The room was cold and dirty - breathing in meant inhaling the dust, and the racking coughs that ensued billowed whitely from his mouth. The floor and the wall he was propped up against were chilly enough that he was almost paralysed with shivering. A dull globe sat at the ceiling's approximate centre and gave off a fitful glow, enough for Peter to truly appreciate the bleakness of his situation. He could observe the room's features, and though darkness would have allowed him a kind of naive hope, being able to see at least let him be rational.
It was in fact a very typical kind of cell: bare walls, flickering light, a distressingly solid door. And himself, shaking so hard that his bones rattled, attached to this grim tableau by a predictably rusted chain. He recognised everything. Not through his own experience, but through his countless vicarious kidnaps, escapes and murders. A lifetime of horror films had taught him what to expect, though he had never thought the day would dawn in which those particular skills of survival would be called upon.
The day, however, had obviously arrived, and Peter was certainly not going to fail.
As he surveyed the room more closely, he felt a twinge of fear. Whoever had captured him had clearly done a reasonable job - the room was very deliberatel bare, and his pockets had been emptied. The search had not been thorough enough, though. They had found neither the pocket knife in his sock nor the crude set of lockpicks sewn into his jacket's lining.
That was their first mistake, he thought grimly. Their second was not killing him whilst they had the chance.
Peter allowed himself a final moment of doubt before he steeled himself completely. If this turned out to be some kind of misunderstanding he would be appropriately embarrassed. Until then, however, he would proceed with the kind of aggressive caution that was necessary in such situations. It was difficult to take off his jacket with cold-numbed hands and even more difficult to tear open the hem where the picks were contained. He doubted he'd manage to salvage the garment for use in public, but right now he was too cold to be concerned with fashion.
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Thursday, 16 October 2008
She Sells Seashells...
We were calm at first, like we didn't really believe what was going on. We'd never seen any of these mysterious enemies they kept warning us about, and what did we know about war anyway? We were just kids.
They put us in an outpost on the quiet side of the county, where they didn't expect any action.
Tricky tides and rocks and sandbars meant low chances of attack from the sea, or so they told us, and the outpost's flank was toward the city itself. They gave us guns and knives and told us to keep our eyes open, and we were as alert as a group of bored teenagers could be. For a while it was easy. All of us liked being paid to sit around doing nothing. We played countless rounds of cards, used the seemingly endless stores of ammunition in target practise with the local gulls, learned French and German from discarded phrasebooks.
"Il y a une alerte a` la bombe, there is a bomb alert." we would say and laugh uproariously. "How are you? Wie geht es Ihnen?"
Everything was funny in the early days, before the war reached our outpost. The whole thing seemed completely absurd, that we who had only days before been skipping school and work were now to be soldiers against an enemy nobody really believed in.
There was a tiny stretch of sand, sheltered on three sides by seemingly sheer cliffs and on the fourth side open to the sea. The sand was white and soft, with just the right amount of pebbles and seashells scattered around. On sunny days we would go down there - never more than two of us, though. They had impressed severely upon us the dangers of leaving the outpost unmanned.
My favourite person to take there was Sarah. She was quiet around the others but when we were alone the words spilled out of her as if she couldn't help herself. It was nice to listen to her soft voice, complemented by the waves that washed around our toes and underscored with the harsh cries of the gulls. One day she was telling me about her family when the birds arrived, hopping around us and cawing loudly, expecting food.
Sarah was furious - I guess we all had short tempers by this time. We were getting cabin fever, closed up in that little building where the only thing to do was wait and wonder if the war was ever going to come our way. She jumped to hear feet, lifted her gun, and shot them all. The stupid birds didn't even fly away when she started shooting, just cawed and flapped and dropped one by one onto the sand. And then they were all dead, and she sat down hard beside me and started crying. The white sand was stained red in a great circle around us, and dotted with sad little bundles of feathers. We didn't know what to do with them so we just left, and overnight the tide rose up, and when we came back the next day the sand was perfectly white and soft and scattered with just the right number of seashells and pebbles.
It was Clare who saw them first; she was on sentry duty that day, sitting on the roof and staring out to sea. She shouted and we ran to join her, scrambling up the ladder and across the slippery tiles.
"Over there," she pointed, translating automatically into German, "Dort!"
We crouched, staring, wondering what we were seeing. There was just one ship, and how were we to know if they were locals or foreigners? But its shape was different to the boats we'd seen before, and there was an undeniable grimness in its silence that crept under our skin. A sense of self-preservation overcame us all at the same time and we dropped down onto the tiles, flattening ourselves as best we could. Had they seen us?
"Surely we're of no concern to them," Tom said, trying to sound brave. "We're just some kids playing on a roof."
"We're soldiers," I corrected. "We have to remember that, and we have to assume that they know. We can't be complacent."
They put us in an outpost on the quiet side of the county, where they didn't expect any action.
Tricky tides and rocks and sandbars meant low chances of attack from the sea, or so they told us, and the outpost's flank was toward the city itself. They gave us guns and knives and told us to keep our eyes open, and we were as alert as a group of bored teenagers could be. For a while it was easy. All of us liked being paid to sit around doing nothing. We played countless rounds of cards, used the seemingly endless stores of ammunition in target practise with the local gulls, learned French and German from discarded phrasebooks.
"Il y a une alerte a` la bombe, there is a bomb alert." we would say and laugh uproariously. "How are you? Wie geht es Ihnen?"
Everything was funny in the early days, before the war reached our outpost. The whole thing seemed completely absurd, that we who had only days before been skipping school and work were now to be soldiers against an enemy nobody really believed in.
There was a tiny stretch of sand, sheltered on three sides by seemingly sheer cliffs and on the fourth side open to the sea. The sand was white and soft, with just the right amount of pebbles and seashells scattered around. On sunny days we would go down there - never more than two of us, though. They had impressed severely upon us the dangers of leaving the outpost unmanned.
My favourite person to take there was Sarah. She was quiet around the others but when we were alone the words spilled out of her as if she couldn't help herself. It was nice to listen to her soft voice, complemented by the waves that washed around our toes and underscored with the harsh cries of the gulls. One day she was telling me about her family when the birds arrived, hopping around us and cawing loudly, expecting food.
Sarah was furious - I guess we all had short tempers by this time. We were getting cabin fever, closed up in that little building where the only thing to do was wait and wonder if the war was ever going to come our way. She jumped to hear feet, lifted her gun, and shot them all. The stupid birds didn't even fly away when she started shooting, just cawed and flapped and dropped one by one onto the sand. And then they were all dead, and she sat down hard beside me and started crying. The white sand was stained red in a great circle around us, and dotted with sad little bundles of feathers. We didn't know what to do with them so we just left, and overnight the tide rose up, and when we came back the next day the sand was perfectly white and soft and scattered with just the right number of seashells and pebbles.
It was Clare who saw them first; she was on sentry duty that day, sitting on the roof and staring out to sea. She shouted and we ran to join her, scrambling up the ladder and across the slippery tiles.
"Over there," she pointed, translating automatically into German, "Dort!"
We crouched, staring, wondering what we were seeing. There was just one ship, and how were we to know if they were locals or foreigners? But its shape was different to the boats we'd seen before, and there was an undeniable grimness in its silence that crept under our skin. A sense of self-preservation overcame us all at the same time and we dropped down onto the tiles, flattening ourselves as best we could. Had they seen us?
"Surely we're of no concern to them," Tom said, trying to sound brave. "We're just some kids playing on a roof."
"We're soldiers," I corrected. "We have to remember that, and we have to assume that they know. We can't be complacent."
Monday, 13 October 2008
Curtain Call
The phone rang while I was working and I was tempted to ignore it, annoyed that it had interrupted my concentration.
“Hello?” I said, a little shortly. The person on the other end was silent and I thought they might be a prank caller. “Listen, punk, I’ve had enough of –“
“Rach?” My sister’s voice was quieter than usual. She sounded tired.
“You sound tired,” I said. She sighed.
“I am.” She paused and sighed again. I imagined her standing by the window, staring down at the park across the street. She never went there, but she liked to watch the children playing. She said they made her feel young.
“Want to talk?” I put down my pen and filled the kettle. She’d only called like this a few times before, and it always meant she was upset about something. I put on my most patient voice. “What’s up Sarah? It better not be Troy, if he’s done something stupid again -”
“It’s not Troy.”
The last time she’d called was when she’d caught her boyfriend, Troy, cheating on her. Since then we’d all tried to convince her to end the relationship, but she still insisted that they were in love and that he was a changed man. They could be together for fifty years and die holding hands in their sleep, and I’d still never believe that.
“I’m just in a bit of a mood. Do you want to go shopping? There’s that nice shop that opened up just around the corner from here.” She was trying to sound more cheerful than she felt, that much was obvious. “And you really should get some new curtains or cushions or something, Rachel. Your living room is so tacky.”
“Tacky? Just because it doesn’t look like a page out of a homemaker’s magazine doesn’t mean it’s tacky!” Just like that I felt like we were kids again, arguing over whose turn it was to wash dishes, or who had lost whose hairbrush, or why there was glitter all over the bedroom.
“I hate bringing people over there,” she said. I couldn’t see her but I knew she shrugged.
“Then don’t bring people!”
“Rach, you’re practically famous. If I don’t bring people over, then how will they know I’m related to you? Would it kill you to pretend to be normal in just one room of the house?”
I caught myself before I said anything harsh.
“Don’t change the subject,” I said. She laughed.
“Your house is tacky and you are weird. I don’t know why it upsets you so much when I bring it up.” She laughed a bit more and then she sighed again. “It’s good to hear your voice, little sister.”
“It’s good to hear you laugh, big sister.”
We were silent for a few minutes. The kettle boiled and I made myself a cup of tea, wedging the phone between my ear and my shoulder in case she spoke.
“It was Troy, wasn’t it?”
For a few seconds she didn’t answer but I already knew what she was going to say.
“With his hairdresser. Apparently she was just too exciting to ignore. Kinky, and stuff.” Her voice was strained – she was trying not to cry. The urge to say ‘I told you so’ was almost a physical need, but I knew that I shouldn’t say anything. She felt bad enough right now without me adding to that. It was time to be diplomatic.
“I wish I hadn’t seen it coming, Sarah, but he’s just that kind of guy.”
Damn.
“Oh,” she groaned, “I just knew you would say that! Do you think you’re so much better than me? When was the last time you even had a boyfriend?”
I bit my tongue. We’d had this argument enough times before, and no matter what I said, she’d find a way to spin it around. One of us was bound to end up in tears. She continued to rant, not bothered in the least by my lack of response.
“Do you want to stay here for a while?” I asked softly, and she stopped mid-sentence. “I have a spare room.”
“You annoy the hell out of me,” she replied. I waited.
“We’ll drive each other crazy,” she insisted. I took a sip of my tea.
“Can you pick me up? Troy’s out right now and I don’t feel like asking him to drive me over.”
I picked up the keys and jingled them near the phone.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said, as I slipped on a pair of shoes. “Just know that you will help me with chores, and you will not be touching my curtains.”
“See you in half an hour,” she replied, carefully not promising a thing.
“Hello?” I said, a little shortly. The person on the other end was silent and I thought they might be a prank caller. “Listen, punk, I’ve had enough of –“
“Rach?” My sister’s voice was quieter than usual. She sounded tired.
“You sound tired,” I said. She sighed.
“I am.” She paused and sighed again. I imagined her standing by the window, staring down at the park across the street. She never went there, but she liked to watch the children playing. She said they made her feel young.
“Want to talk?” I put down my pen and filled the kettle. She’d only called like this a few times before, and it always meant she was upset about something. I put on my most patient voice. “What’s up Sarah? It better not be Troy, if he’s done something stupid again -”
“It’s not Troy.”
The last time she’d called was when she’d caught her boyfriend, Troy, cheating on her. Since then we’d all tried to convince her to end the relationship, but she still insisted that they were in love and that he was a changed man. They could be together for fifty years and die holding hands in their sleep, and I’d still never believe that.
“I’m just in a bit of a mood. Do you want to go shopping? There’s that nice shop that opened up just around the corner from here.” She was trying to sound more cheerful than she felt, that much was obvious. “And you really should get some new curtains or cushions or something, Rachel. Your living room is so tacky.”
“Tacky? Just because it doesn’t look like a page out of a homemaker’s magazine doesn’t mean it’s tacky!” Just like that I felt like we were kids again, arguing over whose turn it was to wash dishes, or who had lost whose hairbrush, or why there was glitter all over the bedroom.
“I hate bringing people over there,” she said. I couldn’t see her but I knew she shrugged.
“Then don’t bring people!”
“Rach, you’re practically famous. If I don’t bring people over, then how will they know I’m related to you? Would it kill you to pretend to be normal in just one room of the house?”
I caught myself before I said anything harsh.
“Don’t change the subject,” I said. She laughed.
“Your house is tacky and you are weird. I don’t know why it upsets you so much when I bring it up.” She laughed a bit more and then she sighed again. “It’s good to hear your voice, little sister.”
“It’s good to hear you laugh, big sister.”
We were silent for a few minutes. The kettle boiled and I made myself a cup of tea, wedging the phone between my ear and my shoulder in case she spoke.
“It was Troy, wasn’t it?”
For a few seconds she didn’t answer but I already knew what she was going to say.
“With his hairdresser. Apparently she was just too exciting to ignore. Kinky, and stuff.” Her voice was strained – she was trying not to cry. The urge to say ‘I told you so’ was almost a physical need, but I knew that I shouldn’t say anything. She felt bad enough right now without me adding to that. It was time to be diplomatic.
“I wish I hadn’t seen it coming, Sarah, but he’s just that kind of guy.”
Damn.
“Oh,” she groaned, “I just knew you would say that! Do you think you’re so much better than me? When was the last time you even had a boyfriend?”
I bit my tongue. We’d had this argument enough times before, and no matter what I said, she’d find a way to spin it around. One of us was bound to end up in tears. She continued to rant, not bothered in the least by my lack of response.
“Do you want to stay here for a while?” I asked softly, and she stopped mid-sentence. “I have a spare room.”
“You annoy the hell out of me,” she replied. I waited.
“We’ll drive each other crazy,” she insisted. I took a sip of my tea.
“Can you pick me up? Troy’s out right now and I don’t feel like asking him to drive me over.”
I picked up the keys and jingled them near the phone.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said, as I slipped on a pair of shoes. “Just know that you will help me with chores, and you will not be touching my curtains.”
“See you in half an hour,” she replied, carefully not promising a thing.
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
Visitors
"They're coming tonight," she announced as I entered the room, not looking up from the charts spread out across her desk. There were more on her bed and on the floor too, A4 sheets she'd printed and taped together, mainly. Maps, and graphs, and calculations that I knew better than to try and make sense of.
"For real this time?" I joked. She frowned at me, eyes serious behind the glasses she wore for reading. The frames were thick, black plastic. They made her look like a real typical nerd, the kind of person people would expect to believe in aliens. When she wasn't wearing them, though, she looked almost normal.
"Yes, for real this time," she sighed, rushing to rescue the papers I had been about to sit down on. They crackled as she gathered them up. "I've worked it all out. There are reports in the paper, you know, signs. Proof."
"I thought you said the government stops the evidence from being printed."
"They do. But maybe they missed something this time. You can't be vigilant every second of every day-" She glanced nervously out the window, as if expecting them to have arrived when she wasn't watching. Without thinking about it I looked too, searching. Even though I knew better, I still secretly hoped that I would find proof one day that she was right. That she wasn't really crazy.
"I've tried to be vigilant, you know. I've worked it all out but there's no point telling anyone because nobody listens. Nobody would understand, there's no point telling anyone. Do you believe me, Sammy?" She had paused, but not for an answer, just because the words needed the time to get their point across. "I don't blame you. You have enough things to worry about without this one. Besides, they aren't going to end the whole world. Just mine."
I couldn't help but sigh, because she always talked like this. Like she was going somewhere.
"I'm going to miss you," she said, continuing to stare up into the sky.
"Good night," I replied. "See you at breakfast."
"For real this time?" I joked. She frowned at me, eyes serious behind the glasses she wore for reading. The frames were thick, black plastic. They made her look like a real typical nerd, the kind of person people would expect to believe in aliens. When she wasn't wearing them, though, she looked almost normal.
"Yes, for real this time," she sighed, rushing to rescue the papers I had been about to sit down on. They crackled as she gathered them up. "I've worked it all out. There are reports in the paper, you know, signs. Proof."
"I thought you said the government stops the evidence from being printed."
"They do. But maybe they missed something this time. You can't be vigilant every second of every day-" She glanced nervously out the window, as if expecting them to have arrived when she wasn't watching. Without thinking about it I looked too, searching. Even though I knew better, I still secretly hoped that I would find proof one day that she was right. That she wasn't really crazy.
"I've tried to be vigilant, you know. I've worked it all out but there's no point telling anyone because nobody listens. Nobody would understand, there's no point telling anyone. Do you believe me, Sammy?" She had paused, but not for an answer, just because the words needed the time to get their point across. "I don't blame you. You have enough things to worry about without this one. Besides, they aren't going to end the whole world. Just mine."
I couldn't help but sigh, because she always talked like this. Like she was going somewhere.
"I'm going to miss you," she said, continuing to stare up into the sky.
"Good night," I replied. "See you at breakfast."
Monday, 15 September 2008
The Queen's Dog
It was on a dark and stormy night that they met, in the infamously seedy Queen's Dog tavern. Both sought refuge beneath the creaking timbers, and if the air was choked with pipe smoke, or the bread was a little stale, well that was okay. They weren't there for the food or for the atmosphere.
