jackofallgeeks | Entries tagged with writing.snippets

Two shots rang out, the chain-fenced basketball court lit momentarily by muzzle flashes. One of the two figures collaspsed, crumpling into a pile on the blacktop. The other figure spat on the corpse, stuffed the wad of cash into his pocket, and began walking home. A nice way to end the night, the figure thought to himself. Now time to shoot up and turn off for a few hours.

The figure was that of a small-time drug dealer, Thimble to anyone who cared to address him. Tonight, Thimble got hopped up on some junk and decided to 'renegotiate' his partnership with Derek; that would be the pile bleeding to death on the court.

Thimble was wandering down the street when her turned the corner into an alley and found an even better way to finish the night. About halfway down, scraping through the trash, was a girlish figure. Sure, she was dirty, and dressed in rags, but her hair looked like it had once been blonde, and under all the grime, she had a slight, feminine figure. Which is really all that mattered for Thimble's plans.

He had just started to approach her, whispering, "Mmm, you look like a tasty thing," as the girl looked up at him with large, fright-filled eyes, when something hit him hard from the side, slamming him into the crumbling-brick wall of the alley. There was a vice-like grip holding his jaw, keeping his face against the rough building; his feet were off the ground. The thing was all black, like living shadows, with a porcelain-white face. Even it's eyes were empty pits.

The porcelain face turned toward the girl and a voice like loose gravel rumbled, "Run." The girl, all fright, stumbled and nearly fell twice in her haste to leave.

"Who the fuck are you," Thimble managed to get out, scraping his cheek against the bricks, "fucking Batman?"

The face turned back once the girl had left, it's dark eyes burning into Thimble. It didn't say anything, just raised a white-gloved hand and removed it's mask.

Thimble's heart caught; he tried to scream, but his lungs wouldn't obey, he just hung there with his mouth open, staring unblinking at a vision of nightmare.

The thing bit his neck, and drank. He passed out after an eternity.

Gabriel licked the wound closed and dropped the would-be mugger into a heap in the alley. Replacing his mask, he shuffled through the mans clothes and found what he'd hoped was there: a cell phone. He'd taken a lot of blood, more than he usually did, and scum or not, this man would need help.

He dialed 911, rumbled the street address to the dispatcher and something about 'being in a bad way,' and then hung up despite her request for more information.

I hate this part, he thought to himself. But the Beast was sated and now wanted rest. Dawn would break soon, and Gabriel meant to be home and in bed before then.

Thimble was pronounced dead on arrival due to drug overdose and severe anemia.

Jenny tapped her foot, listening to Chumbawamba play on her headphones, wasting time in the usual comic shop.

...and tell him, "Mary is no more a child!" / It's raining stones, it's raining bile / from the luxury of...

It was a decent enough place, as long as the cranky fat man didn't bother you too much. He owned the place, and wasn't shy about telling people to "buy or get out" if he was in that sort of mood. And he usually was. He grudgingly let Jenny stand around, mostly because more boys came around when she was there. They had an Understanding.

It was a slow day. Joey had been in earlier, wandered around for a bit, but when Jenny didn't say much to him, he bought a few comics and left. The Fat Man glared a little at her, but Joey was an annoying kid, anyways.

The door open, the bell rang, and in walked an angel, all blond hair and black leather. She was a little taller than Jenny, older too, maybe as much as 20. Her hair was short cropped, and golden blond except for the tips, which had been dyed pink. She wore a short leather jacket over a teal t-shirt that showed her navel piercing, and her tight low-cut pants accentuated the roll of her hips as she walked over to The Fat Man.

He, of course, couldn't keep his eyes off her. He was never very subtle.

She got to the counter and, leaning over it, indicated the top shelf behind The Fat Man, the one that held the Adult's Only magazines, with their covers strategically obscured to hint enough without revealing anything actual.

"You sell very many of those?" she asked in a melodious voice.

The Fat Man grunted. "Enough. What's it to you?"

"'But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart,' Matthew five, twenty-eight." she recited.

The Fat Man's face turned red. "Christ! Look, Missy, I have a store to run, and if you thin-"

There was a flash of motion, and he cut off suddenly. The Fat Man reactively clasped a hand over his throat, streams of blood dribbling between his fingers. The girl was holding a small knife in her hand, a thin line of blood marking one edge. She stepped back as The Fat Man staggered into the shelves behind him, knocking a few statues off, and he slumped to the ground. His eyes never left her.

She turned, replacing the knife inside her short jacket. On her way to leave she saw Jenny, wide-eyed and clutching her CD player defensively. She bent over to be eye-level with Jenny. The girl's eyes flashed like green fire.

"Jesus loves you," she said. And left.

