbey replied. “He seems to be one heck of a fruit loop. Kept babbling on about some ‘goddess’”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Be that as it may,” Randolph said, I’d like to see him as soon as I’m fit.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Herbert raised an eyebrow. “Sure, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Herbert stepped out, and Randolph and Abby were left alone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I managed to convince the ministers to allow me access to your quarters. I brought this for you.” She said, handing him the old book.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “’The Maker of Moons’ Abigail you’re too good to me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Abby smiled. “Someone has to be. So, what was it like to touch that thing?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Randolph flipped through the pages absently as he talked. “I don’t really remember too much. I had this weird dream though, while I was out. There was this weird voice talking to me from everywhere at once. I didn’t understand what it was saying though. It asked me questions.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Oh? Like what?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “It asked me why I was ‘stable’ or some crap like that.” Randolph chuckled. “But hey, it’s just a dream, right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Some would argue otherwise.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “The emperor’s seers are full of it. You know it, I know it. Speaking of which, how is everybody down there? The Twenty?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“The Son of Heaven’s precious progeny are just as cold as everyone else on that deck.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Randolph nodded. “Good. You know, sometimes I wish they would stay that way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Abby was visibly taken aback. “You can’t mean that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“C’mon babe, the only reason we’re here right now, floating above this world, is that we’ve ruined our own. I look past all the propaganda, the whole ‘expand the empire’ spiel, and I really do wonder if we can make a new world. But listen to me. I sound like one of those damned Naturists.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I never thought you were a tree hugger.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I’m not a tree hugger Abby, just a realist. The tree huggers had a point. We make mistakes, but we’re not so good at fixing them.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Maybe. Let’s see how philosophical you’re feeling after a bit more rest.” And with that she turned out the light.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Randolph regarded the man sitting across from him, separated by a wall of glass. The calligraphy on his uniform identified him as Joseph Curwen, and he seemed to be trying his level best to be inscrutable.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Why did you attack me?” Randolph asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Curwen smiled. It was one of those creepy smiles from old horror films. Randolph didn’t think it was possible to grin like that. “I thought you would defile the Goddess. But you proved me wrong, didn’t you Dr. Carter?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Goddess? What goddess?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Sub-Niggurath, the un-begotten source, the first and the last. You have her under plasteel in your laboratory.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Wait, you think subject X is…Oh man! Now I’ve seen everything.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Curwen didn’t stop smiling. “Don’t be so quick to scoff Doctor. You touched the Goddess and lived. She has plans for you. Frankly I’m jealous.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I’m seriously recommending another psyche evaluation for you Curwen. You do realize your heaping devotion on a shapeless blob?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “But she is so much more. You saw. She gives life, and takes it away.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Yeah, well ‘she’ can’t seem to decide whether to give life or take it, or haven’t you noticed?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Yes, she has lost most of her power, but all it takes is a gentle touch.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> As Randolph walked away, Curwen began laughing. Real honest-to-the-gods maniacal laughter. He had heard space travel could get to people, but never in so cliché a way. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Day 5, getting nowhere.” Herbert said into his recorder. “This thing is a riddle wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in pulsing slime. So far my staff and I still have not been able to divine any rhyme or reason to the shape of the subjects ‘offspring’ and I’m beginning to doubt there is one. It’s budded yet again, making another of its anatomical absurdities…wait. Is that…it is!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The containment area was large, the better to accommodate Subject X and its progeny. This new creature was small and growing rapidly, but for all that, it had <i>symmetry</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It was like a black shrimp, with multiple legs and a long curving tail. Glowing clusters on its front end gave it what could be called a head. Membranous wings sprouted from its back, and the front legs ended in pincers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Herbert wasted no time. “Watts, get this thing into its own cell. Right. Now. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-55544917494791381652010-12-20T15:13:00.001-05:002010-12-20T15:37:45.893-05:00Currently Untitled - by Kate Z.This is the first chapter of a story I'm currently working on. Since it's the first chapter, no explanations necessary! Hopefully there's enough hints in this to clue you in to the setting and etc. I'm actually in the process of totally rewriting this - inspiration struck this morning, so I'm changing parts of the plot, particularly the events of this chapter, quite a bit. I figured I'd upload the old one before reworking it though, just so it wasn't a total waste of time. <br />
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<div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">79 spread out before them, worn grey asphalt littered with rubble, marred by cracks and potholes, until it twisted and disappeared between mountains of rock and dust. Jonas stuck his head out of the car window, the glass itself having been knocked out long before he was born, and let the wind smack his face, inhaling air that always smelled vaguely of dirt and smoke, air that would kill him one day - if he wasn’t lucky enough to bite it before then.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Their rig had good shocks, the best they could find, but his brother swerved expertly to avoid every bump in the road, something to break up the monotony. Travis jerked hard left to avoid the remains of a lamppost, and the tires screeched in protest, cans and other supplies rattled in the back seat and some fell thumping to the floor. Jonas’ head smacked into the door frame hard – not hard enough to do any real damage, but it’d leave a nice bruise. He cursed as his brother laughed at him.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You did that on purpose, you shit.” Jonas grumbled, rubbing his head and wincing – a bit exaggeratedly – as he moved his body back inside the car to prevent further injury. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“The space between your ears is already dead, Joey.” Travis chuckled again. It looked like he’d found a new way to break up their boring drive, back from the ruins of a little town they called Wayne. Wayne had always been good to them; when it came to general supplies – canned foods, batteries, spare parts – he’d always had what they needed. Other folks scavved there too, but not too many, and Wayne had yet to run out on them. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The needle on the dial behind the steering wheel hovered around 93. Travis had slowed down for a windy stretch of road, although Jonas still felt like his stomach was going one way and his body another. The ass of his jeans slid back and forth across the leather seat and the cans followed suit, rolling from one end of the back to the other. Maybe it was a stupid thing to enjoy, but he loved it, this feeling of being slightly out of control, living slightly on the edge. Life was too short </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">not</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> to enjoy stupid shit, and at 17 he had most likely lived over half of his lifespan already. If he could manage to avoid getting shot, then he could count on radiation and cancer to finish him off before 35. He’d heard that years ago, in the time of green grass and cities full of electricity and plastic money, people had lived as long as 70 or 80 years. 80 years! He couldn’t imagine all the shit he could pull in 80 years. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The road straightened out and Travis punched it, the needle jumping past 110, and Jonas was flattened against the back of his seat. The landscape flew by in a brown-gray blur, but they weren’t missing much. Dirt, rocks, dead trees, dead animals, dead </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">people</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> – he’d rather miss it, actually. Fighting against centrifugal force, he strained to push a few buttons on the “CD” player he’d wired into the car a couple years back. The two of them had developed a particular fondness for music called “Rock” and always helped themselves to something new every time they encountered a music store. Another relic of a past era, but these guys didn’t sing about easy living. They sang about girls, cars, drugs, and fast living. Jonas got them and they got Jonas. And it was a hell of a lot better than Doomsday radio. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“This is good shit, bro!” Travis pointed at the CD player, an unsightly mess of tangled, multi-color wires protruding from its back, as a guitar solo kicked in on the first track. The swift pounding of the bass drum and crashing symbols spurred him to redline it, accelerating the car to its limit, a breezy 156. Rocking with his brother…Jonas had long ago mentally added that to his list of treasured moments, the things in his life he would never forget, memories this shithole could never take from him. These times made him think that maybe, just maybe, there was a point to his existence, a reason for living in a world where staying alive was a hell of a lot harder than dying.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Their jam session was cut short by the acrid smell of gunfire, and they could see pillars of smoke, black and billowing, rising up ahead. Rising from the patch where they had left the family, safe and (relatively speaking) healthy, mere hours ago. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">fuck</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">…” Travis craned his neck out the window, speeding off towards their adopted home. His speeding went from smooth and controlled to jerky and erratic, sending the now forgotten food and supplies and both boys bouncing all over the seats. Jonas managed to retrieve his shotgun from the floorboard without hitting his already sore head on the dash. Not that his head mattered right now. Nothing mattered right now, other than the safety of his family. His girl. Was Peach alright? </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Please let her be alright</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Panic and adrenaline swelled inside of him, but he managed to stay in control. His brother had always told him to play it cool, and the lesson had stuck with him. He pumped the slide on his weapon, chambering a fresh slug that was ready to rip a 5 inch hole in the chest of anyone who dared to fuck with his family. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With an ear piercing shriek from the tires, Travis slammed on the breaks as they skidded into the center of the patch, the abrupt change in velocity causing the car to drift several feet to the side before coming to a complete stop - and nearly throwing Jonas out the window - but he hardly noticed. He was out before the car had even stopped moving. Travis hopped out beside him, his semi-automatic pistol cocked and at the ready. Both of them whipped themselves around in a circle, automatically covering the other’s back, ready to dust the cause of this trouble. Questions could wait for later.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thick black smoke was pouring out of both the dilapidated farmhouse and barn that, as of this morning, they had called home. Flames of orange and red licked the sides of the buildings, and had already blackened most of the exteriors. The smoke made Jonas cough and wheeze and made his eyes water. He still managed to choke out the names of the family, desperately hoping they had managed to make it out before the buildings went up in flames. But there was no sign of anyone, friend or foe. Travis raced towards the house, pulling his t-shirt over his mouth, his sunglasses offering a small protection against the smoke. Jonas followed his lead, dashing to the left and behind the house to the burning barn. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The wide double doors were hanging open, swaying feebly, as if they were fanning the flames. Smoke poured from their gaping mouth. He took the deepest breath he could manage, kept his weapon at the ready, and darted in through the haze. The heat was unbearable, instantly coating his skin in a slick layer of sweat. The smoke was worse though, and he fought the nausea and gagging with every step. He couldn’t get enough breath to even attempt to call out, but if anyone was still conscious they wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the roar of the fire and the building’s dying groans anyway. The structure itself was near completely engulfed in flames, but the majority of the crap they had housed in the barn – the other car, spare parts, random scrap – had yet to ignite. There was gasoline though, several cans of it. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Shit</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. He had to make his search quick, because when that went up, it was all over for anyone left inside. He quickly swept the dirt floor with his eyes and spotted two dark lumps about 10 feet in front of him, and another further away, half visible from behind the car. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As Jonas reached the first two, he knew his suspicions were correct, that these lumpy things were people. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> people. Both were lying in a puddle of something thick and dark that reflected the flames. It could be oil...or blood. He crouched to examine the person closest to him; the eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, jaw slack with the dark substance dripping from the corners of his mouth. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Definitely blood</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. It was Lyle, unmistakably, but it also wasn't. Whatever it was that had made this sack of meat Lyle was long gone, most likely due to the bullet holes that riddled his chest. If that was Lyle, then the smaller person next to him had to be Sandy. The two of them had gotten married only four months ago. She was gone too, her plain but soft features twisted in a final grimace of fear. She'd only been shot once, from what Jonas could tell, a damp, dark hole in the middle of her chest close to her heart. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Despite the extreme heat, he was trembling now, the barrel of his gun sliding around in his sweaty hands. He moved on to the last figure, very much doubting that this person was still alive, but he had to be sure. The Diamond boys didn’t leave anyone behind. Before he reached the car, however, it was obvious that there was no point. There was a hole nearly the size of Jonas' fist in the back of the person's head, blood and something lighter - </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">brain</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> - leaking out of it. Jonas felt his stomach clench as he recognized the irregular stripes tattooed on the dead man's wrists. It was Buzz. Buzz who always fixed their car and yelled at them for shredding the tires, who had taught Jonas everything he knew about the guts of an automobile, who had, just this morning, pleaded with them to pick up "a little pink" for him while they were in town. Buzz now resembled the human version of whack-a-mole. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jonas stared dumbly for a few seconds, maybe a minute, at the gaping remains of his friend's skull before coming to his senses and realizing he was standing in a pressure cooker. Travis could still be in the house, and the house was too close to the barn to survive the impending explosion. Buzz is…</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">was…</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> like a brother, but Travis was his </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">blood</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Jonas sprinted out the way he came, ignoring the protesting of his oxygen-starved muscles and back to the house. The door was hanging open, but Travis was still inside. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He dashed in, screaming his brother's name before being cut off by the overwhelming smoke. Some of the furniture was broken or overturned and he saw bullet holes in the scorched walls. Whoever had shot the people in the barn had come in here too. To his right, the kitchen area was blocked by a solid wall of flames. The stairs looked like they could give at any moment, but he had to find him. And if anyone in the house was still alive, Travis was the kind of person who would stay with them, try to get them out, even if it was hopeless. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What a guy</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Jonas had gotten about halfway up the staircase when Travis appeared in front of him, his clothes blackened with soot, dark hair covered in gray ash. No one was with him. He half ran, half fell down the stairs, grabbing Jonas' arm and the two of them dragged each other out of the house, coughing and gasping all the way. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The shock of death and dense smoke finally overwhelmed him, and Jonas doubled over, vomiting up bile and the beans he had stuffed down his throat when they'd been in town. He wiped his mouth and scrubbed his watery, itching eyes and runny nose with the sleeve of his jacket. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Gas...gas in the...barn." He managed to splutter out in between coughs. His throat was so raw that it rendered his own voice unrecognizable. It was hard to tell what went on behind Travis' mirrored glasses and fire blackened face, but he seemed to understand as he motioned towards their car with a trembling hand. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The two of them trotted over as quickly as they could manage and Jonas heard the purr of the engine, realizing that in his haste Travis had left the car running. They both piled in and Travis quickly threw it in reverse, the flaming remains of their former home quickly receding from view. In less than a minute, the barn exploded with a great booming burst of flame, sending bits of wood and metal flying everywhere, littering and cracking their windshield. As Jonas had predicted, the explosion took out the house too, leaving only the lopsided remains of the frame and the heavy ceramic toilet behind. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They sat there in stunned silence, in the car, staring dazedly at the flaming rubble, the incinerated corpse of their family for a long time. Gradually, his lungs began to function properly again, his eyes stopped watering, the loud ringing in his ears turning into a dull hum. The sick feeling in his gut was still there. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"You okay?" Travis finally broke the silence. At some point he had managed to wipe most of the soot from his face, and resembled himself once again, instead of some painted villain in a highway robbery. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Yea." Jonas nodded slowly. "They're all...dead…now. I saw Lyle, Sandy...Buzz...in the barn....already gone. Jesus Christ. They’re gone." Each name caused his stomach to lurch violently, threatening to bring up another meal. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"The rest...were in the house. Gone...shot." Travis kept his voice steady, but Jonas knew his brother, and knew that losing people hurt him worse than anyone. He was just better at hiding it. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Peach...ugh..."Jonas let out a groan. His Peach, so sweet, just like her name. He remembered the freckles on her nose, the sound of her laughter, like music, the way she felt </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">inside</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">...he was going to be sick all over again. More than sick. Something else started to shake inside of him, something hotter than the fire that had ravaged their homes, and it had his blood positively boiling. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rage</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"No...no! Peach...I didn't see her. Peach wasn't there. Joey, Peach wasn't there! She wasn't in the barn, right?!"</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His anger receded slightly as hope grew. He thought hard about the barn. Had he looked everywhere? Had he missed something? No, he would've found his Peach. He couldn't have missed that hair, bleached so light it was almost white, or her long, shapely legs. He would have seen her. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"No." Jonas said firmly. "She must still be alive! Travis, she must have run off, she must be hiding off! Peach! PEACH!" Jonas was hollering her name, ignoring the pain from his raw throat and was already halfway out the window when Travis yanked him back in. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"She's probably alive. But she ain't here. I'm sorry Joey, but I think she woulda shown up by now if she's here."</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"What?! Then where the fuck is she?" </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"They were shot, Joey. Somebody came and shot 'em and...I bet they took her. She's young and healthy and...</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">pretty</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. I...please, don't make me spell it out for ya, Joey." He didn't need to. The radiation seemed to affect females worse, so there were a lot less of them, and healthy, attractive young women were both rare and essential to continuing their collective existence. Well, at least, the young and healthy part. But procreation was a lot better when you had something nice to look at. The thought of his girl being kidnapped and...</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">impregnated</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, most likely against her will, was nearly as loathsome as her being dead. It couldn't be true.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"No, she could be hurt, passed out somewhere. She's probably just scared and..." Jonas could think of a dozen different explanations, each one weaker than the last. Deep down, he knew Travis was right. He was always right. Peach wasn't dead, but someone was probably doing awful things to her. He couldn't bear it. He </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">had</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> to find her. Save her. He felt Travis’ hand on his arm, his grip so tight it was almost painful.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"We'll find 'em Joey. We'll find 'em and get her back and give those cocksuckers a taste of our own steel."</span></span></div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-33662720104866023782010-12-18T19:34:00.000-05:002010-12-18T19:34:28.648-05:00The Pastel Manse Part 1 by KenThis is a side story to my ongoing story "Of What Measure" and features many of the same characters. You could say that it's seasonal, given that it takes place on the Solstice. Enjoy.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i>Orion…Do…can…you…me?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The telepathic transmission was scattered, the impressions nonsensical. Orion focused, trying to make sense of it all. Carefully, while still giving just enough of his attention to the message, the cat opened his desk drawer and took out a small black box.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside was a tuft of fur, pinned to a slip of paper, the dark brown fur of a sea otter to be exact. The minute he held it in his paw, the images in his mind became clearer, but only slightly so.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hemingway! Is your sympathy working right? I can barley sense you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>No…time…sympathetic…Just get your tail over here right now!”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>“Has something happened with Tobias? What about Smed?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Quickly!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was an impression of bright pastel bands of color, and the connection was broken. Taking his signature greatcoat off his chair and shrugging it on as he ran, Orion headed for the third floor. The fearful edge in Hemmingway’s last words unnerved him. A cat wasn’t likely to panic, all things considered. He heated to see fear in others though.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The third floor was a sitting room with a lavish art gallery and indoor garden. A small whirlwind stood in a corner, swirling silently. This was actually a portal, built to bridge his home with that of his old teacher, Ser Tobias Buteo. Some years past they had visited often by this gateway, but the visits had fallen off as the hawk had grown older. Standing before it now, Orion closed his eyes and stepped though.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It had all started so simply. Orion’s friends had suggested that Tobias might want to have some company for the Solstice. The cat had agreed. After all, who doesn’t like a good party? Smedley and Hemmingway had gone on ahead to set everything up. Magicians preferred to do everything on their own, but at his old age Tobias was grateful for the help. Orion stayed behind to finish some housecleaning of his own, promising to join them later.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And now he was here. Tobias’s manse, the Slipstream Aerie, had been built on the side of the eponymous Mount Slipstream. Judicious use of magical rock shaping had created an alcove for a stately manor house. The front door was unique. A more conventional door allowed land bound creatures like Orion to enter, while a window just above it was designed for birds and other flyers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paws in his pockets, whistling a tune to allay his own tension, Orion rang the bell pull. The bell clattered throughout the house, but no one came to the door. The Magician tried the door, and found it unlooked. He meowed uncomfortably. This did not bode well. Magicians were usually fastidious about security.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chasing away his misgivings, Orion stepped inside.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was no light within. The foyer was pitch black. “Hello?” Orion called. “Smed? Hemingway? Tobias!” No answer. The only sound besides his fading echo was a curious humming. Orion’s ears twisted this way and that, trying to discern where it was coming from.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The humming sound intensified until it was like a throbbing beat, a thousand vibrating rubber bands. It was then that the feline Magician was gripped with a horrifying familiarity.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No…It can’t be…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly a crack of light appeared in the darkness, slowly growing wider. An open door! Orion rushed toward it. The moment he crossed the threshold he was blinded, and it took all of 20 seconds before he could blink it out and see again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh Tobias, you didn’t.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The very walls were saturated, painted in soft, powdery pastel shades comforting to children. This had once been the hallway leading to the dinning room. The paintings on the walls, once portraits of Tobias’s proud red tail forebears, were now simple stick drawings, child-like conceptions of the sun, houses and trees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One of the frames caught his eye. It was empty, but there was a title. “Best Friends Forever, Solstice, 1909.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What is going on here?” Orion had a hunch he already knew. From behind the double doors at the end of the hall came festive music.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The dining room was like a child’s dream, or perhaps and overwhelmingly saccharine nightmare. Platters were piled high with cakes, pies, cookies and other pastry. There was no concession whatsoever to any kind of balanced meal. Tinsel hung on the walls, and a record player near the fireplace played solstice carols, the ones that made your ears bleed after you hear them a thousand times.