He was totally at home at the splintered table, knocking back his ale as if it was water and leaning comfortably back against the wall. She was completely out of place, picking at her meal and constantly sneaking glances at those around her.
She had only been there only minutes before someone moved closer, undoubtedly meaning to steal from her. From her clothing down to her manners, she was a nobleman's daughter, and that meant the silk purse on her belt would be bulging with gold.
Despite her nervous surveillance the girl seemed not to notice the thief's approach. The other patrons watched with obvious interest. Three steps away and she hadn't seen him. Two steps. One. She did not so much as blink as his hand reached toward the purse -
"If you want to keep your fingers, I suggest you move on, friend," she said quietly, in a low and serious voice. The thief looked down slowly to find a knife's bare blade resting against his hand. He hadn't even seen her move.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he muttered. "I must have stumbled."
She laughed, and even that seemed to have a dangerous edge.
"If you wish to call it so." She exerted the slightest pressure, drawing a line of crimson across his hand. "See that you mind your footing, next time."
He hurried away, mumbling. The lady's knife vanished as smoothly as it had appeared. All but one set of eyes hurriedly averted themselves - from across the room, the mercenary watched her with interest. He'd never known any noble with reflexes as good, or such a genuinely unnerving tone.
The room cleared quickly after the incident. None of the regular patrons felt like lingering to drink and though the owner looked discomfited he didn't dare to complain. Soon only the lady and the mercenary remained in their seats, he smoking thoughtfully and she frowning into the flickering hearth.
"Thirty gold pieces up front," she declared. "A negotiable amount to follow, depending on how you perform."
"In your bed?" He replied crudely, though neither of them was laughing. This was a time of testing and of gaging reactions.
"The green band on your sword declares you a second-rank hired-sword. The golden embroideries say you have worked for kings and chandlers alike. The knot claims a high charge for equally high skill."
She read the signs perfectly; he was impressed. He waited for her to continue - this was the part where the hirer was made nervous by his silence and upped their offer.
"I have known gold-bands to hire out for less," she said, clearly not intending to budge.
"I'm no coin-whore," he spat. "I take a job on its own merit, not on the size of its bounty."
One slim eyebrow raised - he had surprised her.
"In your bed?" He replied crudely, though neither of them was laughing. This was a time of testing and of gaging reactions.
"The green band on your sword declares you a second-rank hired-sword. The golden embroideries say you have worked for kings and chandlers alike. The knot claims a high charge for equally high skill."
She read the signs perfectly; he was impressed. He waited for her to continue - this was the part where the hirer was made nervous by his silence and upped their offer.
"I have known gold-bands to hire out for less," she said, clearly not intending to budge.
"I'm no coin-whore," he spat. "I take a job on its own merit, not on the size of its bounty."
One slim eyebrow raised - he had surprised her.
"I want a man killed."
Her words hung in the hazy air between them. The barman, who had been quietly cleaning tables, gulped audibly and hurried from the room.
"Which man? What is the nature of his offense?"
"Parading his integrity like a peacock's frill in the public eye, and beating his family behind bright-painted shutters."
"If that were all it takes, every man ought to be hanged for its like."
She stared at him a moment, then pushed her sleeves up above her elbows. Even in the room's dim light he could clearly see what she showed - pale, pale skin marred in its smoothness by countless welts and scars.
"Do you wish to see the rest?" She asked coolly, beginning to undo the laces at the front of her blouse.
"I have seen enough." He untied the green band and crossed the room to where she sat in three long strides. With the efficiency of much practice he fastened it around her forearm, carefully arranged so that its signs could easily be read by those who knew them. Each morning he would tie the band just so, as a sign of their continuing contract. After only a moment's hesitation she took the ribbon from her hair and tied it onto his sword in the band's place. It would remain there until she removed it as a sign of the contract's completion.
Her words hung in the hazy air between them. The barman, who had been quietly cleaning tables, gulped audibly and hurried from the room.
"Which man? What is the nature of his offense?"
"Parading his integrity like a peacock's frill in the public eye, and beating his family behind bright-painted shutters."
"If that were all it takes, every man ought to be hanged for its like."
She stared at him a moment, then pushed her sleeves up above her elbows. Even in the room's dim light he could clearly see what she showed - pale, pale skin marred in its smoothness by countless welts and scars.
"Do you wish to see the rest?" She asked coolly, beginning to undo the laces at the front of her blouse.
"I have seen enough." He untied the green band and crossed the room to where she sat in three long strides. With the efficiency of much practice he fastened it around her forearm, carefully arranged so that its signs could easily be read by those who knew them. Each morning he would tie the band just so, as a sign of their continuing contract. After only a moment's hesitation she took the ribbon from her hair and tied it onto his sword in the band's place. It would remain there until she removed it as a sign of the contract's completion.
"I am Lady Saphryn of the Wild Hills," she said formally, gripping his arm as an ally and equal.
"I am Nikkuro, sellsword of the Saltcrevice Peaks," he replied, bowing his head respectfully.
The beams above them groaned in the wind and their flesh glowed in the dying firelight, and outside of the Queen's Dog the storm continued to rage.
"I am Nikkuro, sellsword of the Saltcrevice Peaks," he replied, bowing his head respectfully.
The beams above them groaned in the wind and their flesh glowed in the dying firelight, and outside of the Queen's Dog the storm continued to rage.
Saturday, 13 September 2008
The Bard's Bastard
"Methinks the Bard's blood itself does inform your pen!" Eleanor's teacher exclaimed, as she read the prose scribbled in the margins of the page.
'I don't think so," Eleanor blushed.
"'Tis very like his form."
"What, 'the bloody corpse lay limply in his arms, and grinned'?" She quoted herself from memory.
"The wit, the form and feeling of the piece," Ms Gambol insisted. "Very like."
"If you say so." She didn't add what she was really thinking - Shakespeare is boring. I don't want to write like that. As if she could read Eleanor's mind, Ms Gambol sighed.
"Of course, most teenagers these days wouldn't consider that a compliment. Our mutual friend is not the most... accessible, of our literary ancestors."
Eleanor was torn between grinning and grimacing - Ms Gambol always spoke like that, as though they were comrades in arms, unified by their common love of language. Eleanor had never been anyone's comrade, and she had certainly never felt that words brought her closer to others. If anything, she felt alienated from her peers. How could she be friends with someone who couldn't use a semi-colon properly? How could she have respect for somebody who used language like it was a bludgeon? She didn't mean to be so superior, but there it was. Who can help the way they feel?
"It was such a pity that he never had any children," Ms Gambol continued, sighing again. "Of course a writer's talent is nothing to do with breeding, yet it would have been interesting to see... even if he had raised children, to see how they could have turned out."
"He didn't have children?"
"Not that we know of. Who can say what a man gets up to off the record -" she coughed politely. Eleanor knew what she meant. "But officially there is nothing, and it's highly unlikely that his bloodline ever carried on. It is a pity..."
Eleanor had to agree. Even though she felt just as distant from Shakespeare's works as she did from her classmates, it was a sad thought to imagine a person who lived on only through words.
But what if there had been a child, she wondered, because who could honestly say there hadn't been?
'I don't think so," Eleanor blushed.
"'Tis very like his form."
"What, 'the bloody corpse lay limply in his arms, and grinned'?" She quoted herself from memory.
"The wit, the form and feeling of the piece," Ms Gambol insisted. "Very like."
"If you say so." She didn't add what she was really thinking - Shakespeare is boring. I don't want to write like that. As if she could read Eleanor's mind, Ms Gambol sighed.
"Of course, most teenagers these days wouldn't consider that a compliment. Our mutual friend is not the most... accessible, of our literary ancestors."
Eleanor was torn between grinning and grimacing - Ms Gambol always spoke like that, as though they were comrades in arms, unified by their common love of language. Eleanor had never been anyone's comrade, and she had certainly never felt that words brought her closer to others. If anything, she felt alienated from her peers. How could she be friends with someone who couldn't use a semi-colon properly? How could she have respect for somebody who used language like it was a bludgeon? She didn't mean to be so superior, but there it was. Who can help the way they feel?
"It was such a pity that he never had any children," Ms Gambol continued, sighing again. "Of course a writer's talent is nothing to do with breeding, yet it would have been interesting to see... even if he had raised children, to see how they could have turned out."
"He didn't have children?"
"Not that we know of. Who can say what a man gets up to off the record -" she coughed politely. Eleanor knew what she meant. "But officially there is nothing, and it's highly unlikely that his bloodline ever carried on. It is a pity..."
Eleanor had to agree. Even though she felt just as distant from Shakespeare's works as she did from her classmates, it was a sad thought to imagine a person who lived on only through words.
But what if there had been a child, she wondered, because who could honestly say there hadn't been?
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
The Grid
"I need your help," she whispered, glancing fearfully around as if they might be observed.
"Yes," he replied simply. "I've been watching their transmissions. They're closing in. Be calm, they have no eyes in my place yet."
"I need to get off the grid."
"How far off?"
"Well you said it yourself. They're chasing me."
"Didn't you delete your file?""
"Of course," she sighed, sinking into the empty chair next to his desk. "But they have physical data. They have memories of me. It's too late for simple solutions. I've left it too late."
She sank her head into her hands, and when she spoke next her voice was muffled.
"I need to disappear. It must be as if I never lived."
He watched her for a few moments, and when he finally spoke his answer surprised her.
"Alright. I can help you."
-
The chair creaked as her body convulsed; the machine winred up to her brain hummed as it fed. The measurements it took were relayed into a small, gun-shaped device, creating a map of her essence, of every neurological detail that made her who she was. A second device - running simultaneously with the other, because they were in a hurry - sorted through her memories, printing a list of every person she had ever met.
It was a tremendous strain on her body, perhaps even taking a few years from her life as it fed on her own vitality to speed its processors. He had to marvel at the ingenuity of this feature of his machine. He hadn't programmed it in personally, merely watched as it adapted itself during the testing phase. There was a kind of intelligence to his computers, and in communicating with the infinitely more sophisticated computer that was the human brain, it had learned.
With a mostly-clean handkerchief he wiped her mouth. Her brain was busy elsewhere, and she had forgotten to swallow the saliva that had gathered there. Racked with pain she moaned, and he awkwardly patted her arm.
"It's nearly done," he said.
The final sheet of paper fell onto the pile, and he neatened it before attaching the sheets to a clipboard.
"These glasses have an imbedded microtext reader," he explained, as he carefully disentangled her from the wires. "The names on the clipboard are in reverse chronological order."
"Alright," she said shakily, leaning a little heavily on the chair as she stood. "I have such a headache."
"It will last a few days." He handed her the glasses and clipboard. "Be sure to practise a little. It takes some getting used to."
"Yes," he replied simply. "I've been watching their transmissions. They're closing in. Be calm, they have no eyes in my place yet."
"I need to get off the grid."
"How far off?"
"Well you said it yourself. They're chasing me."
"Didn't you delete your file?""
"Of course," she sighed, sinking into the empty chair next to his desk. "But they have physical data. They have memories of me. It's too late for simple solutions. I've left it too late."
She sank her head into her hands, and when she spoke next her voice was muffled.
"I need to disappear. It must be as if I never lived."
He watched her for a few moments, and when he finally spoke his answer surprised her.
"Alright. I can help you."
-
The chair creaked as her body convulsed; the machine winred up to her brain hummed as it fed. The measurements it took were relayed into a small, gun-shaped device, creating a map of her essence, of every neurological detail that made her who she was. A second device - running simultaneously with the other, because they were in a hurry - sorted through her memories, printing a list of every person she had ever met.
It was a tremendous strain on her body, perhaps even taking a few years from her life as it fed on her own vitality to speed its processors. He had to marvel at the ingenuity of this feature of his machine. He hadn't programmed it in personally, merely watched as it adapted itself during the testing phase. There was a kind of intelligence to his computers, and in communicating with the infinitely more sophisticated computer that was the human brain, it had learned.
With a mostly-clean handkerchief he wiped her mouth. Her brain was busy elsewhere, and she had forgotten to swallow the saliva that had gathered there. Racked with pain she moaned, and he awkwardly patted her arm.
"It's nearly done," he said.
The final sheet of paper fell onto the pile, and he neatened it before attaching the sheets to a clipboard.
"These glasses have an imbedded microtext reader," he explained, as he carefully disentangled her from the wires. "The names on the clipboard are in reverse chronological order."
"Alright," she said shakily, leaning a little heavily on the chair as she stood. "I have such a headache."
"It will last a few days." He handed her the glasses and clipboard. "Be sure to practise a little. It takes some getting used to."
Monday, 25 August 2008
ENGL1007 First Draft, Extended
"That was not backing me up," Charlie said as they walked toward the bus stop. "What you did back there? That is not being a good wing-man."
"Maybe I'm just not a good wing-man?" Jen replied.
"That's not it and you know it," she insisted. "You know I like Sam but you told Susan that he was totally into her, which by the way is a total lie because he doesn't even look at her. What if she asks him out because you said that? What if he says yes? Why would you do that to me?"
Jen shrugged.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"It's going to rain," Jen said absently, peering up at the sky. Charlie stifled a frustrated growl.
"Jen, you always do this!" She cried. "Why are you so immature? I'd have a better friendship with a toddler. I'd have a more meaningful conversation with an ATM."
"I can be meaningful." She sounded hurt, but not for the right reason, Charlie thought.
"Not when it's important, Jen, and that is the prob-"
"I told you it'd rain!" She interrupted, holding out her hand to catch the first few drops of evidence. "Didn't I say it would rain?"
They ran to the shelter as the rain set in, and sat perhaps a little further apart than they normally would have.
"I think this is a bigger problem than you realise," Charlie said finally, with a sigh.
"Why?"
"How can we be best friends if you can't even pay attention when I'm talking to you? Let alone back me up against boyfriend-stealing bitches like Susan Macleod?"
"He isn't your boyfriend, Charlie."
"Well he should be."
A bus rattled past and they peered after it in the dying sunlight.
"That wasn't ours, was it?" Charlie asked, as ever paranoid that one day their bus would not stop for them.
"Nope, that was the Glenelg bus."
"Good. But seriously. How could you not remember that I liked him? How long have I been talking about him for, now?"
"A couple weeks."
"At least!"
"Only just. Before that it was Mark, and before him it was Sean, and Michael, and Hayden..."
Charlie glared at her.
"Are you calling me fickle?""Pretty much," Jen replied cheerfully. The rain was getting heavy - she splashed her feet in the little puddles that were growing beneath the bench.
“What about the sports carnival last week? You followed him around all day.”
“With a clipboard,” Jen added, sketching its shape out in the air.
“Yes, well, didn’t you speak to him then? About something? I.e. me?”
“No. We didn’t talk.”
Charlie felt like tearing at her hair with frustration. Was Jen being deliberately thick-headed? Another bus rattled by, sending up a fountain of spray.
“Marion Centre,” Jen said helpfully.
“If you can’t give me one good reason why not, then I honestly think I will have to go find a new best friend.”
“It’s hard to have a conversation with someone’s tongue shoved down your throat and,” she added quickly, “before you go jumping to conclusions I was not personally involved. I was referring to Sam’s throat and Henry’s tongue.”
Charlie gaped.
“Henry – as in that girl from Aberfoyle Park? Henrietta Price?”
“Nope. Henry as in Henry Thomas. The guy that cooks.”
Charlie was silent for a long time as the information sank in.
“And Susan’s going to ask him out, right?”
“God yes. She thinks she’s a sure thing.”
The silence stretched out a little more. The rain poured down. A bus stopped before them with a hiss of its brakes.
“That’s ours, Jen,” Charlie pointed out, grabbing her bag and trying to dodge the puddles between them and the roadside.
“Aren’t you going to apologise?” Jen complained as she followed her, searching her pockets for her bus ticket. Charlie looked back over her shoulder with a cheeky smile.
“After you spent the last half hour torturing me? I don’t think so. And besides, that’s what being a best friend is all about, Jen. You don’t have to say you’re sorry.”
Thursday, 21 August 2008
That Was Your Bus, Frank
I saw him at the station. While everybody else rushed around - between buses, checking timetables, checking their impatient watches - he simply waited. Still, calm, exuding patience. I was surprised to see such poise in someone so young - in high school still, by the uniform he wore. His bag was startlingly red on such a grey afternoon - red as virgin's blood? asked the poet-voice in my mind, red as hell's flaming waters?
He wore white shoes - white as sun-bleached skulls? - and a blue shirt - blue as the unpolluted sky! - and grey trousers - grey like winter rain and old men's whiskers,the poet suggested, grey like the falling ashes of a funeral pyre.
He hadn't looked my way yet so his eyes remained as mysterious as the untold secrets of the earth, as the epiphanies of angels. I imagined they would be deep, like the ocean's unfathomable depths.
I listened with amusement to the poet's ramblings, only half aware that they were of course my own. It was amazing, in a way, the amount of beauty that could be found in one young man. It wasn't that his looks were so extraordinary, but just the way that the colour and the light played on his stillness and - he moved suddenly, noticing me looking at him, and strode over.
"Hi," he said, flashing me a smile that caught the light and sparkled like a mouthful of stars. I could not think of a single thing to say.
"You're a symphony!" I blurted out, because the poet was never lost for words. My cheeks flushed immediately; he laughed.
"Do you have the time?"
He wore white shoes - white as sun-bleached skulls? - and a blue shirt - blue as the unpolluted sky! - and grey trousers - grey like winter rain and old men's whiskers,the poet suggested, grey like the falling ashes of a funeral pyre.
He hadn't looked my way yet so his eyes remained as mysterious as the untold secrets of the earth, as the epiphanies of angels. I imagined they would be deep, like the ocean's unfathomable depths.
