Lent begins tomorrow. Paperangel Press launches tonight.
More to come.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Quiet
Golgotha was quiet, and had been for a day. The guards and the onlookers had long since departed. The two dead thieves still hung from their crosses, mouths open as though still in a weary plea for mercy.
Only one desperate soul remained on the hill. Incensed. Seething. Muttering hatefully.
"This isn't over... this is not over...."
But he knew it was. He knew it was over the moment Jesus said it was. Finished. Done. The moment Jesus cried out and took it all.
Had they seen? They had to have seen him. The moment he realized that it wasn't his plan that was coming to pass. That single moment of shock.
When all the sins of the world piled onto God's only son. When the hideous blackness descended, and was still not enough to block the Glory blazing out from him. When Jesus breathed his last, and took it all with him.
When all Satan's work fell apart before his very eyes.
He stared at the ground where the cross had been driven. There, he caught sight of a stone, spattered with blood. The blood.
Satan roared. He then took a long, long moment to steady himself.
"This is not over," he snarled, and stormed from the hill.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
And Counting
"Hey. Simon."
Silence.
"...Pete? You awake?"
"Mmph. Go to bed, Johnny."
"You think it's gonna happen soon?"
"...what's gonna happen soon..."
"The abomination and everything. What the Rabbi was talking about today."
"He said he didn't even know that."
"I know. It's just... he's been acting so different lately."
"Yeah. I know. Like something big's coming."
"So I'm just wondering."
"...I dunno, Johnny. Maybe. But you remember what he said."
"Be ready."
"Be ready. So that's our job. Don't worry about it. Just keep waiting."
"Says Peter, the patient one."
"Tch. I wouldn't be sad if he restored Israel tomorrow. I just..."
"...don't know."
"Yeah. But I think you're right. Something big's coming."
"I hope so."
"Me too."
Silence.
"...don't worry about it, Johnny. Get some rest."
"Yeah... hey. Do you think he's gonna do something during the Passover?"
"Mmm. Dunno. Should be good."
Sunday, April 05, 2009
The Messenger: Destination
The thought distantly occurred to Phelps that he had not technically completed the baptism ceremony. He hadn't had the time to speak his line - so do I - before the command hit him. North, said the voice, and north he went. When the crowds thickened, his run slowed to a very fast walk, dodging between pedestrians and cutting through alleys.
He was heading deeper into the shade of downtown New Sidon, where the buildings were more often constructed in the N'aaa style, poking three stories above ground and extending several stories below. Their broad, flat roofs nearly touched, scattering slivers of light over the crowd. The hot white sun flashed at him between the gaps as he moved northward.
He was heading deeper into the shade of downtown New Sidon, where the buildings were more often constructed in the N'aaa style, poking three stories above ground and extending several stories below. Their broad, flat roofs nearly touched, scattering slivers of light over the crowd. The hot white sun flashed at him between the gaps as he moved northward.
The word had burned an imprint on his mind, and he had moved without thinking. The implications were only just beginning to chase him down. He was seeing apparitions and hearing voices. But others were seeing them, and hearing them. Which meant they were really from....
His pace slowed, and he held a hand to his forehead. Mariah was a priestess. She thought in terms of God constantly. Could it have been a coincidence? N'aaa were known for their insight. Could she just have picked up on something in his demeanor?
But he knew nothing about her, or the temple. The angel had.
Even as he thought it, he stopped walking. A large building stood straight ahead of him. A flight of broad steps descended to the main entrance, with a fountain cascading down the steps on the far right. A water feature, in New Sidon. Phelps had never seen anything so opulent.
Here.
The voice. The same calm certainty. The same authority.
God was speaking to him.
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Messenger: Instructions
"You knew I was coming," Phelps finally said.
Deacon Mariah smiled, the tiny creases between the thin plates of her face stretching apart. "A dream," she said, her wispy voice purring over the "r" sound. "Yeshua's angel."
On the transport had been a congregation of New Lunar Baptists. After listening to their ravings over the long trip, he had almost gotten used to hearing the Christ called Jesus, rather than Yeshua. Mariah spoke the name carefully, with reverence. A far cry, as it were, from the proselytizers on the ship.
Phelps could already tell that Mariah spoke English only with great effort. But a half-N'aaa priestess in this city... "Wrri, ihhi tchaun'eh an hal," he said in Nrru. She told me to come to you.