Moonlight fell upon his face, pouring in from the large windows which dominated the wall at the far side of the Study. Bare branches reached up into a cloudless sky, cutting jagged lines across the face of the full moon.

He lifted his head off the hard wood of the desk; mahogany. It had been an anniversary gift from his son a few years back. It was large and sturdy, but incredibly heavy. It had taken a whole work crew to get it up here. It now sat in it's final resting place, gathering papers and dusk. An old clock sat on the right-hand corner, antique and busted. It had sat there at three o'clock for the last dozen years.

He stood, his wooden chair and back both complaining with twin groans. The chair had come with the desk and had a heavy, medieval look to it. A wave of dizziness washed over him as he stood, looking about at the wooden-paneled walls. He didn't remember falling asleep, nor did he remember it even being night. Yet, the moon sat high over the flat plain outside his window, and his cheek assured him he had been sleeping. With a sigh, he walked over to the door, a thick piece of wood, like everything else in the study. No point in turning on the light.

He grasped the brass handle, turned it a quarter-turn down, and pulled.

He woke with a start, the wind outside rattling the large windows which dominated the wall at the far end of the study. Inky black clouds roiled outside, sweeping above the rolling hills and threatening rain. It promised to be a violent storm, but the sturdy walls would keep it out; would protect him and the books which lined every side of the room.

His neck popped as he lifted his bed off of his desk, an odd construct of metal and plastic which his wife had given him as a birthday present. It served little purpose, other than a reading table; it's only accouterments were a desk lamp, the book he had been reading, and an old and busted clock. The thing had been stuck on six o'clock for the last dozen years, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it out.

It occurred to him that he didn't recall falling asleep, but the pins and needles along his arm violently attested to the fact. He stood, grasping the thickly padded arms of his leather chair for support, and headed for the door. No point in turning on the light.

He grasped the handle, pressing down on the latch, and pulled.

It dawned on him that he had been a sleep, sitting awkwardly in his high-backed chair. He didn't remember falling asleep, but the drool dribbled down the upholstery was embarrassing proof of the fact. He scrubbed his face, laughing that it was probably things like that which had kept him from ever getting married.

He rubbed his arms vigorously, struck by the chill of the room. The fireplace lay dark and cold along one of the four stone walls; it must have gone out as he slept. If there had been another source of light he would have turned it on. He hated walking around anywhere in the dark. He shuffled through some papers littering the floor, and bumped a little table, knocking an antique clock to the ground. No matter; it had been stuck on four o'clock for the last dozen years.

He grasped the wooden handle and pulled.

"Is he your grandfather?" the nurse said as she recorded the monitor readings and checked the tubes attached to the old man. He was pale and bony, and his breath came raggedly through the plastic breathing apparatus. The white sheets, pulled up to his chin, had not moved except for washings.

"No," said the young man sitting in the green chair at the foot of the bed, "he's my father."

"Oh," she said. And then, picking up the patient chart, "Edward Fulton. What happened to him? The charts never really say."

"We don't know. He was in his study late one night, and was found the next morning, collapsed in the hall just outside. The doctors said he must have been frightened into shock by something. He's been in a coma since."

"Oh." said the nurse, who finished her work and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

The son looked out the window, where stars glittered behind a New Moon. The clock on the wall read 5am.

(This piece was inspired, mostly subconsciously, by This Piece. I didn't notice all of the similarities until I'd re-read them both; I'd only intended to reproduce the cyclic nature of the piece. This is also my submission for Louis' Fiction Contest. If you've ever written anything, you should enter this.)

I don't know how he did it; his method seemed pure madness to me. To see him at work, you would think he was any other culinary-madman, and the mess he made of our kitchen matched the rank odors that swept throughout the apartment. Flour, spices, oils, and doughy-looking pastes covered every surface of the kitchen, including the walls and sink, and a fine white mist hung in the air. His arms, the sleeves rolled back behind his elbows, would be caked in a gray-green mud, more of the slop tumbling down the front of his shirt. He would be oblivious of it all, of course, ecstatic with his latest creation. In the end he would clean it up, though Erika would often help out, to make sure it all got up.

Arthur was our Alchemist, though his potions often required special application, and Erika would as soon spit-up the mixture as benefit from it if he didn't administer it.

He clutched her jaw at the point where it joined, splitting her lips and forcing her mouth open as her shoulders lay in my lap, her blonde head resting in the crook of my arm. She was still convulsing a little from the shock, but she was a slight girl and we were able to hold her. He poured half of the chalky-looking teal fluid into her mouth, some of it dribbling down her cheek.

"Shhhh," he hushed her, glancing over his shoulder, toward the mouth of the alley, as a police siren wailed not far away. Blocky garbage bins, trash spilling over the lip and piling around the side, and gray mist from the sewage drains obscured them from the street, but they could see there wasn't anyone out there. Not yet, anyways.