I listened with amusement to the poet's ramblings, only half aware that they were of course my own. It was amazing, in a way, the amount of beauty that could be found in one young man. It wasn't that his looks were so extraordinary, but just the way that the colour and the light played on his stillness and - he moved suddenly, noticing me looking at him, and strode over.
"Hi," he said, flashing me a smile that caught the light and sparkled like a mouthful of stars. I could not think of a single thing to say.
"You're a symphony!" I blurted out, because the poet was never lost for words. My cheeks flushed immediately; he laughed.
"Do you have the time?"
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
Unspoken?
"I don't believe in love," he announced, leaning back and folding his arms and obviously waiting for my response.
"Why not?" I replied, because it was my role to turn the statement into an argument.
"It's crap. It's a Hallmark holiday! It's a Hollywood cliche!"
"I am surprised that you'd say that, love used to be all you talked about. You're a poet after all, Frank."
"Maybe I used to be. But lately I don't feel like one. It's like... I am all out of fancy words. And so what if I am? Love, liberty, the beauty of the world? In the end we all die alone."
"I don't think you should give up so easily on love," I said, sadly, even though it was probably a lost cause. "Who knows who you will meet tomorrow?"
He just shook his head, dissatisfied with my logic or maybe my girly sentiment, and ordered another drink.
"Why not?" I replied, because it was my role to turn the statement into an argument.
"It's crap. It's a Hallmark holiday! It's a Hollywood cliche!"
"I am surprised that you'd say that, love used to be all you talked about. You're a poet after all, Frank."
"Maybe I used to be. But lately I don't feel like one. It's like... I am all out of fancy words. And so what if I am? Love, liberty, the beauty of the world? In the end we all die alone."
"I don't think you should give up so easily on love," I said, sadly, even though it was probably a lost cause. "Who knows who you will meet tomorrow?"
He just shook his head, dissatisfied with my logic or maybe my girly sentiment, and ordered another drink.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
Say Unto Me This Proverb
It was heart-breaking to witness, the deconstruction of a man. Even one as bad as this man was, who had sinned more than most people would in a dozen lifetimes. Even though the jury had deemed it appropriate and even though, outside the facility, crowds were clamouring for his blood. It was still a terrible thing, to see a human being on that table, with his skull opened and his brain hanging out, as the doctor stimulated first this nerve centre and then that one. The drug was in full swing, making the man relive each crime with painful, hyper-real clarity. The scientist - for all he liked to be called doctor, she knew that his true profession was very different - activated the man's senses and nerves and pain centres. He saw each crime through his own eyes of course, but the sensations were mapped directly from his victim's brains.
Classical music floated around the room as the operation continued, because he fancied himself a conductor, or some kind of artist.
Art! It was torture. For the criminal on the table, yes, but also for the nurse who must watch it all, ready at any moment to assist. For the nurse who was carrying a secret beneath her dull eyes, a secret that was hot and heavy in her pocket.
"Have you no compassion?" She asked in a dead whisper. He glanced at her briefly, without comprehension.
"Of course."
"For the victims," she supplied, "What about your victims?"
"I am not a criminal," he replied with absolute conviction. "I'm only doing my job."
He still had not stopped working. The criminal's mouth gaped in a silent scream. His eyes writhed - it was all the movement he had left. They had disabled everything else so that he could not possibly escape.
"You are a sinner also," she said softly, dangerously. Her hand closed around the grip of the hypodermic needle as she walked over to his side. He still was not bothered, he did not even flinch as she put a hand on his arm, and as the needle sank into his neck he only blinked. He slid to the ground silently, staring up at her in mute surprise.
"He's down," she announced, speaking to the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling. Soft thuds from outside the room told her that her colleaques were there - they burst into the room, drawing in their wake the hiss of the airlock.
"Surgical containment?" The leader asked briskly, helping to haul the paralyzed scientist onto the spare table.
"Within acceptable limits," the nurse replied, checking the display by the door.
"Physician," he muttered, as the bone-saw buzzed, and the scientist's eyes screamed. "Heal thyself."
Classical music floated around the room as the operation continued, because he fancied himself a conductor, or some kind of artist.
Art! It was torture. For the criminal on the table, yes, but also for the nurse who must watch it all, ready at any moment to assist. For the nurse who was carrying a secret beneath her dull eyes, a secret that was hot and heavy in her pocket.
"Have you no compassion?" She asked in a dead whisper. He glanced at her briefly, without comprehension.
"Of course."
"For the victims," she supplied, "What about your victims?"
"I am not a criminal," he replied with absolute conviction. "I'm only doing my job."
He still had not stopped working. The criminal's mouth gaped in a silent scream. His eyes writhed - it was all the movement he had left. They had disabled everything else so that he could not possibly escape.
"You are a sinner also," she said softly, dangerously. Her hand closed around the grip of the hypodermic needle as she walked over to his side. He still was not bothered, he did not even flinch as she put a hand on his arm, and as the needle sank into his neck he only blinked. He slid to the ground silently, staring up at her in mute surprise.
"He's down," she announced, speaking to the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling. Soft thuds from outside the room told her that her colleaques were there - they burst into the room, drawing in their wake the hiss of the airlock.
"Surgical containment?" The leader asked briskly, helping to haul the paralyzed scientist onto the spare table.
"Within acceptable limits," the nurse replied, checking the display by the door.
"Physician," he muttered, as the bone-saw buzzed, and the scientist's eyes screamed. "Heal thyself."
Monday, 18 August 2008
Invasion
Morgan woke, without really knowing why. She was comfortable enough, everything was still and quiet, and yet... her heart was pounding, her eyes were darting around the room as if she could see in the dark. She couldn't, of course, only the dim shine of stars and the dull glow of the hallway light from beneath her door.
She closed her eyes, knowing that she could hear better with less input from her other senses. It was as if her ears were wiggling with effort, stretching and growing to catch every little sound. Distant traffic, her mother muttering in her sleep and her little brother snoring, a ticking clock - and the creak of the old floorboards of the stairs.
There's somebody in our home, she thought, panicked. Somebody who is not allowed.
Battered by the harsh winter winds, the tree outside her window tapped against the glass.
She closed her eyes, knowing that she could hear better with less input from her other senses. It was as if her ears were wiggling with effort, stretching and growing to catch every little sound. Distant traffic, her mother muttering in her sleep and her little brother snoring, a ticking clock - and the creak of the old floorboards of the stairs.
There's somebody in our home, she thought, panicked. Somebody who is not allowed.
Battered by the harsh winter winds, the tree outside her window tapped against the glass.
Sunday, 17 August 2008
Leap of Faith
"Help is coming," said a voice in my ear, though there was nobody there. "We’ll get you out of there."
On another day I may have been afraid, that I was hearing voices, that I was going crazy. But that much I already knew, because if I wasn’t crazy then it meant that what I was seeing was true, and it meant that I had just killed my family.
"Who are you?" I asked, searching for comfort. My voice was swallowed up in the roar of the flames but they heard me anyway.
"Friends."The voice was strange – disjointed, fractured, echoing. Not comforting at all. The fire was all around me and I could see my clothes beginning to burn, though I felt no pain. Shock, I told myself.
"Just hold on," the voice insisted, "We’re nearly there, Amy. Just hold on."
I wondered how they knew my name, but not for long, because the house was beginning to groan. The fire was eating it up. It was going to collapse. It was going to bury me alive.
"Please hurry," I begged, truly afraid for the first time.
"Close your eyes," the voice whispered and I obeyed without question as the first slab of roofing fell in a fountain of sparks. A second crash followed it but of a different timbre, this one accompanied by a glittering shower of glass. Footsteps pounded across the floor, hands grabbed at my arms, dragged me until I ran with them. I hesitated, knowing the window was close, and a ten-story drop below it.
"Trust me," said the voice.
I nodded, and jumped.
On another day I may have been afraid, that I was hearing voices, that I was going crazy. But that much I already knew, because if I wasn’t crazy then it meant that what I was seeing was true, and it meant that I had just killed my family.
"Who are you?" I asked, searching for comfort. My voice was swallowed up in the roar of the flames but they heard me anyway.
"Friends."The voice was strange – disjointed, fractured, echoing. Not comforting at all. The fire was all around me and I could see my clothes beginning to burn, though I felt no pain. Shock, I told myself.
"Just hold on," the voice insisted, "We’re nearly there, Amy. Just hold on."
I wondered how they knew my name, but not for long, because the house was beginning to groan. The fire was eating it up. It was going to collapse. It was going to bury me alive.
"Please hurry," I begged, truly afraid for the first time.
"Close your eyes," the voice whispered and I obeyed without question as the first slab of roofing fell in a fountain of sparks. A second crash followed it but of a different timbre, this one accompanied by a glittering shower of glass. Footsteps pounded across the floor, hands grabbed at my arms, dragged me until I ran with them. I hesitated, knowing the window was close, and a ten-story drop below it.
"Trust me," said the voice.
I nodded, and jumped.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
I Am My Own Bad Habit (Galatea Extended)
as if they are precious
I collect the bruises you give me
and I hoard your curses and insults
and I gasp
..........drowning
..................without your scowl
.
your carressing fists
your stranglehold embrace
your poisoning breath as
you call me back -
"I love you
...................don't go"
so I stay
.
yes I have been oppressed but
we are both
the oppressors
.
.
.
(I'll fix this, I'll work this out)
I collect the bruises you give me
and I hoard your curses and insults
and I gasp
..........drowning
..................without your scowl
.
your carressing fists
your stranglehold embrace
your poisoning breath as
you call me back -
"I love you
...................don't go"
so I stay
.
yes I have been oppressed but
we are both
the oppressors
.
.
.
(I'll fix this, I'll work this out)
Friday, 15 August 2008
Long Ago, Far Away...
Once upon a time, in a land not so very different from our own, three sisters lived alone in an old house in the woods. The oldest sister was called Vanesse, the middle sister was called Clarine, and the youngest sister was called Gisette.
Now it just so happened, as it often does in these kinds of tales, that Vanesse and Clarine were the children of their father's first wife, who had turned out to be a terrible and nasty witch. He had made her leave the moment he found out, but had allowed their daughters to remain with him, because everyone knows that a witch makes a terrible mother.
In time he married again, a woman who was kind and gentle and not at all like the witch. She was generous and loving to everybody, and treated the witch's daughters like they were her own. After a little while she did have a daughter of her own, who she called Gisette, and whom she would have loved more than anything in the world if she had not, tragically, died not long after her baby was born. The girls' father was overcome with grief, and scarcely had he arranged for the baby to be cared for than he died of a broken heart.
Vanesse and Clarine were not fond of their sister. They blamed her for her mother's death, and hated her because everything their father had possessed he had left to the helpless baby. Perhaps he had recognised the jealousy in his eldest children's hearts, and thought that this would improve the girl's chances of life under her sisters' ravenous gaze.
Now it just so happened, as it often does in these kinds of tales, that Vanesse and Clarine were the children of their father's first wife, who had turned out to be a terrible and nasty witch. He had made her leave the moment he found out, but had allowed their daughters to remain with him, because everyone knows that a witch makes a terrible mother.
In time he married again, a woman who was kind and gentle and not at all like the witch. She was generous and loving to everybody, and treated the witch's daughters like they were her own. After a little while she did have a daughter of her own, who she called Gisette, and whom she would have loved more than anything in the world if she had not, tragically, died not long after her baby was born. The girls' father was overcome with grief, and scarcely had he arranged for the baby to be cared for than he died of a broken heart.
Vanesse and Clarine were not fond of their sister. They blamed her for her mother's death, and hated her because everything their father had possessed he had left to the helpless baby. Perhaps he had recognised the jealousy in his eldest children's hearts, and thought that this would improve the girl's chances of life under her sisters' ravenous gaze.
Thursday, 14 August 2008
We Are Eve, We Are Galatea
we are human because we fell
from grace
Eve's sacrifice
considered a curse
must we forever carry the blame?
...............................................................
women have been oppressed
but we are both
the oppressors
from grace
Eve's sacrifice
considered a curse
must we forever carry the blame?
...............................................................
women have been oppressed
but we are both
the oppressors
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
ENGL1007, Short Story Assignment (Part One)
"That was not backing me up," Charlie said as they walked toward the bus stop. "What you did back there? That is not being a good wing-man."
"Maybe I'm just not a good wing-man?" Jen replied.
"That's not it and you know it," she insisted. "You know I like Sam but you told Susan that he was totally into her, which by the way is a total lie because he doesn't even look at her. What if she asks him out because you said that? What if he says yes? Why would you do that to me?"
Jen shrugged.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"It's going to rain," Jen said absently, peering up at the sky. Charlie stifled a frustrated growl.
"Jen, you always do this!" She cried. "Why are you so immature? I'd have a better friendship with a toddler. I'd have a more meaningful conversation with an ATM."
"I can be meaningful." She sounded hurt, but not for the right reason, Charlie thought.
"Not when it's important, Jen, and that is the prob-"
"I told you it'd rain!" She interrupted, holding out her hand to catch the first few drops of evidence. "Didn't I say it would rain?"
They ran the last few metres to the bus shelter, sitting perhaps a little further apart than they normally would have.
"I think this is a bigger problem than you realise," Charlie said finally, with a sigh.
"Why?"
"How can we be best friends if you can't even pay attention when I'm talking to you? Let alone back me up against boyfriend-stealing bitches like Susan Macleod?"
"He isn't your boyfriend, Charlie."
"Well he should be."
A bus rattled past and they peered after it in the dying sunlight.
"That wasn't ours, was it?" Charlie asked, as ever paranoid that one day their bus would not stop for them.
"Nope, that was the Glenelg bus."
"Good. But seriously. How could you not remember that I liked him? How long have I been talking about him for, now?"
"A couple weeks."
"At least!"
"Only just. Before that it was Mark, and before him it was Sean, and Michael, and Hayden..."
Charlie glared at her.
"Are you calling me fickle?""Pretty much," Jen replied cheerfully. The rain was getting heavy - she splashed her feet in the little puddles that were growing beneath the bench.
"Maybe I'm just not a good wing-man?" Jen replied.
"That's not it and you know it," she insisted. "You know I like Sam but you told Susan that he was totally into her, which by the way is a total lie because he doesn't even look at her. What if she asks him out because you said that? What if he says yes? Why would you do that to me?"
Jen shrugged.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"It's going to rain," Jen said absently, peering up at the sky. Charlie stifled a frustrated growl.
"Jen, you always do this!" She cried. "Why are you so immature? I'd have a better friendship with a toddler. I'd have a more meaningful conversation with an ATM."
"I can be meaningful." She sounded hurt, but not for the right reason, Charlie thought.
"Not when it's important, Jen, and that is the prob-"
"I told you it'd rain!" She interrupted, holding out her hand to catch the first few drops of evidence. "Didn't I say it would rain?"
They ran the last few metres to the bus shelter, sitting perhaps a little further apart than they normally would have.
"I think this is a bigger problem than you realise," Charlie said finally, with a sigh.
"Why?"
"How can we be best friends if you can't even pay attention when I'm talking to you? Let alone back me up against boyfriend-stealing bitches like Susan Macleod?"
"He isn't your boyfriend, Charlie."
"Well he should be."
A bus rattled past and they peered after it in the dying sunlight.
"That wasn't ours, was it?" Charlie asked, as ever paranoid that one day their bus would not stop for them.
"Nope, that was the Glenelg bus."
"Good. But seriously. How could you not remember that I liked him? How long have I been talking about him for, now?"
"A couple weeks."
"At least!"
"Only just. Before that it was Mark, and before him it was Sean, and Michael, and Hayden..."
Charlie glared at her.
"Are you calling me fickle?""Pretty much," Jen replied cheerfully. The rain was getting heavy - she splashed her feet in the little puddles that were growing beneath the bench.
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
Better The Devil You Know
It had been a long day in Hell. He had been raking in the sinners lately, and of course it was her job to keep a record of them all.
"So none of them slip away," he would explain with that toothy, sleazey smile when she asked, for the millionth time, why she needed to chronicle each soul that entered his fiery domain.
"The clipboard is getting heavy," she pointed out, and he was courteous enough to look back at the wagon and the panting demons in it's harness. "I will need another."
"It's on my to-do list," he promised, patting the digital-personal-organiser in the pocket of his shirt. She'd given it to him for Christmas. She knew he didn't use it.
"I'll be needing another shipment of pens, too," she added, "The scribes go through so many that it just isn't funny any more."
"Then make them write in blood!" He snarled. "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!"
Mirith sighed. He would bring it back to money.
"Don't talk to me like you're on a tight budget," she replied firmly, straightening his tie despite his protests that it was fine, not too loose at all, was she trying to kill him or something? "I'm the one who oversees the accounts, after all."
"Mir, honey, darling," he crooned, pushing her hands away and putting his arm around her shoulder. "What would I do without you? I know you work hard and you just don't get enough credit for what you do. Would you like a raise? I think I need to give you a raise."
"Please," she rolled her eyes. "You can't afford a box of pens but you can raise my salary? What's the point? I'm going to be here forever anyway. And don't try to charm your way out of this, either."
"I am charming, aren't I?" He smiled widely, white teeth gleaming in the bloody light. Someone not so far away screamed.
"And handsome," she replied, because they both knew it.
"Would you say I was - devilishly handsome?" He prodded, and she couldn't help but laugh, even though it was far from the first time he'd made that same joke. She could remember the first time, if she concentrated. It was a long time ago, countless generations ago; she'd been alive, then, and foolish enough to frequent shady bars after dark. He'd been masquerading as a mortal man that night (he often did) and had like the 'cut of her jib', as he so eloquently put it. She'd been little impressed by this supposed drunken sailor, but he really was handsome, yes devilishly so, and she had always been a sucker for a flirt.