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As for the people at the table, he recognized them, but only barely. At the place of honor at the head of the table, perched Tobias, or what was left of him. His plumage was an impossible pastel blue, and he had on a green sweater with an Eaton collar and a big red floppy bow. The hawk was smiling. It was the most terrifyingly <i>honest</i> smile Orion had ever seen. And his face…Were those cherry dimples?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smedly sat to his right. The calico was dressed in a red holiday pinafore with a holly leaf embroidered into the apron near the hem. A green ribbon hung behind her left ear.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And Hemingway, well, he had to laugh to himself. The otter had been saddled with a blue sailor jacket, the kind in vogue for the smallest of children. In lip service to the Solstice theme, the trim of the collar was red and the cuffs green.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Both Orion’s friends were smiling, but they were toothy, forced smiles. They ate their plates of sugary delights mechanically, as if it meant death to stop. The looks in their eyes suggested near panic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ori! You came to visit me, how nice!” Tobias’s voice was pitched high, even a bit shrill. It sounded nothing like the venerable sage he remembered. And Ori? It was unlike Tobias to use such pet names.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion sat down beside Smedley. Until he knew more it was best to be diplomatic. The minute he took his seat there was a bright prismatic flash. The cat looked down at himself. “What in…?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His sensible suit and greatcoat were gone, replaced with blue denim overalls over a shirt with green and red stripes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I hope you don’t mind.” Tobias giggled. “But you were so underdressed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mind? Why would I mind sitting in a banquet hall with all my friends, attired in the manner of cubs with you gone Howler?” Orion replied, taking a sip of what proved to be hot cider.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smedly whispered in his ear. “Don’t antagonize him, please.” That solved one question. They weren’t enchanted. Now for the next question</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Tobias, are you feeling all right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">His smile widened. “What a silly question! I feel marvelous! Oh, I could fly all day I’m so happy!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion’s tail danced back and forth. This was going to be a touch nut to crack. “I see. No arthritis? Or rheumatism? What about illness?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the mention of illness Tobias started. It was for less then a moment, but his smile, the manic look in his eye faded. The hawk was saved from having to reply by the jangling of a bell.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh! The sugar cookies are done! I’ll be back in a bit!” And Tobias flew off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion turned to his friends, steepled his fingers on the table. “How long has he been like this?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Since we got here.” Hemingway growled. “Smed, for some unfathomable reason, insists that we humor him, but Gods help me I’m sick of this nursery school farce. I contacted you after I’d had one cookie too many.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I learned a long time ago that you shouldn’t make a Howler cross.” Smedly replied. “If his emotions match the décor and wardrobe at all refusing his hospitality could be messy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion nodded. “That’s very sensible. Though I must ask, does Ser Tobias throw a good party?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s an infantile fool-” Hemingway began. She cut him off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’d be an excellent host if not for, well, all of this.” Smedly gestured at the room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“True.” Orion replied. “Though please understand I mean no disrespect, Smed, when I say that dress suits you quite well.” The calico blushed at that, smiling for the first time that night. “And Hemmingway, you look good in uniform.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hemingway only mumbled. “Stop growling Hem!” Smedley laughed. “You look adorable.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not adorable!” The otter shouted, leaping up from the table so hard his chair was knocked over. “It’s stereotyping and I won’t stand for it!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Calm down.” Orion said, holding up his paws defensively. “We’ll never help him or get out of here if we’re at each others throats.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before they could plan any further Tobias returned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Alone in his quarters, Carter went over the past 2 hours in his mind. The blob, “Subject X” had steadfastly refused to give up its secrets. It was alive, that much was certain, but other then that the lab staff was drawing blanks. It seemed to have no other purpose then making its “children,” gloriously outlandish biological mash-ups that lasted a matter of minutes before dying.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It was oddly fascinating. One of the lab assistants, stared at the thing for a good 10 minutes before Dr. West snapped him out of it. It was impossible to get a sample of the blobs substance, since any piece taken from the mass decayed instantly. Finally they had decided to sleep on it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> For Randolph Carter, sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon. He sat in his chair, gazing out the port at the stars beyond, a book in his lap. The crew, who remained awake while the passengers slept, were allowed personal possessions. Randolph’s were mostly practical, except for this book, a sentimental thing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It was a children’s book, a facsimile of a centuries old original, given to him on his 9<sup>th</sup> birthday. It was a standard magical adventure sort of tale, the kind that were in vogue in the late 19<sup>th</sup> and early 20<sup>th</sup> centuries, illustrated with color plates of talking animals in fine dress. It was a silly thing, but over the years Randolph could never bring himself to get rid of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> He had managed to acquire a sizable collection of such works. Alice in Wonderland, the Wizard of Oz, Harry Potter and others had their own self in this room. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> There was a beeping alert, and a flicker in the air, which resolved itself into an official in a green robe with red dragons. This was Sun Hai, another of the AI Ministers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Put the book down Dr. Carter.” He said sternly. “You are needed to repair a Novum node.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Randolph replaced the book on the shelf. “Which one?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Omega-A”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Randolph paled. “The Cryo deck!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Sun nodded. “Mr. Deckard asked for you specifically.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I’m on my way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Deckard was waiting as soon as Randolph stepped out of the elevator. The technician got right to the point.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “If we don’t patch this up, a whole block of stasis cells is going offline.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> He wasted no other words as he led Randolph to the work site. A damaged node was one of the worst things that could happen aboard ship. As they walked, Randolph instinctively checked his tool kit. Both the tools and the medicines were accounted for.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The paneling at the spot marked Omega-A had been removed, revealing the pulsing node beneath. Pink and organic, it meshed seamlessly with the wire and steel around it. The outer skin had been torn open, and was visibly bleeding a fluid almost but not quite like blood. Randolph bent down and got to work. It was his job to stanch the flow, while Deckard repaired the cut. It was a simple procedure, but one mistake could damage the whole system irrevocably.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> All the med/sci staff were trained to maintain and repair the Novum system, but only the Emperor truly knew what it was and how it worked. In the loosest sense, it was a computer, organic and inorganic, limitless in power and complexity. The core of the system was deep within the Utnapishtim, and in a sense the Novum was interchangeable from the ship itself. The node Deckard and Randolph were repairing was one of twelve, each housing an AI based on one of Sun Chen’s own Ministers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Tense moments later Randolph finished the final suture, and was rewarded with scintillating lights playing across the synapses, the sign of a healthy connection.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Another disaster averted by the fine staff of the ‘Napishtim, Eh Randy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Yeah.” Randolph replied, wiping his brow.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “You are quite correct.” Sun Hai’s voice echoed through the corridor. “All systems are in working order.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I’m going to take a rest.” Randolph said. “Have Abby call me if anything happens.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Deckard saluted. “Will do.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The lab was dark when Dr. West arrived for his shift. He knew he had left the lights on when he had left before.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Lights” he commanded. Instantly the room was illuminated. Everything seemed to be in its proper place, and yet… He couldn’t put his figure on what was wrong, until he saw Subject X’s chamber. There, carefully arranged, in a circle, were candles and incense. The candles were burned down almost to nothing, and the incense was recent enough that he could still smell it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Where would you get such things in a place like this?” Herbert wondered aloud. “Replication perhaps? For that matter, who would do this, and why?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> He gathered up the incense and candles and tossed them into the waste bin, resolving to write a memo.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-85862587446398046242010-12-12T17:24:00.001-05:002010-12-12T17:27:55.273-05:00The Utnapishtim by KenThis is the first chapter of my stab at Scifi that petered out when RL got a hold of me a year ago. If you've read "Of What Measure" the main characters name should be familier, but hey, we all have names we like to recycle. I'd love to know what you guys think.<br />
<a name='more'></a><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">Part 1: The Anomalous Subject</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“I am sorry to wake you Dr. Carter, but urgent matters require your attention.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Randolph Carter glared at the projection floating over his cot, robed like an official of imperial China. “What’s so important that you wake me at 1300 hours Shang Chi?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “You instructed me to inform you of any changes during the operation.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Grunting, Carter flipped a switch near his bedside. Instantly the room was filled with more projections, digital images of the planet far below them. They all showed a surface of pristine blue, not a single landmass could be seen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “The first stage should have begun by now. Have the ‘formers malfunctioned?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Shang Chi shook his head. “The planoformers are functioning correctly. We have encountered an…anomaly at the insertion point.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “An anomaly? Show me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The hologram on the far right, showing the planets northern hemisphere, was replaced by a wall of solid blue. Carter didn’t expect to see much else. This planet was a rare find indeed, a primordial water world with no life more advanced then bacteria. Carter was understandably surprised when something swam into view.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It was a bizarre thing, a ball of fuzz with ganglia like a hydra. As he watched, the creature decayed before his eyes, melting into formless ooze.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “The surveyor was still broadcasting when phase 1 began.” Said Shang Chi.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Carter nodded, engrossed in the footage. Gradually the insertion point came into view, the spot on the sea floor where terraforming would begin. The planoformers sat motionless at the bottom of a crater, in the center which was a…rock? No, it was fluid, it moved. A moment and something budded from it, growing from a ball of protoplasm into something like a trilobite with hands.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Why didn’t initial scans detect this thing?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Unknown. The object defies all standard methods of computer analysis, though its behavior suggests it is organic. Dr. West has expressed interest in getting a closer look at it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “This is the most suitable out of hundreds of worlds we’ve yet found. I want to make sure it’s safe for our people. Tell Dr. West he has my go-ahead, but take every possible precaution, and keep Captain Noah informed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Shang Chi bowed. “May the Emperor guide and protect you.” Then he was gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “He’s just as annoying as the real Shang Chi.” Randolph thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Sleep was pretty much impossible now, so it was as good a time as any to make his rounds. Carter shrugged on a new work suit and boots mechanically, and then made his way out into the hall, to the elevator. As usual the lift took forever to arrive. He punched the button marked with the symbol for Dreaming, and leaned back as the lift descended.