She sputtered and swallowed and he pulled the bottom of her shirt up, away from the angry wound in her side. Her yellow shirt was sticky with blood.

"You're lucky," he said to her, "that the bullet passed through."

Arthur looked up at me, and he knew as well as I did that luck had nothing to do with it. Just as I couldn't work with potions the way Arthur could, neither of them could focus their will as directly as I. I had shielded Erika from the worst of the gunshot, but it hadn't been enough. A gut wound was bad, and it was left to Arthur's potions to save her now. They would find us if we went to a hospital.

He poured the rest of the liquid over her side. It sizzled and smoked purple as it ran over her wound, and she arched her back and cried in pain.

"Shhh, Erika. The body needs to suffer before it can heal. You'll be alright."

When the sizzling calmed and the hazy purple smoke lifted, Erika's side was tender and red, but the bullet hole was gone.

"Come on," Arthur said, helping her to her unsteady feet and putting her arm over his shoulder. "She'll be weak and needs rest, and somewhere warmer than this shit-hole."

I took her other arm over my shoulders, hefting my backpack up on my other arm. Her head lolled forward as though she were drunk, and her legs supported little of her weight. Like that, we stalked deeper into the alley, away from the main roads, back to our apartment.

johnson got out of the the grimy bus and into the grimier street. he'd been wandering around the city, seemingly aimlessly, for hours. to the untrained eye, it looked as though he'd been going in circles. he hoped it was that way for the trained eye, as well. it wasn't easy to follow an agent, but there were ways.

he had left his car back at the dispatch center. they could trace that. he left his cellphone there as well. they could trace that, too. he'd left his watch, his identification, his credit cards, and his high school ring. he wasn't sure they could trace those, but he had to be careful. the only things he hadn't left were his sunglasses and personal handgun, holstered under his left arm. the fact that those could most likely be traced was a risk he had to make due with.

the sun had sunk long ago, and night in the city was always very dark and cold. he was already in a seedy area, and steam hissed up from drain pipes and sewer covers, giving every street a sinister feel. he found the old building and, hitching his suit jacket up to conceal a quick check on his sidearm, he strode up the cracked-cement stairs to the worm-eaten, puke-green door. the door's glass had been shattered some time ago, and before that the lock had been split. the door barely hung on its hinges, and offered no resistance to his broad shoulders.

it was dark inside, hollow like a thing long-dead. it smelled of piss and worse things. he could hear the sounds of rodents coming up from the basement, and scratching noises from the word floors upstairs. he mounted the sagging steps, which groaned threateningly under his bulk, but they held. he held no light, maneuvering by memory alone, and beady eyes glared at his intrusion from the deepest shadows.

he'd never lived here. definitely not. this wasn't even his neighborhood. they would know enough to search everywhere he ever lived, everywhere he ever schooled, everywhere he'd ever bought jerky from, for signs of deviance. they were meticulous, and anything that could be a mark against him would be. no, he had no connection to this building. it was one of many run down building in one of many run down neighborhoods, and with any luck they would just as soon burn it as look at it.

room two-sixteen. he laughed a singled chuckle in spite of himself. there was no special significance to the number, and thinking otherwise was deviant. perhaps another room would be better, after all.

he went in, the partially-opened door creaking ever so slightly as his shoulders brushed past it. he was a patch of darkness in a room of shadows. three paces to the other side of the room, the follow the wall to the corner. a chip in the wall allows for a single fist-sized chunk of cinder-block to come away from the rest of the wall with the sound of stone against stone. and inside the hollow there, on a single shred of paper, words in black ink which he could read more from familiarity than the meager light that seeped in, like syrup, through the dirt-stained window.

Who Watches The Watchers.

he had had a friend in the union once. just once. another agent, going by the name of smith. johnson knew it wasn't his real name; he'd never met an asian man named smith.

smith had been an agent on the front lines for years before johnson joined the union. he was one of those agents who didn't have a past, their life simply began at age twenty-six, with no family, no friends, just the union. he was efficient, very efficient. he made the machines look compassionate. he was a good agent.

things went well with smith at the head of their cell. he kept deviant activity under control, set a good example for the other members. even turned down a promotion to stay with his men. after that, though, things shifted a little. smith was always a little jumpier, a little quieter. there wasn't a big change, no wild-eyes or crazy accusations. he was still as efficient as ever. he was still a good agent.

one day, late at night, smith woke johnson up. no words, just shook him awake, and then clasped a hand over his mouth for silence. he gave johnson that slip of paper then, pressed it into his hand and curled his fingers around it. then he left.

they said he went mad, that his years of service on the front line, seeing so much deviance, finally got to him. they say there was nothing to be done, and that he'd been put down. then all the members had been evaluated and reassigned to different posts. johnson never had another friend after that. it was dangerous.