Mariah drew her head back in a serpentine motion, again expressing her surprise. "And she told me to baptize you," she said simply, in unaccented Nrru. Even as she spoke, she knelt down and took a handful of green-blue sand.
Phelps froze. "I... wait..."
The deaconess fixed her blank gaze on him, her hand held high, gently trickling sand. "It is unbefitting a prophet to be unbaptized. Will you submit to it?" She drew herself up, facing him directly.
"I'm not... look, the last time..."
Her hand was suddenly on his chest. For a moment, he forgot that it was a common N'aaa gesture of friendship. "Yeshua knows your fears," she was saying. Gently. "And he says to you this: you did not leave me there. I went after you from that place."
The chapel, back in Phoenix. The guilt. He was there again. But now, with her words - with his words - the weight of the memory evaporated. All at once. Gone.
Oh, Lord... "I will submit to it," Phelps breathed.
Mariah did not hesitate for even a moment. Phelps' chest tightened as her hand drifted over his shoulders and head, pouring a trail of sand. "You have one Lord," she said. "What is his name?"
"Yeshua." The sand settled on him, and with it, a strange calm. He held still.
Silence. In the quiet, the noise of the city far distant, he lost track of time. Only three seconds passed, but Phelps felt every moment before she spoke again. "And as he died, so have you," Mariah intoned. "And..." She stopped, took a gasp of air. He could have sworn he heard her giggle. "And as he lives...."
In response, Phelps tilted his head and leaned back, spilling the sand down his back. He had barely enough time to register his suprise at how easy the ceremony was after all before the sensation hit.
It was a voice, but not audible. A compulsion, but not irresistable. A certainty. A call. A command.
North.
Phelps hesitated for only an instant. "Which way is north?" he demanded in Nrru.
Deacon Mariah pointed, and he ran.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Messenger: Introductions
St. Luke's Temple was not what Phelps had in mind. It took him two hours to make the 20-minute walk through New Sidon; two hours of feeble excuses rehearsed over and over, none of which could overcome the weight of the apparition outside the transport window. He had paced back and forth over the same three blocks, bumping constantly into traders and pilots, and eliciting curses in a dozen languages. With his training, he could have understood them all, had he been less distracted.
When he finally arrived at the Temple, he thought he might be in the wrong place.
It stood in a gap between two tall pseudocrete buildings, one gaudy orange, the other a matte white. He had not been thinking of a temple in the N'aaa fashion, certainly not for a temple to Christ. But there it was, the unwalled patch of blue-green sand, the surface fused into glass and polished. Like a calm, rolling sea of Earth, frozen between instants. On the back left corner of the patch sat the arrangement of transluscent red stones, as expected. But, Phelps noticed with a start, they depicted not the traditional N'aaaian sacred runes, but a cross.
He was about to step onto the undulating glass when he heard the voice.
"Rrrraun i'i'al-hn-cta'i."
The only N'aaa phrase he knew. Phelps looked down and tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise at the creature who had addressed him. She wore a blindfold, a single, wide band of dark green cloth which covered where her nose would be if she were human. Or rather, full human. Her skin was more like a carapace - deep brown, with bright white dots like freckles - and her scalp smooth and hairless. She had four thin fingers on each hand, all of which ended in claws.
And the collar of her polyfiber vest was distinct in its round design. She was clergy. A deacon.
"...Deacon Mariah?" he said, mumbled and at a whisper.
The half-N'aaa priestess thrust forward her head in surprise. Then, she smiled. "Fel-uufs. Hallelu."
And once again, Phelps had no words.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Messenger
"This is impossible," Phelps mumbled inaudibly, pressing himself against the wall opposite the window.
The woman floating outside the window nodded, her arms crossed over her chest. "It is." Her voice was in no way muffled by the thick transparent barrier between them.
"How are you-"
"When you arrive in New Sidon, go directly to St. Luke's Temple. There you will meet Deacon Mariah. She will give you your instructions."
Phelps gawked at her, mind racing.
Then, she smiled. "Farewell, prophet."
"Wait! Wh-"
"All passengers, please secure yourselves for landing. We will reach the outer atmosphere shortly. Arrival in New Tyre will be 7:00 am, local time."
Phelps looked up involuntarily at the intercom announcement, then looked back to the window to see nothing but stars.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
MEMORANDUM
To: Dr. Angelo "Skip" Roth
Time: 3:56 am
Urgent? X
Dr. Skip:
I'm writing you this note in the hope that we can move past our professional differences. I'd like to think we can both be adults about this, and see the mutual benefits inherent in the situation at hand.