"Pens," she repeated firmly, "And a new clipboard."
"So none of them slip away," he would explain with that toothy, sleazey smile when she asked, for the millionth time, why she needed to chronicle each soul that entered his fiery domain.
"The clipboard is getting heavy," she pointed out, and he was courteous enough to look back at the wagon and the panting demons in it's harness. "I will need another."
"It's on my to-do list," he promised, patting the digital-personal-organiser in the pocket of his shirt. She'd given it to him for Christmas. She knew he didn't use it.
"I'll be needing another shipment of pens, too," she added, "The scribes go through so many that it just isn't funny any more."
"Then make them write in blood!" He snarled. "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!"
Mirith sighed. He would bring it back to money.
"Don't talk to me like you're on a tight budget," she replied firmly, straightening his tie despite his protests that it was fine, not too loose at all, was she trying to kill him or something? "I'm the one who oversees the accounts, after all."
"Mir, honey, darling," he crooned, pushing her hands away and putting his arm around her shoulder. "What would I do without you? I know you work hard and you just don't get enough credit for what you do. Would you like a raise? I think I need to give you a raise."
"Please," she rolled her eyes. "You can't afford a box of pens but you can raise my salary? What's the point? I'm going to be here forever anyway. And don't try to charm your way out of this, either."
"I am charming, aren't I?" He smiled widely, white teeth gleaming in the bloody light. Someone not so far away screamed.
"And handsome," she replied, because they both knew it.
"Would you say I was - devilishly handsome?" He prodded, and she couldn't help but laugh, even though it was far from the first time he'd made that same joke. She could remember the first time, if she concentrated. It was a long time ago, countless generations ago; she'd been alive, then, and foolish enough to frequent shady bars after dark. He'd been masquerading as a mortal man that night (he often did) and had like the 'cut of her jib', as he so eloquently put it. She'd been little impressed by this supposed drunken sailor, but he really was handsome, yes devilishly so, and she had always been a sucker for a flirt.
"Pens," she repeated firmly, "And a new clipboard."
Monday, 11 August 2008
Five Minutes More...
when she played
the angels stopped their work
and gathered round to hear her song
and I never could decide
where spirit ended and her flesh began
or if she were
an angel all along
the angels stopped their work
and gathered round to hear her song
and I never could decide
where spirit ended and her flesh began
or if she were
an angel all along
Sunday, 10 August 2008
An Immortal Legacy
"Make something with me," she said to the Carver.
The Carver looked at the board, where his beautiful pawns lay broken and discarded by the childish goddess who was even now leading her partner around the room. He looked at the other gods, idle and content in their idleness, and knew that he needed something more.
"Yes," he replied. "Yes, let's make something special."
They wasted no time in getting to their work, because what was there to hold them back? The materials they needed they gathered from around the garden of the gods, the physical elements of fire and earth and water and air. This part of the story you can imagine, I think - immortal hands shaping the form of the very earth we inhabit now, though at the time it was a far more wild and fearsome place. The first beasts and foliage were more rough and primitive than those to which we are accustomed.
"It is not complete," the Carver said, when they had stopped at last. They looked down at the world that they had created and knew that this was so.
"It needs art and music," the Sculptor replied, glancing at the sisters.
"It needs laughter and passion," the Carver agreed, nodding at Love and Lust.
They looked down at their work, and at the materials that remained. There was not a lot.
"We will make something like ourselves," the Sculptor whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. "To enjoy our world and to care for it."
The Carver took up his tools, and fashioned eight figures from War's abandoned pawns, and four of these they called men and four they called women.
"From these a mighty population shall spring," he announced, setting them gently down, pleased with his work. "Thought mortal, they shall be immortal in their legacy."
The Sculptor took up her tools, and from the materials that remained of their world building, she shaped eight spirits to inhabit the figures, two each of fire, air, earth and water.
"From these a might spirit shall grow," she announced, carefully fitting the spirits to their forms, smiling with pride. "They will pray and love and hope as we never have."
And then they set the figures down in their new world, and awakened them with a whisper, and watched proudly as they came to life.
The Carver looked at the board, where his beautiful pawns lay broken and discarded by the childish goddess who was even now leading her partner around the room. He looked at the other gods, idle and content in their idleness, and knew that he needed something more.
"Yes," he replied. "Yes, let's make something special."
They wasted no time in getting to their work, because what was there to hold them back? The materials they needed they gathered from around the garden of the gods, the physical elements of fire and earth and water and air. This part of the story you can imagine, I think - immortal hands shaping the form of the very earth we inhabit now, though at the time it was a far more wild and fearsome place. The first beasts and foliage were more rough and primitive than those to which we are accustomed.
"It is not complete," the Carver said, when they had stopped at last. They looked down at the world that they had created and knew that this was so.
"It needs art and music," the Sculptor replied, glancing at the sisters.
"It needs laughter and passion," the Carver agreed, nodding at Love and Lust.
They looked down at their work, and at the materials that remained. There was not a lot.
"We will make something like ourselves," the Sculptor whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. "To enjoy our world and to care for it."
The Carver took up his tools, and fashioned eight figures from War's abandoned pawns, and four of these they called men and four they called women.
"From these a mighty population shall spring," he announced, setting them gently down, pleased with his work. "Thought mortal, they shall be immortal in their legacy."
The Sculptor took up her tools, and from the materials that remained of their world building, she shaped eight spirits to inhabit the figures, two each of fire, air, earth and water.
"From these a might spirit shall grow," she announced, carefully fitting the spirits to their forms, smiling with pride. "They will pray and love and hope as we never have."
And then they set the figures down in their new world, and awakened them with a whisper, and watched proudly as they came to life.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
In A Time Before Time
There was a time before time, when men and beasts and the stars themselves did not exist. The very earth was nothing - there was only the realm of the gods, a garden of beauty surpassing anything ever witnessed by the mortal eye. It was here that the immortal beings resided, wiling away the ages with the passtimes they are known as the patrons of. The Carver with his knife, ever replenishing the pieces broken in War's vicious games. History watched from the sidelines, gathering dust, waiting for the times when she would grow tired of the game and then she would consent to dancing with him. The sisters of Art would play music for them, Melody and Harmony and Cadence with their flutes and drums. And the other gods would watch, and pursue the things that they enjoyed, but one day the Sculptor tired of it all.
Friday, 8 August 2008
An Evening's Entertainment
Every culture has stories, that have grown and changed over time just as the people who tell them have grown and changed. They reveal more than you could imagine about the nature of the teller and their world, but that is not the reason that you have brought me here today. You asked me here to tell stories. I will tell you the stories that laid the foundations for all others. I will tell you the first stories.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Soft To-night The Spice-Wind Comes
Cassiara couldn't sleep. The wind whispered through the trees, and strange moonlight shadows played on the canvas above her. She could hear her bodyguard's soft breathing at the tent's entrance, and the rough snoring of the men in other tents around them. And another sound, one she did not recognise - a scratching, and a kind of wailing hum. She stood, pulling her blanket around her gaainst the chilly air outside. Asima was awake within an instant, courched ready, eyes and teeth and dagger glinting in the half-light. Cassia put a hand to her ear, then pointed outside and Asima nodded. She could hear it too.
On soft feet they crept outside, following the sound into the soft-lit grove. There was little to be seen but Asima bade Cassia to wait as she checked all around. She returned with a frown, irritated by her lack of findings. Cassia closed her eyes, tilting her head as she listened carefully for the strange noises. And then they heard, very clearly, a soft screech from the cluster of newest saplings. Asima stepped between her mistress and the sound, stalking up to the little trees and peering among them.
Then she laughed - softly, yet it almost echoed in the still air. Her hand hovered over the trees for a moment before darting in. There was much scrabbling and several pained hisses before she finally straightened, returning to where Cassia waited, holding the struggling creature before her.
Cassia stared in awe at the little creature. It resembled a lizard most of all, long and lithe with soft sand-coloured scales. But it's claws - carefully restrained by Asima - were viciously long, and from its back protruded two wings almost as large as the body itself.
"A cinnamon-dragon," Asima announced, eyes gleaming with excitement.
On soft feet they crept outside, following the sound into the soft-lit grove. There was little to be seen but Asima bade Cassia to wait as she checked all around. She returned with a frown, irritated by her lack of findings. Cassia closed her eyes, tilting her head as she listened carefully for the strange noises. And then they heard, very clearly, a soft screech from the cluster of newest saplings. Asima stepped between her mistress and the sound, stalking up to the little trees and peering among them.
Then she laughed - softly, yet it almost echoed in the still air. Her hand hovered over the trees for a moment before darting in. There was much scrabbling and several pained hisses before she finally straightened, returning to where Cassia waited, holding the struggling creature before her.
Cassia stared in awe at the little creature. It resembled a lizard most of all, long and lithe with soft sand-coloured scales. But it's claws - carefully restrained by Asima - were viciously long, and from its back protruded two wings almost as large as the body itself.
"A cinnamon-dragon," Asima announced, eyes gleaming with excitement.
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
The Desert at Thy Feet
Cassia headed deeper into the grove while the men set up their tents, inspecting the season's new growth. Their work was paying off - the trees were healthy and growing well.
"It would be a shame to lose this grove," Asima said quietly, as ever walking silently a few steps behind her mistress. "Truly its location is the real treasure of your mother's legacy."
Cassia nodded, unconsciously running her hands over the map-case that hung from her shoulders. It was in a code, of course, that none but Safa's most trusted allies had known. Yet if the map were to fall into the arms of enemies, they would decipher it sooner or later. The hidden spice grove, the secret to the wealth of the Baysan family, would be revealed.
"We shall not lose it," Cassia replied firmly. "Any who learn of it and do not seal a blood oath shall be killed."
Asima's eyes flickered momentarily back, to where the gatherers were already beginning their work.
"If a single one of them breaks from my service, they shall be fugitives from all men," Cassia said with an uncharacteristic fierceness. The map-case held the men's contracts too, signed with a drop of blood that sealed them to the oath until death. There were few laws more stringently upheld - an oath-breaker would be killed by any who found him. Asima nodded, but she was clearly not content. Cassia was not surprised - she'd known the woman since she was just a little girl, and Asima was never satisfied of her ward's safety.
"Master Baysan!" Cried one of the men, interrupting their discussion. Cassia went to where he crouched at the side of a cinnamon sapling. Before he even spoke she saw the problem - the bark was slashed all along its length, and bore but a few leaves and berries.
"Sabotage?" Asima suggested in a low voice, as ever present at Cassia's shoulder.
"Perhaps."
The other gatherers were watching her, too - what did they expect of her? To fly into a rage? Safa would have, undoubtedly, but Cassia was not so like hermother when it came to temperament.
"Work fast," she ordered. "The sun sinks soon and I do not wish to linger here many days."They jumped to obey her as if they expected to feel a whip sting their hides. There was a whip; it hung from Cassia's saddle, another thing left by her mother. The fearful respect they had shown had always amused Cassia as a child. These were men who boasted and bragged and could kill in mere seconds, and yet they had cringed and cowered at the feet of a woman.
"I miss her," she told her bodyguard. The other woman did not reply but Cassia knew she was there. "She was wise and strong and beautiful. I don't think I will ever be these things."
"You're a child yet, Cassiara," Asima replied finally, ducking into their tent ahead of her, ever wary. "Give it time."
"It would be a shame to lose this grove," Asima said quietly, as ever walking silently a few steps behind her mistress. "Truly its location is the real treasure of your mother's legacy."
Cassia nodded, unconsciously running her hands over the map-case that hung from her shoulders. It was in a code, of course, that none but Safa's most trusted allies had known. Yet if the map were to fall into the arms of enemies, they would decipher it sooner or later. The hidden spice grove, the secret to the wealth of the Baysan family, would be revealed.
"We shall not lose it," Cassia replied firmly. "Any who learn of it and do not seal a blood oath shall be killed."
Asima's eyes flickered momentarily back, to where the gatherers were already beginning their work.
"If a single one of them breaks from my service, they shall be fugitives from all men," Cassia said with an uncharacteristic fierceness. The map-case held the men's contracts too, signed with a drop of blood that sealed them to the oath until death. There were few laws more stringently upheld - an oath-breaker would be killed by any who found him. Asima nodded, but she was clearly not content. Cassia was not surprised - she'd known the woman since she was just a little girl, and Asima was never satisfied of her ward's safety.
"Master Baysan!" Cried one of the men, interrupting their discussion. Cassia went to where he crouched at the side of a cinnamon sapling. Before he even spoke she saw the problem - the bark was slashed all along its length, and bore but a few leaves and berries.
"Sabotage?" Asima suggested in a low voice, as ever present at Cassia's shoulder.
"Perhaps."
The other gatherers were watching her, too - what did they expect of her? To fly into a rage? Safa would have, undoubtedly, but Cassia was not so like hermother when it came to temperament.
"Work fast," she ordered. "The sun sinks soon and I do not wish to linger here many days."They jumped to obey her as if they expected to feel a whip sting their hides. There was a whip; it hung from Cassia's saddle, another thing left by her mother. The fearful respect they had shown had always amused Cassia as a child. These were men who boasted and bragged and could kill in mere seconds, and yet they had cringed and cowered at the feet of a woman.
"I miss her," she told her bodyguard. The other woman did not reply but Cassia knew she was there. "She was wise and strong and beautiful. I don't think I will ever be these things."
"You're a child yet, Cassiara," Asima replied finally, ducking into their tent ahead of her, ever wary. "Give it time."
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Once More A Desert-Child
The spice-winds were fierce that day - they blew roughly through the caravan, fluttering robes and tugging at hair. Cassia smiled at its sharp scent but did not change her course. A lesser trader would have turned to find the wind's tail and the grove that lay there, but Cassiara Baysan was no lesser trader. Her mother, the great Trader Safa Baysan, had passed on many secrets before her death, and the most valuable of all had been the trick of the spice-hunt.
Monday, 4 August 2008
Prosevomit
Aria scrabbled amongst the debris of her room, searching in vain for a pen. Or a pencil, a crayon, a charred stub of wood - anything to leave a mark on the page, anything to pin down the words that were bloating her. She could feel the drug working its way through her veins, gathering up the shreds of poetry and carrying them along in a rush that spiralled on, in and in and always in, toward her heart until she thought it might burst. When she could find nothing to write with she bit down on her own fingertip until it bled, rather than put up with the mocking stare of the blank page. The marks she left were all but unintelligible which suited Aria just fine because people always started to ask questions when they read the things she had written.
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Bibliomancy
Bibliomancy - A little known form of magic which relies on the written word. Adepts can give life to what is on the page, they are prized by kings and war generals to help imagine field reports etc. Rich lord sometimes hire them for an evening's entertainment, but other than that they are seldom noticed or even respected.
Bibliomancers often find themselves drawn to work in libraries, where they can find much comfort in the old tomes. Undiscovered mages of this branch generally find a fascination in books and storytelling.
A bibliomancer is also known as an illusionist; what they read is shown as images in air or on a screen. More skill can lead to sounds, smells, the need only to hold a book (not read it) or even just to speak the words at all. The most skilled Bibliomancers can make the listener's reality become that of their story.
Bibliomancers often find themselves drawn to work in libraries, where they can find much comfort in the old tomes. Undiscovered mages of this branch generally find a fascination in books and storytelling.
A bibliomancer is also known as an illusionist; what they read is shown as images in air or on a screen. More skill can lead to sounds, smells, the need only to hold a book (not read it) or even just to speak the words at all. The most skilled Bibliomancers can make the listener's reality become that of their story.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
It's Not Sounding Like Happy Times
"We should go," Charlie suggested, backing away as the two men began to stagger towards them. Jen nodded, white-faced, and they began to run, as quickly as they could with their backpacks still on.
"Wait!" Jen panted, as Charlie began to take hers off. "We'll need them. We can't just run forever."
Charlie frowned. Of course, Jen was right. They'd never make it to the next town, and that meant hiding somewhere.
"We can go to Salbrook," Jen suggested.
"Do you actually know the way?" Charlie countered. "Because I don't. And maybe this - this happened there too."
"Charlie I think we're in a horror movie," Jen said, half laughing and half crying. "I always wanted to be in a horror movie. But I'm not sure I want that any more."
"I know, Jen.." Charlie knew her friend was just working herself into hysterics. Somehow, though, Charlie was calm. She didn't know what was going on or what they were going to do, but she felt a kind of purpose. If Jen was going to collapse, then she would need to be strong for the both of them.
"What was it, Charlie?" Jen asked. "And - and how do we even know it was real? Maybe it's all just a hoax. We're on tv. Where are the cameras?"
"Wait!" Jen panted, as Charlie began to take hers off. "We'll need them. We can't just run forever."
Charlie frowned. Of course, Jen was right. They'd never make it to the next town, and that meant hiding somewhere.
"We can go to Salbrook," Jen suggested.
"Do you actually know the way?" Charlie countered. "Because I don't. And maybe this - this happened there too."
"Charlie I think we're in a horror movie," Jen said, half laughing and half crying. "I always wanted to be in a horror movie. But I'm not sure I want that any more."
"I know, Jen.." Charlie knew her friend was just working herself into hysterics. Somehow, though, Charlie was calm. She didn't know what was going on or what they were going to do, but she felt a kind of purpose. If Jen was going to collapse, then she would need to be strong for the both of them.
"What was it, Charlie?" Jen asked. "And - and how do we even know it was real? Maybe it's all just a hoax. We're on tv. Where are the cameras?"
Friday, 1 August 2008
Maybe They're All Dead
The screams grew louder as they drew nearer to the fairgrounds, and Charlie began to look anxious.
"That doesn't sound like happy times," she said. "That sounds like terror."
Jen nodded, suddenly afraid to speak. Charlie moved closer and took her hand.