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> After ten minutes, the lift came to a stop. As always, Carter was greeted by thousands upon thousands of stasis cells, silent and frosted over. Abby was at her station, as expected.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Your early today Doctor.” She said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I got a wake-up call from the most honorable bootlick.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Shang Chi would hate to hear you say that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Carter smiled. “What’s he gonna do? He’s a computer, he and the rest of the Ministry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “A computer programmed with the memories of our glorious emperors chancellor.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Our glorious emperor can kiss my ass. I didn’t join the project for him. Speaking of which, how is our precious cargo?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Abby shrugged, flipping idly through the personnel files, data and ID photos flashing by in rapid succession. “Same as always, frozen in time, sleeping like babies.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “And the others?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Abby typed a command into her console. “See for yourself.” She replied as a door to a second chamber slid open.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> In here were the non-human passengers, thousands of species from Earths Golden Age preserved two-by-two, with the lowest tiers going to supplementary ovum and sperm samples, thus ensuring future diversity.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> This entire deck, these two chambers were the heart and soul of Emperor Sun Chen’s greatest endeavor. For a few moments Carter wandered among the sleeping specimens. The emperor’s zoologists had been through, but one thing nagged at him, ever since the day he had first stepped on board. Lions and tigers and bears there were aplenty, but no apes. No primates at all, unless you counted the sleepers who were to make a new world.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Carter was brought out of his thoughts by the beeping of his communicator. “Carter here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Randy, its Herbert.” Replied the voice of Dr. West. “I’ve got ‘Subject X’ up here in the lab. I thought you’d want to see it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I’ll be up in a few.” Carter said, and signed off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> When Carter made it up to West’s lab, he found not only Herbert West, but Captain Noah waiting for him. The captain greeted him with a salute, which he retuned. “What have me got here?” He asked, indicating the pulsing mass inside the pressure chamber. It shared the space with what looked like a walking mushroom and a centipede with shoots.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> West straightened his glasses. “What have we got here? The most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen in all my years as a biologist. It’s bioactive on a level that shouldn’t even be possible. I’m sure you’ve noticed the *ahem* offspring?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “That’s the first thing I noticed.” Carter replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> West entered a command on his console, bringing up an image of a rotating DNA helix. Different segments were color coded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “This ‘blob’ I guess you could call it, spawns new entities from its own mass, like a bacteria undergoing fission. What’s strange is that the offspring combine two or more biological types.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “What, like plant and animal?” asked the Captain.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Kingdom, phylum, order, there’s no end to the variations.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “How is that possible? Provost Zakarov makes it clear you can’t introduce the gene for an elephant’s trunk to a giraffe and get a giraffe with a trunk.” Carter said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “But that’s exactly what we’re seeing here isn’t it?” West countered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “We have to think of the sleepers first and foremost on this mission.” said Captain Noah. “I want you to perform more tests on it. If there is <i>any</i> danger to our cargo, find a way to dispose of it. Also, keep surveying the ocean floor. If it is dangerous we want to make sure there aren’t more of these things.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Aye sir.” Both doctors replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-78480988108592397532010-12-11T20:18:00.004-05:002010-12-11T20:30:18.829-05:00The Price of Freedom--HollyThought I'd shake things up a bit and stop posting short sci-fi stories. I wrote a couple of poems about 9/11 this year as a way to reflect, especially with the whole mosque thing. I wanted to know how I really felt about it, nine years later. The one I posted earlier was written to my brother, but this is the one where my anger really came out--I find that I still get mad when I think about it. <br /><br /><a name='more'></a> <br /><br /><br />When I was 13, the towers came crashing down<br />But I never realized how deeply I would be affected<br />3000 miles away and too young to fully comprehend<br />But, oh how truthfully I came to know<br />The price of freedom, liberty, and the American dream<br /><br />They sent my brother away to fight in a war<br />that he wasn’t sure he believed in.<br />Patriotism seeped into conversation, and demands for action<br />echoed through my house, but fell silent<br />the day the deployment papers arrived<br /><br />Mr. Bush, where are the weapons<br />that you sent my brother to look for?<br />That put him in a base shelled by mortars<br />Surprised by road-side explosions<br />And gave him reason to hate anyone different<br /><br />Why did you give my parents these prejudices<br />against a religion they don’t understand<br />against a people they don’t understand<br />so that you could get some more oil?<br />so that you could give Haliburton more money?<br /><br />I won’t call you my President<br />Or even a good man<br />I will call you with a bill for a psychiatrist<br />Because my brother has never been the same<br />And I do blame you for making this catastrophe worse<br /><br />Because 9/11 hit me differently than anyone I knew<br />3000 miles is such a distance when you’re 13<br />I saw the pictures and the video and the screaming<br />But it was always just a nightmare<br />Until my brother traded his green camouflage for brown<br /><br />My big brother was taken away from me<br />when I needed him the most<br />Not because a terrorist decided to murder<br />but because my government decided to murder<br />And we’ve never been the same.Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06946643327138371038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-51454053674688983772010-12-09T22:19:00.006-05:002010-12-11T18:01:10.809-05:00Little Clove - Amanda A. Arcieri<div align="left"><span>A flower, so pure-<br />So innocently sweet,<br />Awakens the senses;<br />Quickens the heart's beat.<br /><br />A <span>deep blue sea<br />Stirs with passion-<br />My soul, my being<br />Drown in waves, crashing,<br /><br />That by your spirit<br />Rise yet higher,<br />And in their embrace,<br />Serve to inspire<br /></span></span><span><br />Angelic treasures:<br />Latent, but ever present;<br />Quiet, yet ever watchful<br />For your smile, so pleasant.</span></div>Aarcierihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16751754959278669123noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-58438030007334106802010-12-08T18:09:00.000-05:002010-12-08T18:09:28.842-05:00Of What Measure Chapter 3More backlog. I'm swamped with finals. Hope you guys enjoy it<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky was awoken by the sweet aroma of coffee. Orion was waving it right under his nose. The raccoon had fallen asleep with the journal of Albert Klosterhiem still open on the reading desk. “Thought you might need a cup.” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Much obliged Ori.” Rocky replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was scarcely room for living in the tenement Rocky and Orion shared. Rocky’s side, with his bed and few possessions, was relatively clean, but Orion’s was strewn all over with mystical tools and paraphernalia. The futon was covered by no less then three open grimores, and shelves spilled over with other books, scrolls and diagrams tucked between them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So what’s in the journal?” Orion asked, making his own cup.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, keeping in mind that infernalists are whackjobs by definition, it took me a while to figure that out. Klosterheim is eloquent, but by the gods he <i>rambles</i>.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion nodded, sipping his coffee. “That’s to be expected. The journals of dark Magicians often become their grimores.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right. Anyway, it seems like pretty standard stuff, a blood sacrifice of four victims to call up an unspeakable entity for riches, fame or power. Anything beyond that’s hard to puzzle out. The part where he starts filling a dozen pages with the name of his patron starts earlier then usual.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And the name of that patron?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky’s tail visibly bristled. “Something like Zlphmg of the Thousand Tongues. Hasn’t the eternal void or whatever heard of vowels?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, you are not a truly foul entity if your name has vowels!” Orion laughed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky smiled. “I suppose. So, tell me what happened last night. You don’t look like you’ve slept much.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I haven’t. I ended up doing quite a bit of footwork after we left Klosterheim’s. I stopped by the soda joint and we were almost robbed by a rat with a laser gun.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A laser gun? Those human gizmos that burn holes in things?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The same.” Orion reached into his coat and pulled out the broken weapon, placing the pieces on the table.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky whistled, and his ears pricked. “That rat’s looking at hard time. The King-Emperor banned possession of human tech a decade ago.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion nodded. “And apparently the human government agreed to the same. Our human friend told me he had been taken from his homeland and sold at auction. It seems there’s some truth to those urban legends.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky nodded. “And you think there’s a connection between the weapon and Klosterheim’s prisoner?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not directly. Black market ties are tight. It could be that these slavers and gunrunners are getting funding from the same source.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You came up with this theory real quick. Couldn’t it be coincidence?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion grinned. “Most Magicians Rocky, don’t believe in coincidence. Wherever that pistol came from, there must be more. And in Kingsport, there’s only one place they could arrive.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The docks.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bingo. Rest up, tonight we go on a stakeout.”</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The mists that night were thick, like grasping fingers. Some said that meant ill fortune, but Rocky paid it little heed as he leapt from roof to roof. Most people think roof hopping is hard. It depends on what you are, and if you have a good teacher. Rocky had learned from squirrels.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion was off on his own, doing gods knew what, which was odd, considering that checking out the docks was his idea. Either he was hiding just out of sight, or he had gotten bored and wandered off. Rocky shrugged. In a lot of ways he worked better on his own. There was no magic to make things screwy, just his wits and his revolver.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His target was below. Rocky dropped down soundlessly. The ferret was occupied, and didn’t see him. “It’s been a long time Franky”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Franky whirled. His fur was white, and would have been handsome if it wasn’t overgrown and caked with dirt. If anything it drove home how frightened he was. He had an equally dirty rucksack in his paws and he kept it close. “R-Rocky. Good to see you too.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You spend a lot of time down at the docks Franky. You seen anything suspicious? Gun running maybe?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I-I wouldn’t know anything about that. Look man I was just…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just what?” Rocky snatched the bag away. “What have we got in here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Franky paled under his fur. “There’s nothing in there man I swear. I…Aw man don’t do that!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Without missing a beat Rocky unzipped the bag and dumped the contents onto the pavement. It was mostly loose change, cheap jewelry…and an unlabeled bottle. Rocky picked it up, popped the cap, and sniffed dramatically.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fatty acids. That’s some expensive candy you’ve got Franky.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aw please, man! You know how much that stuff costs?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And you by it with someone else’s jewelry I’ll bet. Maybe we should call the constables? Unless you want to tell me what you know?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I swear I don’t know a thing!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky drew his revolver, shoved the barrel right under Franky’s nose. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All right! All right! There are some guys who come down here every week or so. They have strong boxes. I’ve never seen what’s in ‘em I swear!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When’s the next exchange?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Saturday night! They always come on Saturday night, after midnight! Oh gods please don’t kill me…” He whined.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky put his gun away. “No, I won’t kill you. But don’t let me ever catch your pick pocketing muzzle around here again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure, no problem!” Franky gasped, scrambling to pick up his loot.