The rain fell steadily into the alleyway where Johnson and Samson waited. Johnson had always liked the rain, especially at night. He didn’t even mind how it made his dark suit wet and heavy. It quieted the world. The street was empty of traffic and people. A fine mist swept across the ground.

There was a flicker of light as Samson lit up a match and placed it to a cigarette he held in his mouth. The acrid scent of smoke wafted through the air. The things were disgusting.

“You shouldn’t be smoking those. Cause cancer.” Johnson said in his low, even voice.

Samson snorted a half-laugh as he blew out a stream of smoke.

“No, I suppose not. They grew me a nice set of lungs, I shouldn’t be wasting them like this.” He took another drag from the cigarette.

“You were born off-world, then?” He shifted his shoulders beneath his suit jacket and took a step across the alleyway to avoid the direct flow of smoke.

“If you can call it ‘birth,’ yeah.” Samson gave another half-laugh. “I’m a modern-day Frankenstein’s Monster. They grew all the parts in a lab and then stitched me up in one of their Incubators.” Samson flicked his cigarette to clean the end of it.

Johnson nodded. It wasn’t unusual for off-worlder agents to be ‘grown’ rather than born. More reliable that way.

“You were born here on the Front Lines, then, huh?”

“Yes.”

He adjusted the grip of his hands on his briefcase. A lone car sloshed down the street, its headlights momentarily blinding them.

“So when did you join the Union, then?” Samson continued. “Were you a prole in your oldlife?”

“The correct term,” Johnson rumbled, “is ‘Unenlightened.’ Yes, I grew up in the inner city. There wasn’t much work, but we did the best we could. No ‘modern conveniences’ for us. It wasn’t easy. You had to grow up tough.”

Now it was Samson’s turn to nod. He’d probably ‘grown up’ in a stainless-steel construct, if not inside one of the Incubators. He would have had every convenience the Union had to offer from the moment of his creation. Never had to bolt the door twice, just in case. Never had to use his fists when the other boys were using knives. Never had to sit and decide if you were going to choose heat or electricity while his daughter shivered on the couch and his wife cried on the threadbare mattress.

Samson took another drag of his cigarette. “When did you make the jump then, become a full member? You leave your parents?”

“I was married. Had my own place. Rented it off of this old hag of a landlady who never fixed the plumbing and always wanted her money on time. I had a little girl. She was twelve the last time I saw her.”

“You left your daughter?” Samson looked at him incredulously. As though he even knew what it was like to have flesh-and-blood, let alone to leave them.

Johnson reached up and rubbed his eyes; they were itching now.

“Deviants came… Big hulking beasts with fur and claws. I didn’t know what to do, I just stood there, dumbly. Just stood there. I don’t even remember what happened. Agents came in, saved me and my girl some how, but my wife…” He rubbed his throat, which was suddenly sore. “My daughter went and lived with her aunt. I joined the Union.”

Samson flicked his cigarette into the gutter. He didn’t meet Johnson’s eyes.

A moment passed. Another car sped by along the street, its left headlight out. The rain fell harder, and Samson lit another cigarette as Johnson moved farther back into the alley-way to stand under an overhanging ledge.

Samson blew out his match. “So, why are we here?”

“There’s a colleague, Doctor Einsbeck. He has information about Deviant activity in the neighborhood. It’s notable because Headquarters hasn’t heard of anything in the area, but Einsbeck claims there’s a whole den of them, maybe two. My branch sent me to get the information from the ‘good doctor’ for processing.”

“So why did they send me here with you? There supposed to be trouble?”

“No. I requested you myself. Well, not you – any other agent. For backup. If there is Deviant activity around here that Headquarters has missed, there’s no telling what it might be.”

“So I’m here to watch out for Spooks then, huh?”

“Yeah, but not just that. I don’t have a good feeling about this Einsbeck guy. I want there to be someone at my back if things turn for the worst. He doesn’t know that, though. Just follow my lead, and if you smell trouble, tell me.”

Samson nodded understanding, blowing another stream of smoke into the storm.

“Those things will kill you.” Johnson repeated flatly.

“Yeah, I know.”

She was a vision of beauty. Plates of silver and gold encased her body, a skirt of creamy cloth belted at her hips. Beneath her gilded helm, piercing blue eyes regarded him from behind golden bangs, her face smooth and fair. White-feathered wings flapped once behind her, then folded at her back. In a single sinuous movement, and without breaking eye-contact, she wiped blood from the bladed edge of her pearled sword and sheathed it.

His blood.

"You and your people have sinned against Saint Tyr." She said, her voice clear as a bell, sharp as a knife, and cold as winter. "This is your punishment." Two similar creatures stood behind her, weapons still drawn; others were around the village, some hovering or circling in the smoke filled skies. The groans of the dying, the crackle of the burning huts, and the whisper of feathered wings were the only sounds.