"Don't be afraid."
They walked forward slowly, minds flickering over countless possible scenarios, each less likely than the last.
"The whole town is in there," Jen whispered. "What if something terrible has happened?"
"Except us," Charlie said firmly. "We're okay."
They were entering the car park when a man emerged from the big tent, running at them and shouting.
"It escaped!" He sobbed, and as he drew closer they could see that he was covered in blood from head to toe.
"What escaped?" Charlie asked, instinctively stepping between Jen and the man. He opened his mouth to speak but the words became a scream, as a second figure lurched into view and grabbed him with bloody hands.
"That doesn't sound like happy times," she said. "That sounds like terror."
Jen nodded, suddenly afraid to speak. Charlie moved closer and took her hand.
"Don't be afraid."
They walked forward slowly, minds flickering over countless possible scenarios, each less likely than the last.
"The whole town is in there," Jen whispered. "What if something terrible has happened?"
"Except us," Charlie said firmly. "We're okay."
They were entering the car park when a man emerged from the big tent, running at them and shouting.
"It escaped!" He sobbed, and as he drew closer they could see that he was covered in blood from head to toe.
"What escaped?" Charlie asked, instinctively stepping between Jen and the man. He opened his mouth to speak but the words became a scream, as a second figure lurched into view and grabbed him with bloody hands.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Vinegar Hill Horror
"I am never going camping with you again," Charlie announced as they walked home. Jen looked hurt.
"Oh! Why not?!"
"Because you made me do everything! You didn't cook, or light the fire, or put up the tent."
"That's because I can't do any of those things. I tried to, but you just got mad and took over from me. Also, I helped to carry firewood."
"Complaining the whole time about bugs and splinters."
"They were everywhere!"
"That's what camping is," Charlie sighed. "It's about getting closer to nature, not about sleeping all day and using all the torch batteries to listen to the radio."
Jen laughed, and kicked a piece of trash in her friend's direction.
"You know there's nobody else you'd want to go with."
Charlie grunted in what may have been agreement.
"Let's get ice-cream," she said suddenly. "I haven't had ice-cream in ages.""You had one on the way to the camp-site," Jen pointed out.
"Yes, well, that hardly counts. Anything you eat while exercising doesn't count." Her eyes dared Jen to disagree.
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it looks like the store is closed." She pointed.
"What?!" Charlie shrieked, pressing her face up against the dusty window. The unlit interior was dim in the late afternoon sunlight, and clearly not occupied.
"Why?" Charlie asked, throwing up her hands dramatically. "Why would they do this to me?"
"I'm not sure that it was aimed specifically at you," Jen said soothingly, almost managing to hide a giggle.
"Now that I think of it, it is a little quiet today," Charlie said, looking around slowly. "There's nobody around and everything's shut."
"Maybe they're all dead?" Jen suggested cheerfully. Charlie responded with a glare.
"Maybe they're at the circus. That was meant to be in town this weekend, right?"
"Yeah," Jen agreed, sounding almost disappointed.
"They've got elephants, and tigers and stuff," Charlie pointed out. "And sideshow games. Maybe we should go check it out?"As if to confirm their theory a roar of delighted screams rose up from the direction of the fairgrounds where the circus always set up. Jen sighed - their homes were in the other direction, and she'd really been looking forward to a hot shower.
"Alright. Before they pack up.""Maybe they're selling ice-creams?" Charlie said, laughing. "Don't look so upset. We'll go home and clean up after they're gone. This is pretty much the most exciting thing to ever happen in this town."
"True," Jen admitted as they set off to the sound of distant screaming and laughter.
"Oh! Why not?!"
"Because you made me do everything! You didn't cook, or light the fire, or put up the tent."
"That's because I can't do any of those things. I tried to, but you just got mad and took over from me. Also, I helped to carry firewood."
"Complaining the whole time about bugs and splinters."
"They were everywhere!"
"That's what camping is," Charlie sighed. "It's about getting closer to nature, not about sleeping all day and using all the torch batteries to listen to the radio."
Jen laughed, and kicked a piece of trash in her friend's direction.
"You know there's nobody else you'd want to go with."
Charlie grunted in what may have been agreement.
"Let's get ice-cream," she said suddenly. "I haven't had ice-cream in ages.""You had one on the way to the camp-site," Jen pointed out.
"Yes, well, that hardly counts. Anything you eat while exercising doesn't count." Her eyes dared Jen to disagree.
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it looks like the store is closed." She pointed.
"What?!" Charlie shrieked, pressing her face up against the dusty window. The unlit interior was dim in the late afternoon sunlight, and clearly not occupied.
"Why?" Charlie asked, throwing up her hands dramatically. "Why would they do this to me?"
"I'm not sure that it was aimed specifically at you," Jen said soothingly, almost managing to hide a giggle.
"Now that I think of it, it is a little quiet today," Charlie said, looking around slowly. "There's nobody around and everything's shut."
"Maybe they're all dead?" Jen suggested cheerfully. Charlie responded with a glare.
"Maybe they're at the circus. That was meant to be in town this weekend, right?"
"Yeah," Jen agreed, sounding almost disappointed.
"They've got elephants, and tigers and stuff," Charlie pointed out. "And sideshow games. Maybe we should go check it out?"As if to confirm their theory a roar of delighted screams rose up from the direction of the fairgrounds where the circus always set up. Jen sighed - their homes were in the other direction, and she'd really been looking forward to a hot shower.
"Alright. Before they pack up.""Maybe they're selling ice-creams?" Charlie said, laughing. "Don't look so upset. We'll go home and clean up after they're gone. This is pretty much the most exciting thing to ever happen in this town."
"True," Jen admitted as they set off to the sound of distant screaming and laughter.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Before Sarin Searched, So Did He...
Caderyn looked at the gypsy with open scepticism. Him, a great mage? That was never going to happen. He had no magic - his parents had sent him to be tested when he was only little, and there hadn't even been enough of a spark to light tinder. No, the fortune-teller must be mistaken, and that did throw the rest of her information into a more credulous position.
"Thank you," he said politely, for he'd been raised to be polite.
"You'll see," she replied cryptically as he left the dimly-lit tent, blinking in the harsh sunlight outside.
Caderyn stuck his hands deep into his pockets, feeling for the charms and trinkets he always kept there. For protection, and clarity of thought, and increased luck. That was another thing his parents had passed onto him, a kind of token belief in the supernatural arts and the power of little spells to turn the balance of fate in a positive way. If he ever thought about it deeply the whole affair seemed a little foolish, but he tended to avoid deep thought because it invariably led to headaches.
The road from the gypsy camp but to town was a long one, and if he dallied much longer he'd end up walking in the dark, but Caderyn wasn't terribly concerned. The opportunity to speak with storytellers of another culture was a temptation he could not resist, and they seemed like a friendly enough group of people. After a few enquiries he was directed to a campfire where a pot bubbled with an unknown, deliciously scented liquid. A stout woman stirred its contents with a wooden spoon, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the gaggle of children running around the camp. By her side sat a woman older than he'd imagined a person could ever be, hunched over a bowl of pea-pods.
"Could I help you with that, Grandmother?" He asked respectfully, ignoring the snort of laughter from the cook. The old lady looked up at him with icy grey eyes, gnarled fingers never ceasing in their work.
"That depends on your motives," she replied sharply, with a voice like a cutting winter wind. She may have been old, Caderyn thought, but she was not soft in the least.
"I wish only to help, and perhaps talk a little."
After a moment the woman shrugged, and handed him the bowl.
"Get to it." She paused, then added, "The talking will depend on the topic you intend to bring up."
Caderyn sat cross-legged by her side, settling easily into the task. He hadn't shelled peas in a long time, but when he was younger his mother had often allowed him to help her in the kitchen with such things. After a little while he got into a rhythm, and it was only then that he began to speak.
"I have heard much praise of your people, and their stories," he said, carefully watching her expression without looking directly at her. "It is said they are many, and of a quality not often found in the city."
"Of course," she snapped. "We have no tame tales to wave about as if we own them. Our stories are lent to us by the earth and the sky, and we pass them along with care and respect."
"Are they not changed with time?" He asked, noting her frown. "All things change as they are passed along. Each teller has their own way, their own words, their own embellishments that they bring."
"Thank you," he said politely, for he'd been raised to be polite.
"You'll see," she replied cryptically as he left the dimly-lit tent, blinking in the harsh sunlight outside.
Caderyn stuck his hands deep into his pockets, feeling for the charms and trinkets he always kept there. For protection, and clarity of thought, and increased luck. That was another thing his parents had passed onto him, a kind of token belief in the supernatural arts and the power of little spells to turn the balance of fate in a positive way. If he ever thought about it deeply the whole affair seemed a little foolish, but he tended to avoid deep thought because it invariably led to headaches.
The road from the gypsy camp but to town was a long one, and if he dallied much longer he'd end up walking in the dark, but Caderyn wasn't terribly concerned. The opportunity to speak with storytellers of another culture was a temptation he could not resist, and they seemed like a friendly enough group of people. After a few enquiries he was directed to a campfire where a pot bubbled with an unknown, deliciously scented liquid. A stout woman stirred its contents with a wooden spoon, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the gaggle of children running around the camp. By her side sat a woman older than he'd imagined a person could ever be, hunched over a bowl of pea-pods.
"Could I help you with that, Grandmother?" He asked respectfully, ignoring the snort of laughter from the cook. The old lady looked up at him with icy grey eyes, gnarled fingers never ceasing in their work.
"That depends on your motives," she replied sharply, with a voice like a cutting winter wind. She may have been old, Caderyn thought, but she was not soft in the least.
"I wish only to help, and perhaps talk a little."
After a moment the woman shrugged, and handed him the bowl.
"Get to it." She paused, then added, "The talking will depend on the topic you intend to bring up."
Caderyn sat cross-legged by her side, settling easily into the task. He hadn't shelled peas in a long time, but when he was younger his mother had often allowed him to help her in the kitchen with such things. After a little while he got into a rhythm, and it was only then that he began to speak.
"I have heard much praise of your people, and their stories," he said, carefully watching her expression without looking directly at her. "It is said they are many, and of a quality not often found in the city."
"Of course," she snapped. "We have no tame tales to wave about as if we own them. Our stories are lent to us by the earth and the sky, and we pass them along with care and respect."
"Are they not changed with time?" He asked, noting her frown. "All things change as they are passed along. Each teller has their own way, their own words, their own embellishments that they bring."
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
There Is No Why
The store was quiet and dusty, filled with shelves and stacks of books and papers. Sarin moved through it carefully, afraid to touch anything. Wizards and librarians were known to be touchy about their craft, so she expected that the great biblio-magician Silverpage would be at least doubly so. It seemed odd that a man of such wealth and status should choose to operate in a place of business that was as dull and musty as this, but if librarians and wizards were both odd people, then Silverpage would be easily as strange.
The shelves towered over her, seeming to lean in at the top until it felt as if she tiptoed along a paper tunnel; a sound too soft to really make out followed in her wake, as if the books were whispering to one another as she passed.
"This way," called a voice from the dim depths of the literary cavern. "Don't be shy, I won't bite."
Sarin blushed and stepped up her pace, and after a time she found she could make out the flickering glow of a candle, not so far from where she was. The desk it sat on was almost clean, she noticed, but not quite - her fingers twitched unconsciously to the cleaning rag always tucked into her belt. From childhood she'd been raised to value cleanliness, and she'd never felt comfortable in the presence of dirt.
"How may I help you?" Silverpage asked, voice as fragile as the pages he guarded. The light was little but she could still make out his features, and she thought the stories held some truth: in his youth he would have been a heartbreaker indeed. But with innumerable ages his looks had faded, and Sarin thought he resembled an ancient tree, lined and gnarled and slow-moving.
"I wish to buy a story," she said, sounding less confident than she'd felt upon entering the store. He laughed uproariously, throwing back his head and slapping the countertop.
"But of course you do! Why else would you be here?" He fell silent abruptly, levelling his gaze with hers. "A story of any particular kind?"
She smiled.
"Of course. Why else would I be here? There are other storytellers in this city, and none half as expensive as yourself."
They looked at one another - he with the cunning wisdom of old experience, she with the shrewd eye of confident youth. Finally he nodded.
"A particular kind, then. Not the kind offered by my fellow vendors." He tilted his head to the side. "Is it an adventure you seek? I have tales that slip into your mind and enliven your dreams so that you would hardly wish to wake."
Sarin shook her head. The wizard guessed again.
"A romance, perhaps? I can spin words around you so that you feel yourself to be in the arms of a lover who exists only in your mind."
She shooked her head again. He narrowed his eyes, and gestured that she should speak.
"I wish to buy a truth," she said. "About people, and the world, and why."
"Ahh." He sighed, a little sadly. "A true story. I did wonder when this day would come."
She hugged her arms around her stomach, knowing that if she would ever find answers it would be here. A flutter of excitement stirred the embers of hope that had settled so low throughout her search.
"The biggest difficulty is not in finding it, of course," he said, "Any tale which exists may be found, in time, by one who knows the place in which to look. The issue is proprietary - there can exist only one truth, or one set of complementary truths. A tale once sold cannot be purchased again and here lies my problem."
"You have already sold the truth?" Sarin asked, heart sinking.
"The one you seek, no. Other truths to other questions. But the great truth, the truth of why, was sold by someone else, many years ago."
"If I find that person could they share it with me?"
"Perhaps," Silverpage said. "If they were willing to share it.""Why wouldn't they?" Sarin demanded.
"If the truth was not what they expected. If it were a burden more than a hope, perhaps they would wish to keep it to themselves."
"How selfish," she muttered. Silverpage nodded.
"A little."
"Is that all? You cannot tell me who, or where, or how I may find them?"
"I cannot. I am sorry."
Without another word the woman left the store, bumping a stack of books as she left. They toppled to the floor, falling open to pages that had not seen light in countless years. The great wizard Silverpage rose slowly with a groan, and shuffled over to where they lay. Bending to lift them he stopped, taking a little scrap of paper from the pocket of his robe. The words it bore were simple, written in a small and flowing script that had faded with time, as everything does. To anyone else it would probably have been illegible, but Silverpage had read it many times since he first bought it as a youth. It was short and poignant, the tale of people, and the world, and why...
The shelves towered over her, seeming to lean in at the top until it felt as if she tiptoed along a paper tunnel; a sound too soft to really make out followed in her wake, as if the books were whispering to one another as she passed.
"This way," called a voice from the dim depths of the literary cavern. "Don't be shy, I won't bite."
Sarin blushed and stepped up her pace, and after a time she found she could make out the flickering glow of a candle, not so far from where she was. The desk it sat on was almost clean, she noticed, but not quite - her fingers twitched unconsciously to the cleaning rag always tucked into her belt. From childhood she'd been raised to value cleanliness, and she'd never felt comfortable in the presence of dirt.
"How may I help you?" Silverpage asked, voice as fragile as the pages he guarded. The light was little but she could still make out his features, and she thought the stories held some truth: in his youth he would have been a heartbreaker indeed. But with innumerable ages his looks had faded, and Sarin thought he resembled an ancient tree, lined and gnarled and slow-moving.
"I wish to buy a story," she said, sounding less confident than she'd felt upon entering the store. He laughed uproariously, throwing back his head and slapping the countertop.
"But of course you do! Why else would you be here?" He fell silent abruptly, levelling his gaze with hers. "A story of any particular kind?"
She smiled.
"Of course. Why else would I be here? There are other storytellers in this city, and none half as expensive as yourself."
They looked at one another - he with the cunning wisdom of old experience, she with the shrewd eye of confident youth. Finally he nodded.
"A particular kind, then. Not the kind offered by my fellow vendors." He tilted his head to the side. "Is it an adventure you seek? I have tales that slip into your mind and enliven your dreams so that you would hardly wish to wake."
Sarin shook her head. The wizard guessed again.
"A romance, perhaps? I can spin words around you so that you feel yourself to be in the arms of a lover who exists only in your mind."
She shooked her head again. He narrowed his eyes, and gestured that she should speak.
"I wish to buy a truth," she said. "About people, and the world, and why."
"Ahh." He sighed, a little sadly. "A true story. I did wonder when this day would come."
She hugged her arms around her stomach, knowing that if she would ever find answers it would be here. A flutter of excitement stirred the embers of hope that had settled so low throughout her search.
"The biggest difficulty is not in finding it, of course," he said, "Any tale which exists may be found, in time, by one who knows the place in which to look. The issue is proprietary - there can exist only one truth, or one set of complementary truths. A tale once sold cannot be purchased again and here lies my problem."
"You have already sold the truth?" Sarin asked, heart sinking.
"The one you seek, no. Other truths to other questions. But the great truth, the truth of why, was sold by someone else, many years ago."
"If I find that person could they share it with me?"
"Perhaps," Silverpage said. "If they were willing to share it.""Why wouldn't they?" Sarin demanded.
"If the truth was not what they expected. If it were a burden more than a hope, perhaps they would wish to keep it to themselves."
"How selfish," she muttered. Silverpage nodded.
"A little."
"Is that all? You cannot tell me who, or where, or how I may find them?"
"I cannot. I am sorry."
Without another word the woman left the store, bumping a stack of books as she left. They toppled to the floor, falling open to pages that had not seen light in countless years. The great wizard Silverpage rose slowly with a groan, and shuffled over to where they lay. Bending to lift them he stopped, taking a little scrap of paper from the pocket of his robe. The words it bore were simple, written in a small and flowing script that had faded with time, as everything does. To anyone else it would probably have been illegible, but Silverpage had read it many times since he first bought it as a youth. It was short and poignant, the tale of people, and the world, and why...
Monday, 28 July 2008
Let Me Paint You A Picture...