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From a nearby rooftop, Rocky watched the thief scurry away. “You let him go with the loot.” Orion said as he emerged from the shadows. “I must say though Rocky, you play with your pray like a cat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The loot’s not what we came for. We have a date and time. Now all we can do is wait.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion growled. “I hate waiting.” </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Orion was bored. It was the curse of his kind, to always search for novelty, the next great adventure. The idea of sitting on his paws all week didn’t sit well with him at all. So he was now peering into his looking glass, the debris in the apartment pushed aside so he could just barley stand in front of it. In his right paw he held a box of charcoal sticks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If the waking world has no more leads, let’s see what the Dream has to offer.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carefully Orion took a stick from the box, and began to draw glyphs on the surface of the mirror. Each one had to be exact. One sign out of order, and nothing would happen, or he would be struck by backlash, the energy of the miscast spell poring into him at full force.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finished, he spoke the name of each rune in the order that he had drawn them, then, he turned round, and stepped backward, <i>through</i> the mirror. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The land dreams. The wonderworkers who were the first Magicians knew this. With skill they could enter the dream of a mountain, a desert, even a great lake. The dreams of the landscape were often incomprehensible, but there were patterns for those with the patience to find them. When the first cities were built they dreamed too, dreams shaped by the people that lived within them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion stood within the dream of his rooms. The walls were now bizarre twilight colors. His books were where he had left them, but they were bound in skin that smelled of lilacs, and written in a script that he could not read. The diagrams on his bookshelf were based on unknown magical theories, and the maps were of places that did not exist. It was night outside, and two moons, one red and one blue, shined their light through the window. Both orbs were frozen in their path across the sky.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Outside there was no fog, but the whistling wind made clear its meaning. Orion was an outsider here. The city was curious. What was this strange new visitor? Orion crossed his arms and closed his eyes, remembering all that had happened in the last few days. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the sound of grinding stone and splintering wood, the block literally split. A whole new alley opened before the Magician, created form nothing. At the end of the passage was a brick wall. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ibis Orion had glimpsed the other night knelt at the foot of the wall. He was writing on it with a quill, dipped in some kind of red ink. His left wing had been almost completely plucked, and in many places there were small wounds, like pin pricks. He seemed so absorbed in his writing that he noticed nothing else.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion watched him scribble away with a morbid fascination, and quickly noticed that the bird was engaged in a Sisyphean task. As the wall was filled with text, the lines would be obliterated one by one, until the wall was blank once again. When his quill broke, the ibis would pluck one of his own feathers and then stab himself in the arm, writing in his own blood, much to Orion’s horror.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If the ibis was here, that meant his mind now belonged to this realm. In the Waking he would be hauled off to the asylum, if he wasn’t there already. Orion shook his head sadly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Could there be meaning in this gibberish?” Orion asked himself. At first glance the words were nothing but stream of consciousness rambling, but one of the newer lines caught his eye.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And the old children shall dance the night away and all flesh will be eaten.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“’Old children?’” isn’t that an oxymoron?” Orion mused as he left the alley. The passage sealed behind him and with it any insights. The wind had changed. Orion was no longer welcome.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He would never be able to leave in a timely manner.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Orion!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First came his name, a feral scream of rage, followed by a white hot lightning bolt. Orion dodged just in time. The house behind him was blasted apart, but rebuilt itself just as quickly. Klosterheim stood before him, his paw still smoking from the electricity he had conjured. His muzzle was twisted into a snarl of pure malice.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You stole something from me.” The Doberman said. “Give it back.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion crossed his arms. “I assume your speaking of Mr. Carter?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Klosterheim moved faster then Orion could see. Before he knew it the cat was up against the wall. His nemesis now had his throat in a death grip.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Listen you nip-biter! That naked ape was part of a ritual, a very elaborate and expensive ritual that WOULD have granted me immortality. IF YOU HAD NOT BROKEN INTO MY HOME AND STOLEN MY MATERIALS! The infernalist shrieked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ugh…Cry me a river!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He threw Orion to the ground. Stars danced in the cat’s eyes. “You dare?! The human would have served a greater purpose then he ever would have in whatever backwater he comes from!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion twitched his wrist in Klosterheim’s general direction. A second later, the dog staggered, as if struck by a right hook. “Mr. Carter was never yours, or anyone’s to begin with.” He replied, getting to his feet. “And I believe he’d strongly object to being called useless.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Klosterheim’s reply was little more then inarticulate growling. “RRRRRRRRRRRARHH! Insect!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mammal actually.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion didn’t even have to dodge, for the buildings came alive, melting and reforming into stone coils, wrapping them selves around Klosterheim. The dog struggled, but in vain. The wind came up again, howling in its urgency. GO, it seemed to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion didn’t have to be told twice. He glanced back only once, to see his enemy pulled into the ground, whimpering like a pup as he disappeared. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As Orion stepped back through his mirror he smiled. He didn’t have much in the way of answers but he wasn’t bored anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-46673947562369842832010-12-08T14:13:00.004-05:002010-12-09T22:10:32.324-05:00Welcome!Hey guys! I hope everyone will join me in welcoming my good friend Jana aka irishais to our blog! She writes really fantastic stuff and I think you're all going to enjoy it!<br />
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I'd also like to welcome my friend Rachel! Her poetry is awesome and I'm looking forward to seeing more of her work!<br />
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- Kate<br />
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And also my friends Bethny and Andrew from Wagner, along with (hopefully) some more kids from the Wagner Creative Writing Society! Hooray more authors! Welcome one and all! -RichardUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-57952097441256860382010-12-04T13:57:00.000-05:002010-12-05T19:43:06.480-05:00An Overview of the Yaddith by KenHey guys. This is a bit of backround to those weird little snippets I posted early on. It give a little insight into Nycal's people and why he acts like such a dick. Enjoy!<br />
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The Yaddith are the oldest of the dominant races of the time-that-never-was. They are so old in fact that debates rage as to what crawled out of the ocean first, the first lungfish or the ancestors of the Yaddith.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> They have some similarities with a nautilus, as evidenced by their beak and wide, side set eyes. Likewise they are invertebrates. The similarities end there however. A Yaddith is covered in a hard shell much like an insect, and has four arms, each ending in a claw. Despite their lack of a spine, they are bipedal. Saurian scholars theorize that their carapace is oxygenated in such a way as to provide pressure and support to stand upright.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The claws are hollow and deliver a potent neurotoxin. This is rarely used, since physical combat is considered vulgar. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The Yaddith were the first to discover magic and the first to master it, to the point that outsiders who do not know their true name call them Sorcerers. They practically invented many of the clichés of wizardry, from dressing in fine robes and dramatic cloaks, to carrying staves. No branch of study is too odious or taboo, and they are infamous for dealing with the entities of the Sidereal Void openly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Their culture is extremely individualistic, emphasizing personal goals and acquisition of power over groups or family. They are hermaphrodites, though extremely masculine in manner, spawning once every century. The hatching grubs are tended to until they spin a chrysalis and emerge as adults, at which point they immediately leave to pursue their own agenda. They are equipped with the knowledge of their parent, and have no need for the socialization or learning a Raptor or Smilodon receives in its first years. In fact, they tend to view the need for play or school to teach skills as a severe deficiency, and consider most other creatures inferior. The oldest Yaddith are narcissistic to the point of being solipsistic and very, very dangerous. Yaddith live alone in towers created from a crystalline substance they secrete themselves. Powerful shaping spells give this substance its distinctive spire shape.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It is best to let a sorcerer go about his business, unless he addresses you first…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-89066419396402600622010-12-04T00:00:00.000-05:002010-12-04T00:01:44.747-05:00A Losing Game - by Kate Z.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I feel like a delinquent poster, sorry guys. This is a small excerpt from a dystopian type story I've been mulling over for quite some time now. I thought it would make a better comic book than anything, but I think a big part of that was my lack of confidence in descriptive writing. And getting experience and building confidence is the point of this blog, so I thought I'd give it a shot. This particular scene is actually a flashback involving two of the main characters, and I think it stands well enough on its own without me having to explain that much about the actual story. I will say that the characters are rather young - the narrator is a 17 year old girl (at this time) - so there's some immaturity in the tone, and it's on purpose. Also, I'm totally not settled on the place names at this point, and I'd love to hear suggestions because the ones I've used are more like placeholders than anything. </span><br />
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<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">She buried her face in the supple, dark leather of his jacket, into the hard, tensed muscles of his shoulders and back. She clung to him, arms wrapped around his waist, perhaps a little more tightly than necessary. The wind sent her long, straight hair streaming behind her like a million platinum ribbons as the two of them sped through the deserted streets of Lowtown. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">'Deserted' was relative, in this case. Lowtown was never </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">truly</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> deserted, but at 5 a.m. only the beggars and junkies were left wandering the streets, idly searching for something they wouldn't find. The loud, steady droning of the bike's engine drowned out their weak pleas. And In all their wretchedness, she loved them. She loved them because they were honest and unabashed, no pretense about them. The people Uptown, across The Wall, were exactly the same - constantly looking for a handout, a fix, but they hid behind artificially whitened smiles and expensive Italian suits, and it was suddenly respectable, upstanding. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He turned the bike hard and they banked right, their knees inches from the rough, unyielding street. The Wall loomed ahead, closer and taller now. The sun was starting to rise, and its light turned the clouds of chemicals and smog overhead a magnificent array of colors - purple, pink, gold, even green - so bright and vivid they briefly outshone the billboards and blinking neon signs. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And that was Lowtown. So many terrible things, dangerous, even </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">deadly</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> things, and if you looked at them at just right the time or just the right way, they were </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">beautiful</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">She knew her little 'excursions' into Lowtown had, at some point, stopped being about rebellious adventure, about pissing off her father. She didn't belong in Lowtown, but she didn't </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">want</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> to belong across The Wall either, with 'friends' and a 'family' so self-absorbed, so over-medicated that they couldn't see (and didn't care about) the big picture. They couldn't even see past their own noses, so carefully, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">perfectly</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> sculpted by plastic surgeons. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">She realized the motorcycle was decelerating, as a familiar expanse of twenty foot wall covered in coarse graffiti - Uptown slurs, mostly - was sliding into view. This part of The Wall faced a small alley and battered buildings, far away from the Gates and their armed guards, and, at this early hour, far away from the eyes of Lowtown.