She spat at him then, turned on a silver-booted heel, and took to the air. The two behind her followed then, as did all the others left in the village, until the entire flock was soaring out to the west away from the mountain village which lay in ruins, still burning.

Work, damn you!

The city stretched out far below, dark and dirty and grey. Even this late at night, cars packed the road and people crowded the sidewalks. The ceaseless noise of the streets was muffled by the rain pouring down from the low clouds.

Damn it, work!
With a mechanical whirr, Samson leaped over another of the small gaps between the crowded buildings, and landed hard on his feet. The hydraulics weren't working properly. He'd just had them readjusted.

He looked over his shoulder, scanning for heat signatures, before getting to his feet to run across to the other side of the roof. The mission had gone wrong; most of his squad was dead, and now he was being chased by a Reality Deviant. This guy was worse than those nuts who believed they could fly; this guy didn't believe he couldn't fly.

Samson felt his heartbeat as he splashed through the puddles that had gathered on the building. The other side was only a few yards away.

A pipe grabbed his foot just as he was about to reach the edge, tripping him. He landed hard against the stones, and there was a loud crack as his shoulder hit. He couldn't tell if his shoulder or the stones had shattered; the pain was unbearable. Rainwater trained down his face as he lay there, gasping up at the sky. A flash of lightning revealed a figure, hanging suspended in the air a few feet away from Samson.

It was the Deviant. He hung in the air, his leather boots about five feet up. He was clothed in a loose-fitted tunic; Deviants often dressed oddly, it was a wonder they couldn't find more of them. An amulet, glowing softly, hung around his neck, and every so often blue-white energy would spider up his form. Though the rain continued the pour, his hair blew wildly in the wind, dry.

The Deviant spoke, though his mouth did not move; it was a soft sound, but was heard over even the crashes of thunder.

"You and your kind have held sway long enough, Technocrat. The Reckoning is upon us, and it is time for a change."

Samson struggled to get to his feet one more as the Deviant began to chant in some unintelligible language. There was a crack of thunder, and the last thing Samson saw was the Deviant's wind-blown silhouette against a backdrop of purple and grey.

Then everything went white.

Samuel barged into the room almost as soon as Keith had unbolted the chain. The door swung heavily into the wall as the larger man pushed past Keith, a stern look on his hard features.

"Where is it, Keith?" he asked in a gruff voice, walking into the kitchenette.

"Where's what? What are you looking for, Sam?" He closed and locked the door as Samuel left the kitchenette for the living area. Soft, jazzy music played on Keith's disc-changer.

"The Vampire, Keith. I know it's been here." There were a couple sets of dishes on the glass-top coffee table; a couple half-eaten plates of casserole and a pair of glasses. He sniffed the reddish liquids. Just wine.

"Sam, what are you talking about? Are you OK?"

"That thing you brought back from the club a few night ago. She was here. Where did she go?"

"Jessica? What do you want with Jessica?" Keith became cold and took a step toward Samuel.

"She's not what you think she is, Keith. I have to stop her."

"Stop her? Look, I don't know what this is about, but Jessica's the best thing that's ever happened to me. I love her, Sam."

Samuel turned to face Keith, grabbed his chin and tilted his head in either direction, looking at his neck. No marks.

"Hey, what's that for? Sam, what's up?"

Samuel snapped his fingers in front of of Keith's face.

"Look, you're not in love with her. She's messing with your head."

"You're wrong."

"No, you're wrong, Keith. She's a predator."

"Shut up."

"Listen to me. She's dangerous. I have to find her and stop her."

"I said shut up." Keith balled his hands into fists.

"Look, I just--"

There was a crack of bone against bone, and Samuel found himself on the floor. The smaller man had knocked him down with one swing. Keith had his back turned.

"Get out." Keith said, his voice colder than steal.
Samuel got to his feet and rubbed his jaw. He strode to the door and into the hallway. A soft click of the latch, and he was gone.

He sat there for a while, watching her. The dark-haired girl sat on the edge of the bed, as he fingered the fuzzy green tennis ball in his hands, turning it around and around, for no particular reason. He started...

"I... You know..." The words weren't coming easily, a failing of language in general. He took a deep breath, and sighed.

"I mean everything I say, you know. That is, it's not there, hollow and empty, said simply because it's what I think you want to hear. That's something I don't like myself - hollow words - and I would never inflict them upon someone else. I think you know - you know that I care - because I get the same way when I do that." He points to the sheaf of papers on the table, then shakes his head. "Maybe it's arrogance - I've been accused of that before, you know - but I think maybe I can relate. And when I get that way, deep down inside I know that people care - I would just like them to show it more, I suppose."