You asked me to paint a portrait of you but I'm so bad at colours. I have clumsy hands. I told you that and you were disappointed in me.
You have eyes that are like autumn, brown and green and flickering all over the place like they were caught in the wind... When it's windy outside your hair comes to life. Others tame theirs with sprays and gels and bobby pins, but you let it go, you let it float and fly around your face. Your mouth isn't used to smiling because you smile on the inside and you smile with your fingers when they dance on the guitar.
You have eyes that are like autumn, brown and green and flickering all over the place like they were caught in the wind... When it's windy outside your hair comes to life. Others tame theirs with sprays and gels and bobby pins, but you let it go, you let it float and fly around your face. Your mouth isn't used to smiling because you smile on the inside and you smile with your fingers when they dance on the guitar.
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Where's My Happily Ever After?
Dreams and news and fairy tales all mixed up in your head until you couldn't tell the difference. You told me it didn't matter, because they were all atrocities anyway, atrocities against life and hope and dogged survival.
Saturday, 26 July 2008
She's Broken - Can't Hide the Fractures
It was his voice she'd fallen for, and his fingers easy on the guitar strings. The songs weren't his own but that was ok, because the sound of them that night was his, all his. The sun was setting outside but she was oblivious to that, staring into the distance through her coffee as his words spun a dream around her. Calm enveloped her so softly she didn't realise it at first. When she did it was a kind of revelation, because in that moment she was happy.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Hope Piggy-Backed on Lightning Bolts
It was dark; the moon and the stars hid behind the clouds as if they were afraid to watch such a night. Power crackled on the backs of stormclouds and made static in the hair of the late-night lovers on park benches. An electric expectation crackled in bus driver's fingertips. Anticipation left watchdogs drooling and cats prowling restlessly.
Thursday, 24 July 2008
Julie Is the Wind
Julie collected bruises like other kids collected marbles, hoarding them greedily like some delicious secret beneath her clothes. It wasn't that she was clumsy, just that she was more delicate than other people. Things others barely noticed caused her real pain. A sharp word or harsh tone was like a bludgeon to her fragile bones - it left her short of breath, gasping in pain and bleeding on the floor.
I always wished I could just kiss it better, but nothing is that simple.
I always wished I could just kiss it better, but nothing is that simple.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Insignificance, Ernest
After she'd gone, Ernest let himself collapse onto the sidewalk, propped up against the wall and with his head in his hands. Everything had been so simple until now. It wasn't difficult to go about your life, even one of constant repression, when that was all you had. But Xanthia had offered him rebellion - dangerous, life-threatening rebellion against an organisation with all the facilities of a nation at its disposal. Was his life a price he was willing to pay for a freedom nobody knew they were without?
But the answer came to him with an eerie clarity as he stared down at the cracked pavement. He would do it, just like Xanthia would do it, because there was nobody else who could.
Feeling very small, Ernest went home.
But the answer came to him with an eerie clarity as he stared down at the cracked pavement. He would do it, just like Xanthia would do it, because there was nobody else who could.
Feeling very small, Ernest went home.
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
From Such Great Heights...
Katie clung to him as if she were drowning.
"Don't let me go," she whispered into his shirt. He had one arm around her while the other aimed and fired, and she had never felt more secure in her life.
"Would I?" He asked shortly, swinging her around so that his body was between her and the current line of fire. Bullets and screams tore through the air around them as he cut a path through the sea of men and Agents that fought on every side of them. She pressed her face harder against his chest, wishing it could block out the sounds of battle. She had thought she would be ready for it, but here they were and she was barely holding back her tears.
"I'm sorry," she said with a little sniff, "I'm not strong enough."
"You will be, when you need to be," Shadow replied. "For now, you are alive. That is enough."
"Don't let me go," she whispered into his shirt. He had one arm around her while the other aimed and fired, and she had never felt more secure in her life.
"Would I?" He asked shortly, swinging her around so that his body was between her and the current line of fire. Bullets and screams tore through the air around them as he cut a path through the sea of men and Agents that fought on every side of them. She pressed her face harder against his chest, wishing it could block out the sounds of battle. She had thought she would be ready for it, but here they were and she was barely holding back her tears.
"I'm sorry," she said with a little sniff, "I'm not strong enough."
"You will be, when you need to be," Shadow replied. "For now, you are alive. That is enough."
Monday, 21 July 2008
Inconspicuous, Ernest
"We've got ten minutes," Sarah said. Ernest stared at her, barely blinking. "You can ask questions once I'm done."
She looked at him over the rim of her sunglasses, wondering how badly he was freaking out.
"I work for the government. They watch your every move, because you know about them. You are not a priority target yet, but the minute you start getting angry or crazy you will become one."
She had spent hours agonising over just how much to tell him. Too much and she would put herself in real danger of exposure. Too little and he may reveal them both out of ignorance.
"The name you will know me by is Xanthia," she said. "It will be a code if I need to communicate with you in a more public way than I'd prefer. For now all I will say is this - I have slight influence over the case of your surveillance. There will be short windows of time when we can communicate, and these must be the only times you speak of me."
He nodded, still wide-eyed, looking around constantly."There are safe places," she said, "Where the surveillance does not extend. This is one."
Sarah glanced quickly at her watch. Alice would return soon.
"At this time you are watched but not recorded. If they see anything suspicious that will change, and you will lose any chance you ever had of making a difference in all of this."
When she didn't speak again, Ernest took his chance.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because what they do is wrong and somebody needs to do something. My job gives me an advantage that I can't pass up."
"When will I hear from you again?"
"When it is safe." She looked at her watch again. "I have to go. Please act normally."
She looked at him over the rim of her sunglasses, wondering how badly he was freaking out.
"I work for the government. They watch your every move, because you know about them. You are not a priority target yet, but the minute you start getting angry or crazy you will become one."
She had spent hours agonising over just how much to tell him. Too much and she would put herself in real danger of exposure. Too little and he may reveal them both out of ignorance.
"The name you will know me by is Xanthia," she said. "It will be a code if I need to communicate with you in a more public way than I'd prefer. For now all I will say is this - I have slight influence over the case of your surveillance. There will be short windows of time when we can communicate, and these must be the only times you speak of me."
He nodded, still wide-eyed, looking around constantly."There are safe places," she said, "Where the surveillance does not extend. This is one."
Sarah glanced quickly at her watch. Alice would return soon.
"At this time you are watched but not recorded. If they see anything suspicious that will change, and you will lose any chance you ever had of making a difference in all of this."
When she didn't speak again, Ernest took his chance.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because what they do is wrong and somebody needs to do something. My job gives me an advantage that I can't pass up."
"When will I hear from you again?"
"When it is safe." She looked at her watch again. "I have to go. Please act normally."
Sunday, 20 July 2008
Food For Thought
That night, as Alice headed outside for her break, Sarah logged into the O-BAD console. Her own password would not work but she had watched as Alice signed in the night before. If she was quick, she stood a chance.
Ernest was in bed but not asleep, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sarah keyed in a command - his bedside radio switched on.
"I know that's you," he said morosely over the crackling static as it flicked through the stations. "Are you having a good time?"
"Listen to me," Sarah whispered, looking over her shoulder at the door, as if she could see anyone before the came through it. Hearing her voice Ernest's eyes widened - he had not expected this. "You're right. About everything. We must meet."
"Who are you?"
His voice was shaking. Sarah smiled.
"A friend. Be outside 31 Elston Street at this time tomorrow night or forget I ever spoke. Say no more now."
"Elston Street? Why?"
Sarah resisted the urge to reply, to tell him everything, to tell him she was going to help because what the government was doing was wrong. But instead she sat back, and signed out of the O-BAD console, and returned to her own desk to watch as Ernest tossed and turned and did not sleep for a long time.
Ernest was in bed but not asleep, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sarah keyed in a command - his bedside radio switched on.
"I know that's you," he said morosely over the crackling static as it flicked through the stations. "Are you having a good time?"
"Listen to me," Sarah whispered, looking over her shoulder at the door, as if she could see anyone before the came through it. Hearing her voice Ernest's eyes widened - he had not expected this. "You're right. About everything. We must meet."
"Who are you?"
His voice was shaking. Sarah smiled.
"A friend. Be outside 31 Elston Street at this time tomorrow night or forget I ever spoke. Say no more now."
"Elston Street? Why?"
Sarah resisted the urge to reply, to tell him everything, to tell him she was going to help because what the government was doing was wrong. But instead she sat back, and signed out of the O-BAD console, and returned to her own desk to watch as Ernest tossed and turned and did not sleep for a long time.
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Ernest Gets Angry
Ernest Truffle was upset. He had risen that morning with his usual cheer, but it had disappeared when he saw the damp mess in his kitchen.
"You bastards!" he shouted, over and over, not caring if the neighbours heard. The neighbours already thought Ernest was crazy. A small voice in his head suggested that just maybe he was overreacting, but it was drowned out by the much louder voice of his indignation. Anybody else might have dismissed this as an unlucky chance, but Ernest knew better. It was too obvious, too much of a coincidence that the sprinkler system could malfunction the very night he found a way to beat the system. It was too neat.
On the outside he raged, but on the inside Ernest was calm.
It was time to fight back.
"You bastards!" he shouted, over and over, not caring if the neighbours heard. The neighbours already thought Ernest was crazy. A small voice in his head suggested that just maybe he was overreacting, but it was drowned out by the much louder voice of his indignation. Anybody else might have dismissed this as an unlucky chance, but Ernest knew better. It was too obvious, too much of a coincidence that the sprinkler system could malfunction the very night he found a way to beat the system. It was too neat.
On the outside he raged, but on the inside Ernest was calm.
It was time to fight back.
Friday, 18 July 2008
Office-Based Active Duty
An ominous voice crackled over the intercom - "Destroy the box."
"Can we do that?" Sarah asked, surprised. Alice laughed.
"I keep forgetting that you're new to this department. What we're about to do is known as "Office-Based Active Duty"."
"O. B. A. D.?"
"O-BAD. It's fun, believe me."
Alice pished off from the desk, rolling on her chair to where the room's third computer station sat. Sarah had always assumed it was there to cater for a possible third worker. But as Alice keyed in her password, the interface that loaded was very different to the one she was used to.
"This is the O-BAD interface," Alice explained, opening up Ernest Truffle's profile. "I haven't had a chance to use it since coming onto the Truffle Case, but they use it all the time on priority cases."A house floor plan appeared, and after a moment Sarah recognised it.
"That's Ernest's house."
"Bingo!"
Ernest had gone to bed but his box was still in the kitchen, so Alice chose to make a quick demonstration.
"We can turn the lights on and off, as well as any appliance in the room that's connected to power. We have remote devices to cater for anything more portable, but they're a little less reliable."
"That's insane," Sarah whispered. "That's absolutely unbelievable."
"Interns get a bit frisky with the O-BAD systems sometimes," Alice admitted, "Flicking lights on and off, that kinda thing. Making people think they're being haunt or going crazy or something."
"I don't blame them," Sarash admitted, "But-""But how do we destroy the box?"
Sarah nodded.
"I'm surprised you didn't think of it for yourself." She grinned as she tapped in a few commands, and then the fire-sprinkler switched on. It went to work, silently and without fuss, and before long the box was no more than a soggy heap. Alice chuckled to herself as she headed outside for a smoke, but Sarah felt bad. She knew what it felt like to be constantly under surveillance - besides Ernest, only those who worked for the Department really knew that feeling. So she did not blame him for wanting a little privacy. Taking that box away had been an act of spite.
She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. There had to be a way to do something nice for Ernest, without anybody actually finding out.
"Can we do that?" Sarah asked, surprised. Alice laughed.
"I keep forgetting that you're new to this department. What we're about to do is known as "Office-Based Active Duty"."
"O. B. A. D.?"
"O-BAD. It's fun, believe me."
Alice pished off from the desk, rolling on her chair to where the room's third computer station sat. Sarah had always assumed it was there to cater for a possible third worker. But as Alice keyed in her password, the interface that loaded was very different to the one she was used to.
"This is the O-BAD interface," Alice explained, opening up Ernest Truffle's profile. "I haven't had a chance to use it since coming onto the Truffle Case, but they use it all the time on priority cases."A house floor plan appeared, and after a moment Sarah recognised it.
"That's Ernest's house."
"Bingo!"
Ernest had gone to bed but his box was still in the kitchen, so Alice chose to make a quick demonstration.
"We can turn the lights on and off, as well as any appliance in the room that's connected to power. We have remote devices to cater for anything more portable, but they're a little less reliable."
"That's insane," Sarah whispered. "That's absolutely unbelievable."
"Interns get a bit frisky with the O-BAD systems sometimes," Alice admitted, "Flicking lights on and off, that kinda thing. Making people think they're being haunt or going crazy or something."
"I don't blame them," Sarash admitted, "But-""But how do we destroy the box?"
Sarah nodded.
"I'm surprised you didn't think of it for yourself." She grinned as she tapped in a few commands, and then the fire-sprinkler switched on. It went to work, silently and without fuss, and before long the box was no more than a soggy heap. Alice chuckled to herself as she headed outside for a smoke, but Sarah felt bad. She knew what it felt like to be constantly under surveillance - besides Ernest, only those who worked for the Department really knew that feeling. So she did not blame him for wanting a little privacy. Taking that box away had been an act of spite.
She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. There had to be a way to do something nice for Ernest, without anybody actually finding out.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
An Event that Made it Into the Report
"Doorbell," Alice announced. Sarah sat up with a start, dropping the pen she'd been absently chewing the end of.
"Visitors?" She asked, trying to find the pen without taking her eyes off the screen.
"As if," Alice snorted. "You know Truffle doesn't have any friends. No, it looks like a delivery..."
They watched in silence as a large box was wheeled into the room.
"Refrigerator," Alice nodded, satisfied that everything added up. Truffle had ordered it earlier that week, though they had not noticed any problems with his current one. Truffle signed for the delivery, then took a knife from the drawer behind him.
"I suppose you're wondering what I would want with a refrigerator, when the one I already have works fine," he said, addressing them again as if he really knew they were there. He slashed at the box with the knife, undoing its bindings until he could put it to one side. "Maybe I just want a little privacy?"
Without another word he lifted the box and set it down over his head. They could hear him giggling as he shuffled around the room.
"I think this is going to make it into the report," Alice said faintly.
"Visitors?" She asked, trying to find the pen without taking her eyes off the screen.
"As if," Alice snorted. "You know Truffle doesn't have any friends. No, it looks like a delivery..."
They watched in silence as a large box was wheeled into the room.
"Refrigerator," Alice nodded, satisfied that everything added up. Truffle had ordered it earlier that week, though they had not noticed any problems with his current one. Truffle signed for the delivery, then took a knife from the drawer behind him.
"I suppose you're wondering what I would want with a refrigerator, when the one I already have works fine," he said, addressing them again as if he really knew they were there. He slashed at the box with the knife, undoing its bindings until he could put it to one side. "Maybe I just want a little privacy?"
Without another word he lifted the box and set it down over his head. They could hear him giggling as he shuffled around the room.
"I think this is going to make it into the report," Alice said faintly.
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
The Truffle Case
Ernest talked to the invisible cameras as he cooked his breakfast.
"I hope you can smell this," he said cheerfully, "I hope you know what you're missing out on. Fresh eggs and cheese, a bit of bacon, a good omelette to start the day off..."
Sarah sighed, because it looked so much more appetising than her own cold-toast breakfast.
Alice sighed, because the lens of the kitchen's camera had steamed over, and they had to switch to an alternate viewpoint.
"I thought they'd installed defoggers?" She complained.
"On some units. Priority cases."
"Isn't Truffle a priority case?"
"To be honest, I don't think so." Sarah shrugged. "He would become one the moment he showed any hostile inclination. I think he's more of a novelty to them than anything else. They keep asking if we're sure he's sane, as if it's impossible for him to be so complacent about us."
She looked down at her current notebook, and then to the rusted filing cabinet where its predecessors rested.
"He's sane, though," she said finally. "I'm quite sure of it."
"Don't think I'd be able to cope with it," Alice shuddered. "It's bad enough to know I'm recorded out in public. But in your own home? Thank god this job gives us that much privacy. It's about the only reason I stay.""Is it so bad here? Comfortable chairs, easy workload. No job stress. Lifetime financial stability."
"My eyes hurt from staring at a screen all day, and all these computers give me a pounding headache." She rubbed at her temples, frowning, then attempted a smile. "At least the company's good."
"I hope you can smell this," he said cheerfully, "I hope you know what you're missing out on. Fresh eggs and cheese, a bit of bacon, a good omelette to start the day off..."
Sarah sighed, because it looked so much more appetising than her own cold-toast breakfast.
Alice sighed, because the lens of the kitchen's camera had steamed over, and they had to switch to an alternate viewpoint.
"I thought they'd installed defoggers?" She complained.
"On some units. Priority cases."
"Isn't Truffle a priority case?"
"To be honest, I don't think so." Sarah shrugged. "He would become one the moment he showed any hostile inclination. I think he's more of a novelty to them than anything else. They keep asking if we're sure he's sane, as if it's impossible for him to be so complacent about us."
She looked down at her current notebook, and then to the rusted filing cabinet where its predecessors rested.
"He's sane, though," she said finally. "I'm quite sure of it."
"Don't think I'd be able to cope with it," Alice shuddered. "It's bad enough to know I'm recorded out in public. But in your own home? Thank god this job gives us that much privacy. It's about the only reason I stay.""Is it so bad here? Comfortable chairs, easy workload. No job stress. Lifetime financial stability."
"My eyes hurt from staring at a screen all day, and all these computers give me a pounding headache." She rubbed at her temples, frowning, then attempted a smile. "At least the company's good."