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He brought the bike to a stop below the little section of The Wall with the grooves and loose bricks she had discovered. Simple enough to climb, to pull herself up and over into the obsessively cleaned, emotionless streets Uptown. Would the day come when she wouldn't go back? When her father found out and she </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">couldn't</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> go back? The thought scared her and thrilled her at the same time. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">She got off the bike, somewhat reluctantly, stretching her legs and trying to smooth her windswept hair with her fingers. He straddled the bike, frankensteined together out of junkyard parts, its engine still idling. A misshapen, ugly looking thing that he had proudly assembled with his own two hands - so perfectly </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Lowtown</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. She looked forward to riding it again.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Instead of a helmet, he wore a grey baseball cap (she had never seen him without it), its logo long since faded and fallen off. When she had asked him about a helmet, the first time he had driven her 'home,' he had only smiled wryly and said </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't crash</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. An arrogant statement, for sure, and it was far from his first or last. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Is it really so easy?" he asked, gazing up at the wall. The bill of the hat made it hard to see his eyes, but his mouth had an amused turn to it. It always did. She found it incredibly irritating. The prismatic colors of sunrise threw his features into soft, hazy relief. It made his lips look soft, and she found this even more irritating than that permanent half-smile. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"It's easy enough to get to the other side, sure." she said sharply, with a lecturing air. She had no doubt he was contemplating such a trip himself, and this was the one time where she could do something he couldn't. Where she had him beat. "You don't get too far in before they card you, though. And even if your ID says you belong there, they still get pretty suspicious about people hanging out near The Wall, probably take you in for questioning." He looked a little confused now, but still smiling. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That god damn smile</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. "Unless, of course, you happen to be the daughter of someone very important." She flashed </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">her</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> best smile now, knowing her teeth were perfectly straight, blindingly white. His teeth weren't bad, for Lowtown, but she had him beat there too.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Well then, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Princess.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">" his voice was dripping with sarcasm, he affected a bow, and she felt her hand instinctively clench into a fist. Busting her ride's stupid, soft-looking lips was probably a bad idea. It was a far walk. "You really should get home to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Daddy</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> then. I'm sure he's just </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">plain worried sick</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> about his little girl."</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The urge to punch him grew again, but so did a sick, twisting feeling in her gut. He'd struck below the belt with that one, although he probably didn't realize he'd just plunged an invisible knife into her large intestine. She didn't talk about her family to him, or anyone - ever - until that one superficial comment tonight. There was no way he could know that she hadn't even </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">spoken</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> to her parents in weeks, not even pleasantries, despite living in the same house. They weren't fighting, or on a vacation, just completely mentally checked out and far too concerned with themselves to notice their daughter - or each other. This hurt her so much more, ran so much deeper, than she was really aware. Was that why she came here? For a family? </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"I doubt he even knows I'm gone," she muttered as she started her climb up The Wall. She was in good shape, and very agile, so she scampered up quickly, bitterness and resentment at this boy and his dirty fighting fueling her ascent. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Hey!" he called up in a loud whisper. She paused, near the top now, to see him much smaller below her. She knew he could see straight up her skirt the whole time, and that he had </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">looked</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Do you like my panties, you bastard? They're real satin.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Another one she had over him, although as far as she was concerned, he had still won the round this evening. "Uh, see you next week?" That stupid hat and the distance between them made it difficult to discern his expression, but she thought he looked awkward, uncomfortable, almost...</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">apologetic</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. It didn't suit his face.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Yea, see you." she called down as quietly as she could and quickly picked her way down the other side, to sparkling roads awash with the efficient white light of fluorescent street lamps. Perhaps she </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">had</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> won this evening, after all. Recalling the odd expression on his face, somehow made her feel worse about her victory, not better. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">How much longer would she do this? When would she decide she wasn't coming back? </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Soon</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, she thought. Soon. </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-90658376764254774502010-12-01T16:53:00.000-05:002010-12-01T16:53:36.438-05:00Of What Measure Chapter 2 by Ken<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">2</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Kingsport wasn’t like other cities, especially at this time of night. No one was quite sure how to explain it. The difference wasn’t in the tenements, where artists worked on their latest masterpieces before dropping from exhaustion an hour before dawn. It wasn’t the ocean, lapping at the shore just a stones throw away. And it wasn’t the fog, ever present even on the brightest day, and, so old timers said, brought dreams vivid and powerful. It was all these things.</div><a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Kingsport was a port where things happened, though you would be at a loss to say why. The best advice was to roll with it, and hope you didn’t get swept away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion passed a tenement just as a typewriter was hurled from the second floor window. A flurry of manuscript pages followed it. Orion caught the title page. <i>The Book of the New World</i> it was called. The writer, an ibis, stuck his head out and cried to the night. “NO! NO! That’s not right! That never happened! I must begin again and tell the truth!” he ducked back inside, ranting to himself. Orion shook his head, bemused.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There were few places open after midnight. Luckily one of those few catered to animals in his profession. Jake’s Soda Joint was below street level, marked only by a simple milkshake sign and an arrow pointing downward.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The bell rang as he entered. It looked like the gang was all there. Dunwin, the mole alchemist, and Hemingway, the otter mentalist shared a table as always, sipping chocolate and banana, respectively. Kaymen, the iguana in the fedora, watched from the shadowy back booth, taking nothing stronger then water. Mr. Jakes, the mouse and bartender, was busy polishing glasses. And of course there was Smedley, the calico, idly swirling the straw in her cola. It had been a while since they had talked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smedley smiled as Orion sidled up to the counter. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.” She observed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re looking good, as always” he replied. No cat discusses what they have been doing over a long span. To most feline folk, the fact that their friends are present is enough. Gushing over how long it’s been or what you did a year ago is a waste of time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What will it be, ser Orion?” Jake asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Give me a vanilla. And one for Smed too.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You got it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I ran into Klosterheim tonight.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did you catch him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion chuckled. “Does the cat ever catch the dog? No, he got away again. But I found…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was cut off by a sound like rushing air, accompanied by the scent of ozone. Everyone turned around. Standing in the door was a rat in a tattered overcoat. His fur was overgrown and mangy, and he was pointing something that looked like a pistol at the ceiling. Unlike Rocky’s signature revolver though, the barrel seemed to be formed from small circles, like mirrors. The strange weapon had blown a hole clean through the ceiling. Something tugged at Orion’s memory. Perhaps it was something he had read.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright you Magicians!” The rat cried. “I’ve got myself a sweet new weapon and I’m not afraid to use it! Empty your pockets! No funny business or I’ll untwist the sponge’s funny bone! Waffle? This odd proclamation was punctuated by the strange gun exploding. The would-be robber clutched his paw in agony. Dunwin and Hemmingway high-foured. The other patrons made sure the rat behaved while Jake called the cops.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion clicked his tongue. “Stupid.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The cat crossed the room and bent to examine the weapon, now in two unequal halves. Looking them over carefully it was then that he remembered. “Curiouser and curiouser.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know what it is?” Smedley asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion nodded. “This is a human weapon, what they call a laser. It’s like a gun, but instead of a bullet it shoots a highly focused beam of light.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smedley smirked. “What would a mangy rat be doing with a glorified magnifying glass?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion’s tail swept back and forth thoughtfully. “That’s the question isn’t it? Tonight I found a human, a male, in Klosterheim’s basement. Perhaps there’s a connection.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That means your going to run off again doesn’t it? And I’d so been looking forward to the two of us spending time together.” She pouted teasingly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, I won’t be gone long. Besides, I’m sure there are plenty of willing toms out there to tide you over.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The calico grinned. “How right you are.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion finished his shake and bid everyone farewell. He tucked the broken blaster into his waistcoat as he left. Doubling back to Dr. Smythe’s house a thought struck him. Would the fuzz be upset about losing evidence?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nah” </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His dreams were memories of pain and death. A dozen times he saw his friends eviscerated to fuel dark magic, and he could do nothing to help them. And ever present was the Magicians demonically grinning muzzle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man awoke in darkness, breathing heavily, but unharmed. His mouth felt like a desert. Fumbling in the blackness, he found a water glass, and miraculously managed not to knock it over. He drank greedily, and was refreshed. He was confused though. How did he escape? And where was he.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His questions were to be answered shortly. First came the soft footsteps, followed by a light, which proved to be coming from an old fashioned lantern. As for the person holding it, it was the last thing he expected. It was one of the natives, a fox, with fur an impossible fire-engine red, a purple bathrobe, and reading glasses with no bridges.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man laughed inwardly. “Wouldn’t be out of place in an old picture book.” He thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re awake. I see you found the water.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes thank you.” The reply was half coughed. It had been at least a week since he had spoken words that weren’t curses. “Who…ugh…Can I ask who you are?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Certainly sir. I am Christopher Smythe, a veterinarian. What shall I call you? Unless every human is just “Human.” Dr. Smythe chuckled softly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Carter. You can call me Carter. It’s good to know you Doc. Are you to thank for getting me out of there?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The doctor took a seat on a chair next to the bed. “Sadly no. That honor goes to a cat of my acquaintance. A Magician of much better disposition then your former captor.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A Magician. The hound, Klosterheim. What happened to him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s slipped through our paws I’m afraid. To hear him tell it, ser Orion-that’s the Magician I mentioned-has been chasing him for years.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’d like to rip his guts out…the things he put us through.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dr. Smythe nodded. “I’m sure. But now is the time for recuperation, not vengeance. How ever did you end up in an infernalists subbasement anyway?