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts. "Like I said, I think I can relate, because I think I've been there before - to a similar room, locked in the darkness, watching as porcelain masques dance about me, nothing more than clever facsimiles of the original. I think, in a way, it's only human to see your own flaws - the same way an artist never truly appreciates his own work. You can see all the flaws, the half-truths. You know every failing of yourself, because you know yourself more intimately than you'll ever know anyone else. More than anyone else will ever know you.

"In a way, I suppose that's a bit disappointing - maybe it implies that we'll never be understood the way we long to be. And yet, at the same time, it means that no one will ever see our flaws in the same garish light that we have known them our entire life. And perhaps, through that, we'll be appreciated more than we expect we should."

He ran his fingers through his hair again and looked up, briefly, for the first time since he he began talking. "But, that's not really the point, either. I mean, I don't know... Yeah, maybe there are a million people out there, and maybe any of them could do things better. But the point is, you DO do them, and I don't know if you understand the true power inherent in that. You DO what anyone could do. This world is one of actuality, not potential. There's more strength, more force in one 'Do' than in a million 'Coulds.'

"I guess, when all the words have been said, I'm just trying to let you know that I'll be here with you, as long as you want, and you don't have to be alone if you don't want to be."

He tossed the ball in his hand once, then placed it on the bed next to her.

He sat there on the hill, sat there and watched the darkening sky. There was a face their in the clouds, and it glared down at him, as though he were a child. As though he were a disappointment. The face stared at him with unblinking disdain as the sun dipped below the horizon. The colors danced in the sky, taunting him with their bliss. As the world fell into darkness, he closes his eyes.

The wind whirled around him, like an invisible tormentor, whispering accusations, cursing him for his every endeavor. He had tried. He had tried so hard... His fist pounded the unyielding ground sharply, hoping to drive the wind away. It sneered at him, and he could hear it's sibilant laughter echo in his head.

A sharp, cold rain drop stung his face, and a moment later the storm broke.

Disclaimer: I admit, this was inspired in great part by Someone Else's Post.
I beg their pardons, but I was compelled by the Muses.

Liamr slid down to his right knee, his hands still grasping the hilt of the large broadsword stuck in the grassy hillside. He had been trying to loosen his blade, but now his hands sought only support. The strong winds which the dispelling magiks had created died quickly.

"We did it." Liamr said, hardly believing the joy that his own voice held. His muscles glistened with sweat as the dark clouds broke away, revealing the sun. "It's over, Jaeryl. He's gone."

At the crest of the hill was a young man, robed in blue and carrying a silvery staff. His thick mane of hair, though untouched by the natural winds, seemed to be blown slowly by some other-worldly force. He walked around a large black form, the form of the... beast they had just destroyed. That thing had once been a great wizard, but the man it had been had died long before this day.

Liamr found new strength and bounded up the hill to his friend. The black form had scorched the ground where it fell, leaving a pitted, smoldering blight. Liamr's joy faltered when he saw the solemn expression of his friend.

"Jaeryl, it's finished. This Beast will never harm another. We did it. We did it, Jaeryl."

Jaeryl shook his head slowly, his yellow eyes down-turned.

"No, Liamr... it's not over..." Jaeryl looked up and gestured out to the town, several miles away and still in the shadow of the Beast's great Keep. The Forest, which had died in the presence of such evil, already looked greener, but the riverbank was still dry, and the gray-ish vines still crawled like a serpent over the city walls.

"The beast is dead, yes," Jaeryl continued, "But so it Kierin. And Merrik. And how many others? The king is dead, or might as well be. There is no one to lead these people. Most of them have only known this Demon's rule."

A drop of rain fell on Liamr's shoulder, and the scent of a storm came on the air. "It is not over, Liamr. It is never over."

The blue-robed figure walked slowly down the hill, away from the decrepit city.

By impulse, he grabbed his jacket and left the room. Fluidly, he locked the door with well-practiced motions and strode down the hall, pulling the black coat around his shoulders. He saw people as he passes open doors, but they didn't register with him. As he flew down the stairwell, it occurred to him that he didn't know where he was going, or why.

It also occurred to him that he didn't care.

He danced around a pair of ladies who had taken a post in the lobby, nodding his greeting more out of habit than courtesy; he didn't recognize either of the girls. The brisk air wrapped around him as he left the building and began down the brick-laid walkway. It had dropped a good thirty degrees since he'd been outside last. The ground was wet with the rain, and the wind was heavy with the scent of a recently-passed storm. He didn't notice much of anything else as he walked across the path, purposeful but aimless, sidestepping other people without more than a quick, mumbled, 'hello.'