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
If You Don't Hear From Me Again, This Is A True Story
"We're all being watched," he said to the wide-eyed sales assistant, "All of the time."
He gestured expansively. She giggled.
"Of course we are, every store is fitted with security cameras."
He sighed and handed over the money. That wasn't at all what he'd meant.
It was a good coffee, though. He drank it with relish as he walked through the park to his home, smiling at the warm sunshine. Whoever was watching him should be jealous, he though, stuck in a stuffy little office on a day like this.
People called Ernest Truffle paranoid, and he called them ignorant. Was it his fault he knew more about surveillance technology than the everyday citizen? Was it his fault the rest of the world was so oblivious to the government's actions?He had worked out what was happening when he was 23 years old, and it had been the day his life changed. At first it had been the strangest thing in the world - to live under constant surveillance, to eat and sleep and bathe with unseen cameras recording every moment. He'd spent hours on end searching and never found a thing, but that just meant they were more clever than he was. In time he stopped searching, and then he stopped caring.
--
"Ernest is talking to us again," Sarah announced, turning up the volume at her station. "Do you think we should log this?"
"Depends on the content," Alice said with a sigh. "If he's just ranting again there's no point."They listened for a while, pale faces intent amidst the monitors' glow.
"I know you're there," Ernest said to the empty darkness of his bedroom. "Watching me. Recording me. Taking notes on everything I say."
Sarah's pen stopped moving, and she glanced over at her colleague.
"You don't think-?"
"No. He's guessing. He's not even sure we ARE here."
"He seems sure."
"He has no proof, and no way of getting any," Alice insisted. She rubbed at her forehead and sighed again. "I need a break. Can you handle things here for a while?"
"You may as well go home, Al. He's a heavy sleeper, I doubt there'll be a need for even one of us tonight, let alone both."
"Thanks, hun," Alice patted Sarah's shoulder as she passed. "I owe you one.""Another one," Sarah replied, and they laughed.
"I hope they're paying you a lot," Ernest said, "I can't even image how fucking boring it must be, just watching me all day."
"Boring for some," Sarah whispered. At her prompt the camera zoomed in on Ernest's face, and she watched as he closed his eyes. He was still talking, but more softly now, about the weather outside, about his day, about nothing in particular. He often talked himself to sleep.
"Get out and have a life of your own," he said finally, "You're only dying, in that office."
Before Ernest, Sarah HAD felt that her job was just a slow and dull death. But then she'd been put onto "The Truffle Case", and in a way her life had changed. He was the only person in the city who believed without a shred of doubt in what she did. Oh, others guessed, or wondered, or feared that it was so. But only Ernest Truffle really knew what was going on. Sarah sure of this, because she'd checked, using her precious free time to search millions of profile records.
She fell asleep at her desk, the office filled with the hum of the computers and the soft rumble of Ernest's snores.
He gestured expansively. She giggled.
"Of course we are, every store is fitted with security cameras."
He sighed and handed over the money. That wasn't at all what he'd meant.
It was a good coffee, though. He drank it with relish as he walked through the park to his home, smiling at the warm sunshine. Whoever was watching him should be jealous, he though, stuck in a stuffy little office on a day like this.
People called Ernest Truffle paranoid, and he called them ignorant. Was it his fault he knew more about surveillance technology than the everyday citizen? Was it his fault the rest of the world was so oblivious to the government's actions?He had worked out what was happening when he was 23 years old, and it had been the day his life changed. At first it had been the strangest thing in the world - to live under constant surveillance, to eat and sleep and bathe with unseen cameras recording every moment. He'd spent hours on end searching and never found a thing, but that just meant they were more clever than he was. In time he stopped searching, and then he stopped caring.
--
"Ernest is talking to us again," Sarah announced, turning up the volume at her station. "Do you think we should log this?"
"Depends on the content," Alice said with a sigh. "If he's just ranting again there's no point."They listened for a while, pale faces intent amidst the monitors' glow.
"I know you're there," Ernest said to the empty darkness of his bedroom. "Watching me. Recording me. Taking notes on everything I say."
Sarah's pen stopped moving, and she glanced over at her colleague.
"You don't think-?"
"No. He's guessing. He's not even sure we ARE here."
"He seems sure."
"He has no proof, and no way of getting any," Alice insisted. She rubbed at her forehead and sighed again. "I need a break. Can you handle things here for a while?"
"You may as well go home, Al. He's a heavy sleeper, I doubt there'll be a need for even one of us tonight, let alone both."
"Thanks, hun," Alice patted Sarah's shoulder as she passed. "I owe you one.""Another one," Sarah replied, and they laughed.
"I hope they're paying you a lot," Ernest said, "I can't even image how fucking boring it must be, just watching me all day."
"Boring for some," Sarah whispered. At her prompt the camera zoomed in on Ernest's face, and she watched as he closed his eyes. He was still talking, but more softly now, about the weather outside, about his day, about nothing in particular. He often talked himself to sleep.
"Get out and have a life of your own," he said finally, "You're only dying, in that office."
Before Ernest, Sarah HAD felt that her job was just a slow and dull death. But then she'd been put onto "The Truffle Case", and in a way her life had changed. He was the only person in the city who believed without a shred of doubt in what she did. Oh, others guessed, or wondered, or feared that it was so. But only Ernest Truffle really knew what was going on. Sarah sure of this, because she'd checked, using her precious free time to search millions of profile records.
She fell asleep at her desk, the office filled with the hum of the computers and the soft rumble of Ernest's snores.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Royal Courier
"This is my escort?" Emily asked in disbelief. "Surely the Queen warrants a few more soldiers?"
"You must attempt to remain inconspicuous, my liege," the armsman replied softly. "As of yet, only a handful of people know your current appearance, and you are safest as long as it remains so."
She frowned but nodded agreement. It wasn't Emily's annoyance but the crotchety old woman she carried within her.
"I am - we are afraid," she said at last. "We do not want to die."
"You will not die," he said, and he held the girl's chin so that she could not look away. "You are Lady Emily Graystone, accompanied by a small courtesy force of kingsmen to your family's winter lodgings. The only person to know otherwise besides myself is Captain Elmshold."
"Thank you," she said, taking her horse's reins from him. He offered her a hand but she leapt easily into the saddle and, with a last cheeky salute, trotted over to her group.
"Are we going to stand around here all day?" She called out, voice ringing in the still, cold air. Half a dozen sleepy faces turned to her, and with a start she found them to be familiar. Though she'd never met them before, Emily knew each one by name - grey-haired Captain Elmshold and three of his men, Lady Umika Shadowhands, mage of the court, and George Bardspell, a mage also and widely renowned. The familiarity was strongest toward him, accompanied by a warmth that told her the Queen had liked this man. He smiled at her as he mounted his own horse, and laughed aloud as the armsmen scrambled into position.
"Apologies, my Lady," Elmshold said, bowing from the saddle, "My men are new recruits and unused to discipline so early in the day."
"A trio of recruits is to be my guard?" She asked quietly.
"Young but talented," he replied, "Their skills will rival my own some day."
Emily did not know the Captain but the Queen did, and his words quieted the old spirit.
"I hope you set a hard pace these next days," she said as they rode out the gates, "I don't want those mages slowing us down."
"They are tough, for mages. They will not hold us back."
Elmshold decided speed was more important than comfort and so they ate first- and midmeal in the saddle, and stopped only as the sun began to set. The King's Road was designed for travellers and at intervals along its length the bordering hedge bowed outwards, leaving little clearings with soft grass, clear-water springs, and starapple trees. The trees had a magical power gem amongst their roots, and it was through these that the royal gardeners coaxed the trees to bloosom and bear fruit throughout the year. The starapples were a sweet contribution to the rather tasteless travel rations provided by the armsmen.
"Will you play for us?" Emily asked once the meal was done, spying a baliset among somebody's bags. "Nobody carries a baliset who is not skilled in its use, and I do love music."
Umika Shadowhands had not spoken all day but now she did, rising and bowing elegantly to Emily.
"It would be an honour to entertain the Lady Graystone," she said formally, taking the baliset into her lap as she regained her place beside the fire.
"I didn't realise -" Emily stammered, "I could never impose -"
Umika ignored her protest, silencing the girl with a raised eyebrow and a few plucked notes. Despite her protests, Emily would not be so rude as to speak over the performance of a court bard, let alone one who was also a mage. Umika tuned the baliset with loving hands, and when she was ready she asked if anybody had a particular request.
"A song you wrote yourself," Elmshold suggested, which drew a little smile from the solemn mage.
"The baliset does not like new songs," she said softly. "Only old songs that it knows, or melodies it composes itself."
"It writes its own songs?" Emily broke in, incredulously. Umika nodded but it was George who replied.
"The baliset is an instrument like any other, but in the hands of a mage such as Lady Shadowhands, it draws on the musician's magic. When they've been together for as many years as these two have it tends to develop a kind of will. They model themselves upon the player - Umika's baliset is notoriously stubborn."
"I would like to hear that," Emily said, prompted by the Queen's own memories of Umika's playing. She wasn't quite prepared to hear the amount of longing in her voice, but that was what it meant to be a host. The minds remained separated, with the carried soul as a quiet passenger, but emotions were more powerful than the magic and often mingled between the two. Emily had been afraid, at first, that this would be uncomfortable, but so far she had only felt it as a kind of dim compulsion, or a tingle of feelings that were not her own.
"You must attempt to remain inconspicuous, my liege," the armsman replied softly. "As of yet, only a handful of people know your current appearance, and you are safest as long as it remains so."
She frowned but nodded agreement. It wasn't Emily's annoyance but the crotchety old woman she carried within her.
"I am - we are afraid," she said at last. "We do not want to die."
"You will not die," he said, and he held the girl's chin so that she could not look away. "You are Lady Emily Graystone, accompanied by a small courtesy force of kingsmen to your family's winter lodgings. The only person to know otherwise besides myself is Captain Elmshold."
"Thank you," she said, taking her horse's reins from him. He offered her a hand but she leapt easily into the saddle and, with a last cheeky salute, trotted over to her group.
"Are we going to stand around here all day?" She called out, voice ringing in the still, cold air. Half a dozen sleepy faces turned to her, and with a start she found them to be familiar. Though she'd never met them before, Emily knew each one by name - grey-haired Captain Elmshold and three of his men, Lady Umika Shadowhands, mage of the court, and George Bardspell, a mage also and widely renowned. The familiarity was strongest toward him, accompanied by a warmth that told her the Queen had liked this man. He smiled at her as he mounted his own horse, and laughed aloud as the armsmen scrambled into position.
"Apologies, my Lady," Elmshold said, bowing from the saddle, "My men are new recruits and unused to discipline so early in the day."
"A trio of recruits is to be my guard?" She asked quietly.
"Young but talented," he replied, "Their skills will rival my own some day."
Emily did not know the Captain but the Queen did, and his words quieted the old spirit.
"I hope you set a hard pace these next days," she said as they rode out the gates, "I don't want those mages slowing us down."
"They are tough, for mages. They will not hold us back."
Elmshold decided speed was more important than comfort and so they ate first- and midmeal in the saddle, and stopped only as the sun began to set. The King's Road was designed for travellers and at intervals along its length the bordering hedge bowed outwards, leaving little clearings with soft grass, clear-water springs, and starapple trees. The trees had a magical power gem amongst their roots, and it was through these that the royal gardeners coaxed the trees to bloosom and bear fruit throughout the year. The starapples were a sweet contribution to the rather tasteless travel rations provided by the armsmen.
"Will you play for us?" Emily asked once the meal was done, spying a baliset among somebody's bags. "Nobody carries a baliset who is not skilled in its use, and I do love music."
Umika Shadowhands had not spoken all day but now she did, rising and bowing elegantly to Emily.
"It would be an honour to entertain the Lady Graystone," she said formally, taking the baliset into her lap as she regained her place beside the fire.
"I didn't realise -" Emily stammered, "I could never impose -"
Umika ignored her protest, silencing the girl with a raised eyebrow and a few plucked notes. Despite her protests, Emily would not be so rude as to speak over the performance of a court bard, let alone one who was also a mage. Umika tuned the baliset with loving hands, and when she was ready she asked if anybody had a particular request.
"A song you wrote yourself," Elmshold suggested, which drew a little smile from the solemn mage.
"The baliset does not like new songs," she said softly. "Only old songs that it knows, or melodies it composes itself."
"It writes its own songs?" Emily broke in, incredulously. Umika nodded but it was George who replied.
"The baliset is an instrument like any other, but in the hands of a mage such as Lady Shadowhands, it draws on the musician's magic. When they've been together for as many years as these two have it tends to develop a kind of will. They model themselves upon the player - Umika's baliset is notoriously stubborn."
"I would like to hear that," Emily said, prompted by the Queen's own memories of Umika's playing. She wasn't quite prepared to hear the amount of longing in her voice, but that was what it meant to be a host. The minds remained separated, with the carried soul as a quiet passenger, but emotions were more powerful than the magic and often mingled between the two. Emily had been afraid, at first, that this would be uncomfortable, but so far she had only felt it as a kind of dim compulsion, or a tingle of feelings that were not her own.
Sunday, 13 July 2008
Days Like These....
Days like these make me wish that I drank coffee, or smoked cigarettes, or had some kind of addiction to draw relief from...
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Prophecy
"You know that I don't believe in prophecy," The woman said sternly, peering out from beneath a black veil. "Yet you try to foister this one upon me, and you claim that I am to have a part in it."
"Indeed, madam," The man replied humbly, bowing low, his grey robe looking unusually bright beside the widow's mourning black. "Through no choice of my own, for the Dream came to me and I am but its servant, bound to inform those who must be informed, like or not."
She sniffed, and when she spoke her tone said clearly that she believed it all to be nonsense.
"If, as you say, what must happen shall happen 'like or not', then no action on my part may prohibit its happening to me." She paused, and he nodded in agreement. "Then why tell me at all?"
"My lady," He bowed again, not noticing the way the woman rolled her eyes at the gesture. "My true aim tonight was to impress upon you the importance of your role. If you fail, then we are surely doomed."
Still bent almost double, the man left the room, watched steadily by the woman whose finger still bore the ring of her beloved. She had never held with priests or any of their strange ceremonies, yet something in the man's voice had impressed itself upon her - an undeniable sincerity, an utter belief in what he said that left the woman uncharacteristically inclined to believe his words too. The prophecy he had spoken of had sounded so authentic, the way she had always secretly believed one should sound; filled with dark omens and impossible conditions. Despite the beliefs of a lifetime, suddenly the widow found her mind changed. She would play the priest's game, and await the coming of the prophesied one, and fulfil her part in their destiny.
With a heavy heart the woman looked around her at the room, at the heavy drapes that held out the sun's cheerful light, at the severity of the furniture, at the grim portraits of past generations. Perhaps it was time to end her mourning. Perhaps it was past time. With the tiniest of sighs she stood, knuckling her back, so sore after such a short time in that uncomfortable chair, and threw back the curtains of the nearest window.
Sunbeams lanced the air, and the dust that flew into the air seemed like tiny, dancing particles of gold. The woman stared at them, entranced, and some of the lines that had creased her forehead in recent days faded. Breaking free of the sunlight's spell, she moved about the room in a frenzy, tearing the curtains down and throwing them in a heap on the floor. The paintings followed after, without regard or care, and then she was running down the stairs, head brimming with plans.
"Indeed, madam," The man replied humbly, bowing low, his grey robe looking unusually bright beside the widow's mourning black. "Through no choice of my own, for the Dream came to me and I am but its servant, bound to inform those who must be informed, like or not."
She sniffed, and when she spoke her tone said clearly that she believed it all to be nonsense.
"If, as you say, what must happen shall happen 'like or not', then no action on my part may prohibit its happening to me." She paused, and he nodded in agreement. "Then why tell me at all?"
"My lady," He bowed again, not noticing the way the woman rolled her eyes at the gesture. "My true aim tonight was to impress upon you the importance of your role. If you fail, then we are surely doomed."
Still bent almost double, the man left the room, watched steadily by the woman whose finger still bore the ring of her beloved. She had never held with priests or any of their strange ceremonies, yet something in the man's voice had impressed itself upon her - an undeniable sincerity, an utter belief in what he said that left the woman uncharacteristically inclined to believe his words too. The prophecy he had spoken of had sounded so authentic, the way she had always secretly believed one should sound; filled with dark omens and impossible conditions. Despite the beliefs of a lifetime, suddenly the widow found her mind changed. She would play the priest's game, and await the coming of the prophesied one, and fulfil her part in their destiny.
With a heavy heart the woman looked around her at the room, at the heavy drapes that held out the sun's cheerful light, at the severity of the furniture, at the grim portraits of past generations. Perhaps it was time to end her mourning. Perhaps it was past time. With the tiniest of sighs she stood, knuckling her back, so sore after such a short time in that uncomfortable chair, and threw back the curtains of the nearest window.
Sunbeams lanced the air, and the dust that flew into the air seemed like tiny, dancing particles of gold. The woman stared at them, entranced, and some of the lines that had creased her forehead in recent days faded. Breaking free of the sunlight's spell, she moved about the room in a frenzy, tearing the curtains down and throwing them in a heap on the floor. The paintings followed after, without regard or care, and then she was running down the stairs, head brimming with plans.
Friday, 11 July 2008
Tempest
You said the only way to cure bad memories was to create new ones, so I agreed to go out with you. And even though you only said it to give yourself a chance, it worked for a while. Besides, I always knew what kind of guy you were. Why are dangerous people so exciting? When we fought you were a hurricane that tore me up inside, but I am grateful that you taught me how to shore up my defences. Bad weather doesn't last forever, though I'm left with new bad memories, and sometimes I still hear your voice.