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter shook his head. “I can’t quite recall. My friends and I were exploring the jungles near our Colony. We were hit by some kind of darts. Everything’s hazy after that, must have been drugged. I remember a ship though, and an auction block.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fox nodded gravely. “There have long been rumors of a black market exploiting humans. Few give it much credence though. For what it’s worth I’m sorry about your friends.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter lay back in bed. “That’s kind of you Doc. You ever lose anyone close to you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dr. Smythe sighed wistfully. “My father was taken by distemper. It’s what inspired me to get into medicine. Now my nephew, Fenthick, there’s a different story. He became a mercenary, bouncing all over the world ‘serving justice and righting wrongs’ as he put it. Even now I can’t say I approve of such vigilante behavior, but who was I to stop him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What happened to him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s the question. His letters stopped coming about a year ago. But I still hope.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter nodded. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly there was a knock at the door. “Well, speak of demons and they will come.” Dr. Smythe said as he got up to answer the door. Just as he had predicted, Orion stood on the front step.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is he awake?” The cat asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Indeed. Though I hardly think he will appreciate being interrogated in the middle of the night.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion didn’t budge. “I’m afraid it’s most urgent.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Doctors ears drooped. “Very well, but be gentle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter wasn’t sure what to expect when he had first heard of this “Orion” but the creature that stepped through the door wasn’t it. A tall black cat, his clothes matched exactly, with a similarly colored trilby and high collard greatcoat. A gold pocket watch chain could be glimpsed in his left pocket.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll get right to the point sir.” He said, reaching inside his coat. “Do you recognize this?” The cat asked, throwing the laser pistol fragments onto the bed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I applaud your directness, buddy. But I hardly think you have the right to ask me any questions. I hardly know you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not even if I got you out of that basement?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter laughed. “You must be the ‘Orion’ I’ve heard about. Sure, I’ll play the game.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was at that moment that Dr. Smythe came rushing in. “Carter I’m sorry he insisted on seeing you I…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter held up a hand for silence. “It’s okay Doc. For now anyway.” He turned to Orion. “There was something you wanted to ask me, right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Magician indicated the pistol fragments. “Do you recognize that weapon?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter picked up the pieces and examined them carefully. “It looks like it was blown in half but I’m pretty sure it’s one of our lasers. What happened? Did it wash up on the beach or something?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“On the contrary, it came off a two-bit hood trying to rob the soda shop.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carter raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion shook his head. His tail was restless. “I only wish I was. I believe there may be a connection between that gun and your capture.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh man! The Council is going to have a PR nightmare on its hands if this gets out.” Carter laughed mirthlessly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The council?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The Terran High Council.” He explained. “Our governing body, like your King-Emperor. They voted not to sell their technology to the Empire.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, regardless of the political ramifications, I’m sure all of us could use some sleep.” Dr. Smythe said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Indeed.” Orion replied, snatching up the laser gun shards. “I’ll be in touch.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fox led the Magician to the door, closed it after him and sighed heavily. “His kind makes my fur stand on end.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meanwhile, lying awake in bed, Carter made a resolution. If there was human trafficking going on in the empire, he would find its source.</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-18411627240158551072010-11-30T15:09:00.000-05:002010-11-30T15:15:37.510-05:00Layna-by HollyThis is a companion piece to "Science vs Romance" as a character profile of Layna. Once I get my full crew figured out I might start to spin them together into a full story.<br /><br /><a name='more'></a><br />She’s reached that point already--her eyelids drooping, she avoids lunch because she’s not hungry, a sure sign of exhaustion. Keeps her hands moving at all costs, because if there’s a pause, a break in concentration, she might as well curl up under the console with her thumb in her mouth. It’s hard to justify uselessness when there’s an economic process to choosing the people aboard the ship, and she would know. Sifting through endless piles of applications; adventurers, crazed scientists, minimally skilled translators so tired of living in a crowd that they would give up anything to feel the vast expanse of space, people she sympathizes with but cannot employ. She helped pick the best, most suitable candidates for deep space exploration.<br /><br />She’s spent most of her life up here, an accidental pregnancy but cherished nonetheless, spoiled by the backyard blanket of stars and galaxies and by a crew that hadn’t seen a human child in years. And the cycle repeats: her exhaustion, despite eight hours of deep sleep, comes from her own accident, a miscalculation in timing. She’s never gotten the hang of time, when light years mean more than minutes, it’s hard to be precise. Black hole distortions, time variances, relativity. Time--what is it really? A measurement specific to a person, depending on their position in space. A minute to her could be an hour to someone on the other side of a singularity. Time theory distorts her view of reality, as it moves forward on a time line.<br /><br />To Henry, this makes no sense.<br /><br />She’d been revolving around him slowly for some time, fascinated by the way he stood so solidly on the ground. Planet-born, like everyone else on the ship, but different somehow. She, who can float from world to world, from culture to culture, finds herself inexplicably drawn to a trained killer. Never could stay away, she thinks wryly, though now he probably wishes she would. “Okay” was the only response he could muster when she told him, and then, “I need to walk”. Not surprising, really.<br /><br />Her hands move methodically over the keypad. Signals coming in, and she relays them, separates the ones she wants to translate, assigns the others. They follow the mission religiously, and that’s what keeps them together, even as they individually fray. Find suitable colonization sites. Expand the human race over the galaxy. Try not to interfere. Her crew has done well, even if they don’t have much to show for it.<br /><br />“Layna--you alright?” The question comes from behind her, the concerned captain checking in on his first mate. Her hands have frozen over the keyboard, her eyes shut, and she’s not quite sure if she has been dozing or not. She shakes herself.<br /><br />“Yes, sir. Couldn’t sleep last night, that’s all,” she lies. Still not ready to place blame on the child as it seems too small to do anything consequential to her system. Besides, the captain can’t know yet, not until she actually talks to Henry. The father of her child. She grimaces. It sounds weird in her head, and she can’t imagine speaking the words out loud.<br /><br />I need more time, she thinks, and then smiles at the irony. Timing is such a tricky thing to her, she doubts she’ll ever get it right.Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06946643327138371038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-52908141120075001392010-11-28T09:12:00.000-05:002010-11-28T09:12:36.985-05:00Of What Measure, An Interesting Time by KenThis story takes place in a universe that has become know to myself and Richard as Interesting Times. The concept has been with me since high school, and I have several versions of the world and it's characters. This is the latest version. Enjoy<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">1</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“So tell me why we’re really here, Ori? Did you come because of Klosterhiem, or what he’s doing here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The message, delivered over the mental link he and Rocky shared was distracting, and for a moment Orion did not answer. The cat padded his way through the mansions basement, ever alert for magical and physical traps. He cursed as he stepped too far forward, triggering a spring loaded scything blade. A back flip saved his neck, but lost him the edge of his jacket. The feline Magician examined the tear and smirked. “That was a nice suit. Klosterhiem will owe me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What was that?” Rocky again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A minor annoyance.” Orion didn’t add that it would be more then an annoyance to anyone who wasn’t a cat. Being a raccoon, Rocky would have a good, if slightly lower chance of surviving the pitfalls of the Klosterhiem Mansion. In some small way Orion envied his friend. Both of them had been sneaking for years, and there were always fewer traps on the upper floors. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As Orion went along he rapped on the walls, both to check for traps, and for that special hollow echo that told him he was close. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>TOCK! TOCK! There! Orion fished in his pocket for the jeweler’s glass. No use fumbling around and triggering something you shouldn’t. Fixing the lens to his eye, he silently began to recite the mantras, pneumonic devices Tobias had taught him years ago. Reality is illusion. Belief and will are all that matters. See the pattern beneath.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through the glass, the dark basement could be seen clear as day, much more distinct then his inborn night vision. Most objects were in stark white, but there, off to the side, was a shade of grey. It was a hidden panel. Reaching his paw out carefully, he pressed it, ever so gently. The wall slid aside, revealing a stairway going down into darkness.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve found the subbasement”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good. The study’s as good as pilfered too.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Orion and Rocky had different goals this night, which was why Orion had teleported them both onto separate floors.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shit.” The telepathic bond was briefly filled with impressions of a looming shadow, and a drawn pistol. Rocky answered his friend’s unspoken question. “There was a nightguant on the windowsill. I don’t know if it could see me but I’m not taking chances. Whatever you’re looking for down there Ori, find it fast.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was a single door at the bottom of the steps, unlocked. As he swung the door open, Orion staggered back as an absolutely hideous stench assailed his nostrils. The room beyond was pitch black. He should have been able to see just fine. A spell of darkness, perhaps? A few whispered words and fire was dancing in the center of Orion’s paw. When he saw what was in this room he almost regretted conjuring a light.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An arcane diagram was drawn on the floor. The runes within the circle were the kind any decent Magician tried not to think about. A table nearby was strewn with instruments of pain and death, knives, drills, peelers, and even worse things. And on the far wall…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My Gods”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chained to the wall were four humans, or rather, three corpses and one ragged, starving man. The other three had been very thoroughly gutted, rotting in their chains.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What a sad fate it is, used as spell fodder because no one will miss you.” The prisoner gave no sign of hearing, and Orion didn’t blame him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Find what you were looking for Ori?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Humans, four of them. One’s still alive. He’s in a pretty bad way though.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was an impression of more gunfire. “If you’re going to get him out, do it now. The ‘gaunts are nearly battering the windows down.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion cursed. That meant the glamour had worn off. It was only a matter of time before HE showed up. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A twitch of the wrist and a whispered word was all it took to free the prisoner’s right arm. Before he could do the same for the left however Orion heard a sound like a playing card flipping over, the spatial distortion that heralded Teleportation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You have quite the nerve. Popping into my home and stealing my materials. Frankly I would expect nothing less from a cat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion turned around slowly. On top of everything else he had done, Albert Klosterheim had always annoyed him. That grey suit, that ramrod posture, paws behind his back like a disapproving schoolmaster. He was the very picture of the aristocratic Doberman. And he had the gall to spout the canine dogma of loyalty and responsibility when he tortured living beings in ways that were outlawed in every sane nation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your friend has shot a great many of my servants.” Klosterheim went on. “I’d dearly love to make a cap of him and present it to you personally.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion tensed. The infernalist held up a warning finger. “Ah ah ah. One syllable of the Tongue Arcane and I will turn you inside out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not the Tongue Arcane you have to watch out for.” Orion replied in Atlantian.