He crested a hill, the wind streaking through his unkempt hair, and he was struck by the scene, halting abruptly. Ahead of him, the wind played in the tall, green grass along with several squirrels and birds, but what caught him and made his blue eyes shine with wonder, was the sky. The sun was caught sitting on the horizon, frozen in place mid-set. The sky was split roughly, on the one side clear bright blue, on the other the deep slate of clouds. The dynamic was such that the clouds reflected the sunlight, themselves rimmed in orange and purples, and casting slashes of pinks and yellow over the clear sky. It was breathtaking.

The sunset would not have been nearly so beautiful if the clouds had not been there.

Her knees shook and then finally gave out beneath her. She dropped heavily into the couch, staring blankly at the door in front of her. The sound of it's gentle closing rang harshly in her ears.

He left me, she thought. He just left me. Her throat caught now; her eyes burned. She had done so well up until now. She hadn't really believed he would leave.

Unconsciously she gripped her knees. Her hands were shaking, and she was feeling light-headed. Doesn't he know how well we fit? Doesn't he know ...? She half expected him to walk back in the door, with that look on his face, the look he got when he was feeling foolish. She couldn't believe he was really gone.

What do I do now? She could hear his soft voice inside her head. What am I supposed to do without him?

Doesn't he know how much I need him?
A single teardrop seared a hot line down her cheek.
She cried for a very long time.

The naked light bulb swung lazily back and forth on it's wire, throwing awkward shadows around the room. I sat on the stained mattress in the corner of the room, running my palm over my scraggly jowls. My feet, sitting bare against the floor, were so calloused that they could hardly feel the rough grain beneath them. There were no windows in this room, only a worn and pitted door.
For that I was thankful.

There is a man who I once knew. Sometimes, he would still come and visit me, late in the night when the alcohol's glow was fading. When it should have been time to awaken, had I anything worth waking for.

I stood shakily and gazed blearily across the room at him. He gazed back, shook his head, and laughed at me. "What has become of you," he asked, his voice ringing in my head. I shuffled my feet, avoided his eyes. "It's the light," I answered. "It's this poor lighting that makes me look so." I looked up, and he smiled at me, in not a friendly way.
"No," his voice rang again, "I'm afraid you're mistaken."

I sighed resignedly, without hope. I staggered forward and lightly touched the pane of glass between us. There was no use in disguising what was so plain. You see, I'd spent my whole life denying that the man in the mirror was me.

Like a child lost in an illusion, he yet imagined the things that could be. But I watched them all disappear on this night; I carry on, among the forsaken. For there is no point in denying what is so easy to see: I too will die one day.
The man in the mirror agreed.

He sat up and slid out of bed, his old joints protesting at the night's chill. He found his slippers and shrugged into his heavy woolen robe, and then slowly opened the sturdy wooden door of his room. The door creaked, as always, but he had learned years ago that his son would not wake from it. His son's wife, bless her, had awoken to the sound once or twice, but she had only come to see that it was him, and then went back to her husband's bed. As if she knew, as if she understood.

He shuffled down the hall, steadying himself with the thick wooden banister as he went. The soles of his slippers scuffed against the foot-worn floorboards. He sometimes heard whispers in the scuffing, echoes from times past and places which no longer existed. He sometimes heard whispers, but tonight the voices were silent. They had not spoken in some time, now.

He passed by another wooden door in the hallway, where his grandchildren slept. Two boys and three girls, all old enough to know exactly how best to get into mischief. Dear as they were, he snorted to think his son kept a closer eye on him, his own father. Though, it was as Miriam had wanted, rest her soul. She had wanted to make sure there was no more... business. The though made him pause, just as it always did. Just as he had every night for longer than he cared to count, he almost turned back. Miriam had wanted this, but... But she had never understood it. The dear woman had never understood, much as she had tried.

He came at last to the end of the hall, by a third great oaken door, where the pools of moonlight seemed to melt back, away from the study. He didn't try the handle, he knew it was locked. His son believed he could keep him out with a simple lock. From his very own study!

He placed his hand lightly against the door and closed his eyes. One breath. Two breaths. There was a metallic click, and the door swung open a bit. He entered, and shut the door behind him. The room was as familiar as it was strange. He had worked -- nearly lived -- in this room for countless years. Pale moonlight poured in from a great bay window, washing over a wide desk which even now was littered with papers. Several globes -- all of diferent designs, all crafted by his own mind -- were placed around the room, and one table was set up with a system of tubes and beakers. The walls all around were lined with shelves, and each shelf was crammed with books.

But as much as he knew this place, it was never the same. The desk and papers were coated thickly with dust, and the gears of the globes were nearly rusted solid. The candles had not been lit for some years, nor did the beakers or tubes contain any liquid. He had not seen this room by the light of day in far, far too long.