Your words are cloudy skies that always herald rain.
Your words are cloudy skies that always herald rain.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
The Welcomer
The first thing Emily saw was the sea, blue and green and sparkling in the warm sunlight. Without a thought she let the door close behind her, taking in her surroundings with awe. She stood on a tiny grass-covered island where little white daisies poked their heads up and nodded contendtedly in the salty breeze. At the base of a gentle slope a wooden dock jutted out into the water and a pair of beautifully decorated boats bobbed beside it. And, beyond a stretch of placid ocean, a shining city rose, layer upon layer out of the sea. The buildings were made of a smooth white stone flecked with silver, twisting and merging with one another like salt crystals grown on the rock.
"I don't believe this," Emily muttered, turning back to the door. It sat behind her in the trunk of a gnarled tree, but when she tried the handle it wouldn't budge.
"It's locked," said a voice from behind her, and she span to see an old man dangling his feet in the sea. "You won't get through that door in a hurry."
"What you you mean? Who-"
"Who am I?" He interrupted. "And then you ask, 'What is this place?' and 'Why won't you let me leave?'."
Emily scowled as he listed all the questions she'd been about to ask. He tried a smile on her but faltered when she merely frowned back.
"Why do they always become hostile?" He asked the empty air. "I am the Welcomer, you are at the Doors, and you cannot leave because it was magic that brought you here and magic is a fickle fiend at best."
"That didn't tell me anything!" Emily cried. She was in a state of shock, she supposed, as her mind numbly sat back and watched her body throw a tantrum. "Why are you being so difficult?!"
The Welcomer watched her wearily.
"It is my job to welcome newcomers - that's you - to Squid City. Through a network of magical portals, people like yourself are transported here. The doors only open on our side at the Festival of Lights, so if you're going home it will be then. Unless of course someone else finds the same portal you did, assuming it's still there, and that we manage to keep the door open. The longer they're open the harder they are to hold onto," he explained to a wide-eyed Emily. Now that he'd mentioned it, she could see that there were in fact many more doors than the one she'd come through. They were of all shapes and sizes throughout the tree's massive trunk, and all of them were locked tight.
"What is Squid City?" She asked finally, deciding that this had to be a dream or a hallucination. She would play along, for now.
"Squid City!" The Welcomer repeated brightly. "City of Heroes! City of Adventure! City of Squid!"
"Do they pay you to say that?" She asked. He shrugged.
"It's all part of the job." He brightened, and pointed to the boats. "Ready to go to the City?"
He moved very nimbly for his age, she noticed, as he helped her into the smaller of the boats. Seeing the question in her eyes he smiled sadly.
"The other one's grander, but it's too big for us. Couldn't do it even if I made you take an oar, and that's no way to welcome anybody." They both watched it as they pulled off from the dock, and Emily could see that it was faded and dusty. "Back in the day, there was a whole team of us Welcomers, ferrying people too and from the Doors. There were grand welcoming parties every day! Guests are rare now, though."
He sounded so sad that Emily could tell how much he'd enjoyed his job.
"I can tell people about Squid City," she offered, "I'm sure lots of people would like to come here."
"No!" He shouted, and she shrank back involuntarily from the strength of his reaction. "You can never tell people - we know what your 'government' is like. One of them came here, once, and got all agitated about our presence being a 'threat to national security'. We had to seal up that door after he went back."
Emily nodded. The Government would be interested in Squid City, and probably in a bad way for its people.
"Don't worry about that," the Welcomer said kindly. "Squid City is about having a fun time! The Festival of Lights isn't so far away, and then you can go home. Just think of it as a holiday."
"I don't believe this," Emily muttered, turning back to the door. It sat behind her in the trunk of a gnarled tree, but when she tried the handle it wouldn't budge.
"It's locked," said a voice from behind her, and she span to see an old man dangling his feet in the sea. "You won't get through that door in a hurry."
"What you you mean? Who-"
"Who am I?" He interrupted. "And then you ask, 'What is this place?' and 'Why won't you let me leave?'."
Emily scowled as he listed all the questions she'd been about to ask. He tried a smile on her but faltered when she merely frowned back.
"Why do they always become hostile?" He asked the empty air. "I am the Welcomer, you are at the Doors, and you cannot leave because it was magic that brought you here and magic is a fickle fiend at best."
"That didn't tell me anything!" Emily cried. She was in a state of shock, she supposed, as her mind numbly sat back and watched her body throw a tantrum. "Why are you being so difficult?!"
The Welcomer watched her wearily.
"It is my job to welcome newcomers - that's you - to Squid City. Through a network of magical portals, people like yourself are transported here. The doors only open on our side at the Festival of Lights, so if you're going home it will be then. Unless of course someone else finds the same portal you did, assuming it's still there, and that we manage to keep the door open. The longer they're open the harder they are to hold onto," he explained to a wide-eyed Emily. Now that he'd mentioned it, she could see that there were in fact many more doors than the one she'd come through. They were of all shapes and sizes throughout the tree's massive trunk, and all of them were locked tight.
"What is Squid City?" She asked finally, deciding that this had to be a dream or a hallucination. She would play along, for now.
"Squid City!" The Welcomer repeated brightly. "City of Heroes! City of Adventure! City of Squid!"
"Do they pay you to say that?" She asked. He shrugged.
"It's all part of the job." He brightened, and pointed to the boats. "Ready to go to the City?"
He moved very nimbly for his age, she noticed, as he helped her into the smaller of the boats. Seeing the question in her eyes he smiled sadly.
"The other one's grander, but it's too big for us. Couldn't do it even if I made you take an oar, and that's no way to welcome anybody." They both watched it as they pulled off from the dock, and Emily could see that it was faded and dusty. "Back in the day, there was a whole team of us Welcomers, ferrying people too and from the Doors. There were grand welcoming parties every day! Guests are rare now, though."
He sounded so sad that Emily could tell how much he'd enjoyed his job.
"I can tell people about Squid City," she offered, "I'm sure lots of people would like to come here."
"No!" He shouted, and she shrank back involuntarily from the strength of his reaction. "You can never tell people - we know what your 'government' is like. One of them came here, once, and got all agitated about our presence being a 'threat to national security'. We had to seal up that door after he went back."
Emily nodded. The Government would be interested in Squid City, and probably in a bad way for its people.
"Don't worry about that," the Welcomer said kindly. "Squid City is about having a fun time! The Festival of Lights isn't so far away, and then you can go home. Just think of it as a holiday."
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
City of Heroes! City of Adventure! City of Squid!
The cave showed no signs of ending and Emily was getting bored. She was on the verge of giving up and turning back when her torch flickered and died. Cursing, she fiddled with the switch but nothing happened. Frustrated she shoved it into her pocket - and then realised that she could still see. A faint glow of light showed from around the corner. Was it possible that the cave was actually a tunnel that led somewhere?Curiosity dragged her around the corner and those that followed until it ended abruptly in a little cavern. And there, against all probability, was a door.
Even if it hadn't been in a cave underneath Emily's town the door would have been remarkable. Smooth silvery wood with copper-wire inlays framed the window that provided the only light in the tunnel - an extravagant stained-glass panel depicting a shining tower wrapped in the slippery embrace of an enourmous squid.
Nobody could have resisted the temptation to open that impossible door, and Emily had always been ruled by her curiosity. With a half-suppressed giggle of excitement she tried the handle - it turned easily, and the door swung open before her and for a moment she was blinded by the brilliant sunlight beyond it...
Even if it hadn't been in a cave underneath Emily's town the door would have been remarkable. Smooth silvery wood with copper-wire inlays framed the window that provided the only light in the tunnel - an extravagant stained-glass panel depicting a shining tower wrapped in the slippery embrace of an enourmous squid.
Nobody could have resisted the temptation to open that impossible door, and Emily had always been ruled by her curiosity. With a half-suppressed giggle of excitement she tried the handle - it turned easily, and the door swung open before her and for a moment she was blinded by the brilliant sunlight beyond it...
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Battlecry
"You must wait here with the other women," he commanded, and the tone in his voice told Selyn there was no point in arguing. Nikkuro was often serious, but he only gave orders when he believed it to be absolutely necessary. "There are enough soldiers that your presence would not turn the tide of battle. I won't risk you again."
Tender words always remained unspoken with Niko, she knew, but it still hurt when he turned and strode off without another word.
"Is that it?" She called angrily, running after him. He turned and looked at her so sternly that she realised he was trying hard to manage his emotions.
"That's it. No goodbyes. I will see you when the battle is over."
She grabbed his sleeve before he could go again, kissing him deeply as if she could convey in that one action everything he would not let her say.
"No goodbyes," he whispered, touching her cheek gently, and then he was gone, tall and proud on his charger and leading the masses of troops towards the field where the battle would take place. Selyn blinked back sudden tears, frustrated at her own weakness, and angry that he had insisted she stay behind.
"He has a good point, Sel," Amry said softly, hand resting on the bulge of her belly. Selyn looked at the woman with admiration - despite being quite heavily pregnant she was bristling with mistmatched armour and weaponry. If the enemy did break through to the stronghold, Amry would lead the women herself in the last desperate defence of the children.
"Besides, if it comes down to a fight back here, you will make a difference."
Selyn smiled. They both knew what would happen.
"I'm sorry Amry. But while I live, no enemy soldier is going to set foot in the Vale, let alone give you cause to draw that sword."
Amry smiled too, but sadly. She could see the grim set in Selyn's eyes, and that the woman's fingers were lengthening into claws with anticipation of the fight.
"Take care," she said. "I will need you around to help me raise this child."
Selyn nodded, and turned to watch as the soldiers crested the rise that hid the Vale from view of the battlefield. She needed to be sure they were occupied before she joined the ranks, or Niko would sense her at once and send her right back. It would cause a scene, and she didn't want that. Not today.
A sudden surge of shouting voices led the charge, and as the soldiers disappeared from sight Selyn knew it was time to go. As she ran up the incline she felt her body shift, and in the form of a long, spotted cat she loped along, easily catching up to the lumbering human-shaped soldiers. Without warning she broke through the sea of legs, and for the length of a heartbeat she paced alongside Nikkuro's horse. With the enemy so close he didn't even notice her, and she was glad.
The sight of the enemy soldiers filled Selyn with rage and she sprinted the final gap, leaping ahead of Niko's army with a howl that turned into a roar as she changed her form again. Her cat-sprint turned into a bear's lumbering run as she clashed with the first of the enemy and she didn't even feel the blows of their weapons against her thick hide. Anger overrode all common sense and she tossed the enemy soldiers aside with love-taps from her massive paws. Her fur was matted with blood - hers or theirs, what did it matter? All that mattered was that they died.
"Selyn!" Niko screamed as a sword ran through her side, and she realised that the man holding it was their general, a feral triumphant grin on his face. With a howl she swiped at him, and her gore-coated claws scraped furrows across his face. He fell back but the sword was lodged deep, and she could feel her blood spraying from the wound. A voice in the back of her mind warned her that if she didn't change now she wouldn't have the strength, but she was already so weak.
The general wasn't dead. Even as she forced herself upright he was crawling away, but when she lunged for him she stumbled, and her anguished howl turned into a wail as she changed back to her human form.
The sword fell from her as her mass shrank, and she picked it up with a groan. It was impossible to walk but she could manage a crouching lurch, half supporting herself with the sword and half dragging it through the churned and bloody grass. The only sound that registered in her mind was that of her heart pounding, though she was vaguely aware of the screams and shouts of men fighting and dying on every side. Her attention was narrowed, though, to the trail the general had left as he dragged himself along. She felt hands on her arms but shook them off. This man had murdered her friends and family before her eyes, and sent her battered half to death as a living message to the Council. He would suffer at her hand and he would die by his own sword, bleeding and snivelling on the filthy field of a battle he should never have begun.
She threw back her head and howled wordlessly, and the bloodcurdling sound stopped the general in his tracks. He turned, trembling, backing away as she advanced - a woman bruised and bloody and fiercely determined to end his life. He pleaded then, begging for his life in the dirty, snarling language of his homeland. She ignored him, and lifted the sword above him, though her arms trembled weakly at its weight.
"You are filth," she snarled. "You are nothing!"
"Selyn," said a soft voice in her ear. "Do you wish to become a murderer?"
"He deserves to die!" She said, and her voice trembled too.
"He will be captured and sentenced in a fair trial, Sel. He will get what he deserves."
"No!"
"Selyn, I know you are not like this. To kill in battle is one thing but this is not you. Put the sword down."
Strong arms surrounded her, and gentle hands pried her fingers from the blade. The general's expression turned from blind fear to contempt, and he spat at her. Nikkuro set her gently aside and kicked the general square in the stomach. The man bent double, coughing and spluttering as Niko led Selyn away. By some miracle the battle was over, and Selyn could see easily the men she herself had killed - they lay in mangled pieces, torn apart by her rage. She felt sick at the sight of it now, and turned her face into Niko's shirt.
"Time to go home, Sel," he said gently.
Tender words always remained unspoken with Niko, she knew, but it still hurt when he turned and strode off without another word.
"Is that it?" She called angrily, running after him. He turned and looked at her so sternly that she realised he was trying hard to manage his emotions.
"That's it. No goodbyes. I will see you when the battle is over."
She grabbed his sleeve before he could go again, kissing him deeply as if she could convey in that one action everything he would not let her say.
"No goodbyes," he whispered, touching her cheek gently, and then he was gone, tall and proud on his charger and leading the masses of troops towards the field where the battle would take place. Selyn blinked back sudden tears, frustrated at her own weakness, and angry that he had insisted she stay behind.
"He has a good point, Sel," Amry said softly, hand resting on the bulge of her belly. Selyn looked at the woman with admiration - despite being quite heavily pregnant she was bristling with mistmatched armour and weaponry. If the enemy did break through to the stronghold, Amry would lead the women herself in the last desperate defence of the children.
"Besides, if it comes down to a fight back here, you will make a difference."
Selyn smiled. They both knew what would happen.
"I'm sorry Amry. But while I live, no enemy soldier is going to set foot in the Vale, let alone give you cause to draw that sword."
Amry smiled too, but sadly. She could see the grim set in Selyn's eyes, and that the woman's fingers were lengthening into claws with anticipation of the fight.
"Take care," she said. "I will need you around to help me raise this child."
Selyn nodded, and turned to watch as the soldiers crested the rise that hid the Vale from view of the battlefield. She needed to be sure they were occupied before she joined the ranks, or Niko would sense her at once and send her right back. It would cause a scene, and she didn't want that. Not today.
A sudden surge of shouting voices led the charge, and as the soldiers disappeared from sight Selyn knew it was time to go. As she ran up the incline she felt her body shift, and in the form of a long, spotted cat she loped along, easily catching up to the lumbering human-shaped soldiers. Without warning she broke through the sea of legs, and for the length of a heartbeat she paced alongside Nikkuro's horse. With the enemy so close he didn't even notice her, and she was glad.
The sight of the enemy soldiers filled Selyn with rage and she sprinted the final gap, leaping ahead of Niko's army with a howl that turned into a roar as she changed her form again. Her cat-sprint turned into a bear's lumbering run as she clashed with the first of the enemy and she didn't even feel the blows of their weapons against her thick hide. Anger overrode all common sense and she tossed the enemy soldiers aside with love-taps from her massive paws. Her fur was matted with blood - hers or theirs, what did it matter? All that mattered was that they died.
"Selyn!" Niko screamed as a sword ran through her side, and she realised that the man holding it was their general, a feral triumphant grin on his face. With a howl she swiped at him, and her gore-coated claws scraped furrows across his face. He fell back but the sword was lodged deep, and she could feel her blood spraying from the wound. A voice in the back of her mind warned her that if she didn't change now she wouldn't have the strength, but she was already so weak.
The general wasn't dead. Even as she forced herself upright he was crawling away, but when she lunged for him she stumbled, and her anguished howl turned into a wail as she changed back to her human form.
The sword fell from her as her mass shrank, and she picked it up with a groan. It was impossible to walk but she could manage a crouching lurch, half supporting herself with the sword and half dragging it through the churned and bloody grass. The only sound that registered in her mind was that of her heart pounding, though she was vaguely aware of the screams and shouts of men fighting and dying on every side. Her attention was narrowed, though, to the trail the general had left as he dragged himself along. She felt hands on her arms but shook them off. This man had murdered her friends and family before her eyes, and sent her battered half to death as a living message to the Council. He would suffer at her hand and he would die by his own sword, bleeding and snivelling on the filthy field of a battle he should never have begun.
She threw back her head and howled wordlessly, and the bloodcurdling sound stopped the general in his tracks. He turned, trembling, backing away as she advanced - a woman bruised and bloody and fiercely determined to end his life. He pleaded then, begging for his life in the dirty, snarling language of his homeland. She ignored him, and lifted the sword above him, though her arms trembled weakly at its weight.
"You are filth," she snarled. "You are nothing!"
"Selyn," said a soft voice in her ear. "Do you wish to become a murderer?"
"He deserves to die!" She said, and her voice trembled too.
"He will be captured and sentenced in a fair trial, Sel. He will get what he deserves."
"No!"
"Selyn, I know you are not like this. To kill in battle is one thing but this is not you. Put the sword down."
Strong arms surrounded her, and gentle hands pried her fingers from the blade. The general's expression turned from blind fear to contempt, and he spat at her. Nikkuro set her gently aside and kicked the general square in the stomach. The man bent double, coughing and spluttering as Niko led Selyn away. By some miracle the battle was over, and Selyn could see easily the men she herself had killed - they lay in mangled pieces, torn apart by her rage. She felt sick at the sight of it now, and turned her face into Niko's shirt.
"Time to go home, Sel," he said gently.
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