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By coincidence, the Atlantian phrase “It’s not the Tongue Arcane you have to watch out for” and the curse “May the fur of my enemy be infested with vermin” had a difference of only one syllable, but could convey the same meaning if you pronounced it just the right way. As such, Albert Klosterheim could hardly turn anyone inside out as he tried frantically to scratch the horde of fleas and ticks that were now swarming all over him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It seems your flea dip is sub par Baron!” Orion laughed, releasing the prisoners other chain and catching him as he fell forward.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You bastard!” Klosterheim cried. He was now fairly rolling on the floor, totally helpless.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Taking the unconscious human over his shoulders, Orion focused on his mental link with Rocky and bent every ounce of his will toward getting the hell out of there. There was the playing card sound, and then a falling sensation as all three of them were spirited away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You got his journal. I’m impressed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So am I. You got yourself a naked ape.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’d prefer it if you didn’t use that slur, at least not around him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion and Rocky had relocated to a rooftop a block away. From there they assessed the situation. The subject of their conversation was out cold, and showed no signs of waking. His clothing was near disintegrating, and the only other thing they had to cover him was Rocky’s trench coat, which they had given him as a blanket. Rocky was looking a bit haggard himself. The Nightguants had left him with a few claw marks, and his vest was missing a button.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The raccoon gave him a pitying look. “What are we gonna do with him? It looks like he hasn’t had any food and barely any water for days.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll take him to Dr. Smythe. The old fox is the only one in town who knows their anatomy.” Orion replied, turning up the collar of his greatcoat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I doubt the vet will appreciate you teleporting onto his doorstep in the middle of the night with a beaten, starved <i>Homo Sapiens</i>, Ori.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion shrugged. “I have little choice. In the meantime get to work on that journal. I want to know what Klosterheim was using them for.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The cat bent down and took the man’s hand in his. He centered himself, seeing his destination in his minds eye, thankful that Arts like these didn’t fatigue any passengers they brought along. For the third time that night, Orion disappeared, taking the freed prisoner with him. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rocky was right. Dr. Smythe was not pleased. “Ser Orion. Do you know what time it is?” The light from the lantern he held threw the fox’s bright red fur and sour expression in sharp relief.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion got to the point. “If you won’t open your door for me, Christopher, open it for him.” The cat stepped aside, revealing the coat-bundled human.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The veterinarian’s jaw dropped. “Saint Francis alive! Get him inside quickly!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Dr. Smythe made his patient comfortable Orion explained the night’s events.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hmm. Malnourished, dehydrated, and rescued from an infernalists basement. It’s a miracle this fellow is still alive. You say the others had been tortured to death?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orion nodded. “The darker Arts often require pain and death to work.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dr. Smythe adjusted his reading glasses as he prepared a damp rag. “I know little of magic. Just be glad you got him to me in time. Curious though, to see humans this far west.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Indeed. I’ll be back to check on him later. I just had a thought.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dr. Smythe stood. Cat’s never “just had thoughts” “Hold on boy. You’re not going to go gallivanting across Kingsport are you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who knows Christopher? Who knows?” Orion strutted out the door, tail in the air.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13071600077983046846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-14745489184995879882010-11-24T04:51:00.000-05:002010-11-24T05:03:53.808-05:00Science vs Romance - Wedding Dress Prompt - HollyI wrote this a few months ago without any specific future in mind for it. The title is borrowed from a Rilo Kiley song.<br /><br /><a name='more'></a><br /><br />He leans against the window, putting his cheek to the glass and allowing the steam from his breath to cloud his view of the spinning planet below. It wasn't that long ago that he had spent hours in this spot, transfixed on the changing star patterns as they hurtled through space. Now he spends a few minutes here when he can in order to remember the feeling of wonder. A year ago, he would have wiped the condensation away immediately, resentful at the obstruction of view. Now, he lets it bead up and slide down the glass, wondering if those on cleaning KP would know it was his fault that the windows are dirty.<br /><br />Footsteps behind him. Heavy, with a little hesitation as they near, realize someone else is there. Must be Henry. He doesn't bother to turn around, merely waves a hand behind him, still staring at the planet reflected in the drops. "Hey, Henry. Need to get away?"<br /><br />Everyone seeks out their own personal space, after months with the same faces. Henry clears his throat before answering, "Layna just told me she's pregnant, Wes. I don't know if I want to be alone or lost in a crowd."<br /><br />Big news. He looks away from the glass toward Henry, who shifts uncomfortably. "Same thing, isn't it?"<br /><br />"I guess. I was just thinking that a year ago, I would have jumped ship and hid down on that planet, despite their horrible tasting food. I've been on this ship for five years, but Layna, she's changed me more in the last few months than the last five years combined."<br /><br />Typical. Henry, the grunt of the group, trained in combat styles that most people had never heard of, is more afraid of change than a ticking thermo-nuclear bomb. "Things always change, Henry. You have to, to survive. Layna isn't going to domesticize you--you're just going to have something else to protect on this ship," he says, noting the tick of the second hand on his watch. Time. Now there's something that always changes consistently (an irony of his job that never failed to amuse him). He is a time specialist. Space time, real time, air time...its all relative.<br /><br />Henry nods. "You've definitely changed, if you don't mind me saying. You're a lot quieter, less annoying with the questions. You don't geek out as much, either."<br /><br />"Yea. Things that used to bother me don't bother me anymore. Like not knowing answers to questions. I've learned to let a lot of things go." Wes sighs. It feels like defeat.<br /><br />"What else doesn't bother you? You know, things you've adjusted to that you never thought you would." To his surprise, Henry looks genuinely interested. Despite having guard detail for Wes's group pretty constantly for the last few months, Henry has never had much to say to him beyond reminiscences of home.<br /><br />Wes squints. "Grammar, obviously," he pauses, smiles at the memory. "Back home, my biggest pet peeve was the misuse of 'their', 'they're', and 'there' in English." Suddenly words fly from his mouth at a pace he's learned to avoid, "All the linguists are redundant up here, with the translation chips and symbology as written language, and despite the usefulness of Common Tongue, I miss the right to be upset at the abuse of written language. We're all scientists now, and no one can remember the beauty of the written word! My native tongue was a bitch to learn, none of the rules made sense, but people spent years and years fighting it, trying to make it beautiful.<br /><br />"Everything here is so economical! It's sensible, besides the absurd, like the warp engine I've been repairing since the day it was built. But you know, as technology advances, the art that we boast about in our museums ceases to be created. We've de-evolved in creativity. We're back in the Egyptian era of writing--we're two steps away from cave drawings. And I've lost the right to rant about proper English grammar!" Wes breathes hard now. He has turned towards Henry, using the window as a wall, so that space stretches out behind him. To speak about art, he turned his back on science. This feeling of passion towards something, anything really, makes Wes' heart pound. Too long since he's had a reaction like this, a normal human reaction to something completely irrelevant to his current situation. He wants to wallow in the sensation of anger, tired of being the calm physicist stuck on his back under wires.<br /><br />Henry stares at him. "You asked," Wes says, crossing his arms. Defensive stance. Real smart, sassing the trained killer in the room. Wishes he could take it back, remain the mousy, quiet nerd.<br /><br />Shaking his head, Henry turns around and walks down the corridor the way he came. "I asked what didn't bother you. Everyone has something to bitch about these days."<br /><br />Wes hears Henry mumble something about pessimists as he turns the corner. The one time he speaks with sincerity and passion, the listener runs off. Granted, it was Henry, but he feels a mounting sense of heaviness. He misses home more than ever, he misses simplicity and fantasy and grammar police. He misses the thrill of emotion, before the psychologists learned to destroy it for the greater good of the mission.<br /><br />In the quest to discover other cultures, he's become a robot, a walking talking biloid that fixes engines and solves equations with no interest in the intricacies of language, with no excuse to explode with emotion, or let a tear fall quietly as he watches a purplish-blue planet spin in space.<br /><br />No excuses, but it happens anyway.Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06946643327138371038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204265151771490302.post-67576584403063218902010-11-24T02:59:00.000-05:002010-11-24T02:59:33.866-05:00My Lady - Wedding Dress Prompt - RichardHere's "Something New", short, starting something I'll be continuing. I generally rely on pretty lengthy description and haven't worked a lot with dialogue, so I'm trying to fix that. Also trying to make medieval-period characters talk like they're people and not Hamlet. Let me know how I do with both.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u>My Lady</u></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Duncan twisted his codpiece strings into an incorrigible knot, and then cursed his clumsiness. “Damned…” he muttered under his breath, making his sore fingers undo each agonizing string. Righting the garment, he then found his cloak-pin upside down; fumbling, he unpinned it, dropped it, spat on it, cursed it, sleeve-shined it, pinned it back. He found one glove, the other absent, he looked about the changing room, wither did… only to see it in the mirror, stuffed into the back of his breeches. This time he laughed. He ran a finger through his now-clean hair and wondered if he should have trimmed his beard.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Shall I drink this red by myself, if you’re going to be in there all night?” Phillipa called to him, from her bed, beyond the changing curtain.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span>“For some of us, my lady, beauty takes time. You are always beautiful, and would not understand” he called to her with mock wounding. From behind the curtain, he heard her giggle; her laugh was a warm breeze. He brushed himself down, took a breath and tossed aside the curtain with a flourish, thrusting out his chest and chin, his legs apart like some noble knight from a tale.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>She clapped and laughed “What a picture you are!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Chin thrust forward, he strode purposefully across the room, arms swinging manfully. He grasped his goblet with vigor, raising an exaggerated eyebrow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“I shall defend fair maiden from the treacheries waiting within the wine!” And took a generous gulp.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>She placed one hand against his arm and another against her forehead, crying My Hero! and they shared the wine and laughter, and toasted her fine hospitality, and drank again, and toasted his victory, and drank again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Phillipa took up the cheese knife, her eyes locked grimly on the wide-mouthed bottle of peppery red wine and stabbed at it with vigor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Back beast, back! You will not stain Sir Duncan’s honor!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Stain my honor? It will do no more than stain my clothes, should we keep drinking this way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It does unman you now! You will soon be so far in your cups, after only three swallows of that tiny glass, that you will barely be able to stand on those long legs of yours.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Duncan scoffed, “If I will be in my cups, you will shortly be so soaked that your pinned curls will all come tumbling down, and I shall hear a curse out of that proper prim mouth of yours, finally, and I shall spread the hearing of it to every ear!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She raised playful eyebrows, trying not to laugh. “I will be soaked?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Aye, wet.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wet!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He shrugged casually. “As many ladies become wet, in the presence of strapping knights.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She crossed her hands in her lap, like a nun. “Never me; I am a winter flower, never blooming.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Duncan suddenly went to one knee, and called to sunset through the window, “Would that the summer sun come and make this flower bloom!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Phillipa laughed long. And he told her, her laugh was the summer sunshine. And she smiled for him, and he did not know what to say, so they drank, and she called for another bottle. Duncan sat in a chair by the window, away from her perfume, and tried to keep his head from spinning. But he could not take his eyes off of her.</div>Richardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01201205410257616456noreply@blogger.com3