He breathed deeply ans walked over to the shelves, packed full of books. Books in long-dead languages, from old kingdoms whose names were no longer even in the history texts. He ran his finger over the bindings and ancient runes glowed briefly to life, dimming as he passed. He felt as though electricity flowed through his veins. He breathed deep, and felt younger with every step. There was knowledge in these books, knowledge which no one for generations had known. And he knew every book, every page, every word. His mind felt full, near-overflowing. With this knowledge he could change the world, move the heavens. The room practically glowed with the energy stored in it.

He came to the edge of the bookshelves, where the wall opened out into the bay window. A single flower, still in bloom, sat in a blue porcelain vase. He touched the vase lightly and gazed out over the grassy moor. The blue moon hung low over the land, and the wind blew sadly out to the sea.

Slowly, he walked back to the door, opened it slowly, and left. There was another metallic click, and the study was once again silent.

The book which lay before him was enormous, with a thick hard-leather cover and steal bindings. Arcane sigils which he could not make sense of were etched into the cracked leather, and a sturdy lock-latch lay over the front of the great tome.

But the lock was unhooked, and the latch unhinged.

He went to open it, slowly, hesitantly, and at his touch a vision flashed in his mind. For a moment he was suspended high over a vast land, looking down as though he were an eagle. Great stretches of plains and forests rolled before him, crashing against solid, unmoving mountains. He could see what seemed to be a great kingdom, and small villages spread out around it. To the south was a wide blasted land, where the trees grew gnarled and black, and the very land looked dead. For only a moment this vision burned into his mind, and then it was gone, leaving him gasping.

His fingers shook as he curled them around the cover's edge, his heart pounding with both fear and anticipation. He lifted it but a breath's span and the book shot open by it's own power, the multitude of pages flipping past as though caught in a strong wind. The pages glowed, and he was consumed by a harsh blue light.

More visions came. A great harbor at the blue seacoast, swarming with both sailors and pickpockets. Deep within the mountains, a great beast spewed fire into his darkened lair, red light glinting off untold treasures. High atop a cliff stood a figure, his black cloak billowing in the mountain-top gales, his hands outstretched, glowing with dark energies. A mighty castle engulfed in flames, the the surrounding town left in ruins. Two armies, one clad in white the other in red, charge towards each other with a deafening cry. Two aged old men sitting in a vast starry void, playing a game of chess with pieces that bleed.

He slammed the book shut, his arms aching from effort, his head spinning as the visions lingered on the back of his eyes. The runes of the cover glowed brightly with mystic energy, slowly fading away. He could see things at the edge of his vision, things which vanished when he looked directly at them. The very air seemed to crackle.

There is power in these words.

She sat out on the rocky bluff high above the crashing waves of the ocean below. Cool morning mist and sharp sea-spray swirled around her as the waters below performed their strange dance. Salty drops clung to the edges of her eyes.

She laid back on the smooth limestone, staring up into the low-hanging grey-blue sky. The clouds hung there hardly moving, as if the sky had been frozen in some stoney relief of the sea below. Her bike lay on the grass a few yards away.

She closed her eyes, and memories of the other night poured in, overcoming her defenses. He had a nice house now, and a family. His wife was lovely, and his children had been a joy. She wrapped her arms around herself, thinking of how it had been to see him again. It was good that he was happy, she told herself.

It was good that he was happy.

He couldn't sleep.
The apartment was dark. And warm. Much too warm. He rolled over again, throwing the blankets into a heap on the wooden floor. The wind outside his window rushed and swelled like the sea, crashing into his room.

He closed the window a bit, to cut down on the noise. Not content to be silenced, the wind moaned into the empty apartment. He put his head under his pillow, then back out again. He rolled over. He almost got up for some water, but decided that it would only wake him up.

Two more hours before he had to get up.
He rolled over again, facing the wall. In his mind, he stroked her hair, kissed her cheek, and fell asleep in her arms.

( Author's Critique )

She lay on her back beneath the thick oak tree on the green hillside. The sky was clear, blue, and cloudless, sharp with the chill of early winter. The sunlight warmed her face as she stared up into the vast ceiling above her, arms outstretched on the soft grass. A butterfly floated near and alighted on her finger, working it's wings slowly. She did not move.

The sun slid down the domed sky, dying the world in shades of purple as it fell behind the horizon. She lay there, staring up at the deep hollow sky, unmoving, unseeing, as the stars one by one went out.

( Alternate Ending )
Might I ask for opinions?

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John Noble

August 2012

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Entries tagged with writing.snippets

A Thimble of Blood

Fallen Angel

Recursion

Homemade Brew

an aside from the real world

Behind the Gray

Angelfire

A World of Darkness

The Leech

January Girl

Tears

The Hill

Sunglow

Alone

The Mirror

The Study

Alchor's Tome

On The Sea

A Sleepless Night

The Girl