For example, you have frequently expressed concern for the stability of the project's budget. I have, as you will no doubt notice, implemented what I consider to be an elegant solution which will significantly reduce costs related to the containment area, and security staffing.
I would truly appreciate your feedback, so I've taken the liberty of scheduling a meeting at your house. This time, I will be setting the agenda.
Sincerely,
"Lefty" (Subject 332-A)
Monday, December 15, 2008
Heartbreaker: Speculation
Wait, how is Singer supposed to contact this shadowy figure if she can't e-mail him back? Maybe she's just that crafty....
-
I must have told someone, she thought to herself. At one of the office parties. For a cover story. Something.
Singer zipped up her thick leather flight jacket and stepped onto the patio. She looked down at the park, where the risers were already up and ready. She sighed and pulled on her helmet.
It had taken her a couple extra weeks to find an apartment on the right floor, but it was worth it. From her balcony, she could get into traffic easily. She tapped in the password for the gate and stepped through, off the edge. Mind buzzing though it was with the mystery at hand, she still have more than enough focus to fly. Singer slipped easily from a walk to a drift, floating out from her apartment until she heard the gate click.
Maybe it was Farmer.
She lowered her head and streaked forward, cutting through the faintly flickering yellow field into the stream of fliers. Other telekinetics made up the bulk of the traffic flow, but there was the occasional winged dragon-breed flapping along, clearing his or herself a wide berth with their high profile. One person, she saw, was standing on the safety net, the force screen coalescing around their feet and glowing bright. They straightened their helmet, strapped it tight, and took off again, regaining the fifteen foot gap back into traffic.
It had to be Farmer, now that she thought of it. He'd cornered her at the last holiday party, the previous winter. She knew he'd had a crush on her for as long as they'd worked together, and she thought he knew she wasn't interested. Something, apparently, was unclear. Farmer was an all right guy, but too eager. He'd poured out to her more awkward detail about his life than was fair, and she must have told him the story out of some misguided sense of justice.
Singer floated to a stop, the field ahead lit red. As the cross-traffic unspooled from its cluster and began to flow again, she remembered that Farmer had just gotten back to the office yesterday, from his assignment in Red Bridge. She'd actually heard him griping about the long trip back north in the hall.
The red field dissipated, and Singer rounded the corner, coming into view of her office. The Psionic Solutions, Inc. tower was an elegant steel-fiber and polyglass affair, mostly black, with the impression of a highly polished onyx shard. Human forms darted in and out at skylane level as couriers delivered packages and consultants made their way to and from their assignments.
In essence, the Corporation was a psychic guild, providing consulting services to individuals and organizations, or so Public Relations said. At some point, everyone had a use for a telepath or a telekinetic. Collective bargaining had just quieted down for the season, and they now had to rely on other contracts for their income. This was usually Singer's favorite time of year. Last year she had worked one private investigation – the executive was cheating and embezzling, it turned out – and two big projects, both of which she had loved.
She alighted on the entrance nearest her office, unstrapping her helmet and turning her focus to the small box embedded in the wall. With a thought, the door opened. Singer shook her head, thinking of what price that little box would fetch on the open market. Just a little vial of psychoreactive fluid in a vial, hooked up to a computer with some very proprietary security software. The first step towards a psionic computer interface. As yet, all they could get the system to do was recognize people and open doors.
As usual, the office inside was nearly silent. The occasional drift of music or talk show hovered around someone's console, but no conversation filled the air. Singer stepped through the sliding glass door, which slid shut with a hiss.
-Morning, Singer, came the telepathic voice of Derek Baker, one of the trainees she supervised. He was nowhere in sight. Must have been waiting for her.
-Hey, Derek. Lemme guess. Fletcher's waiting.
-Good guess.
Singer walked straight past the kitchen and its inviting coffee-and-spiced-tea smell, on toward her boss's office.
-Morning, Elaine. How's your morning going?
That was Terrence Farmer. Singer stopped in front of his cubicle. He had turned around, hoping to get a glance at her, and now he was smiling as she actually stopped. His skin was a few shades darker than hers, more the average human brown than her pale pink. His eyes were a light brown, almost tan, and betrayed his eagerness to please people. Not un-handsome, and not a bad guy. Just tended toward desperate more often than not.
She narrowed her focus, quieting her telepathy to avoid eavesdroppers.
-Terry, hey. Got a question for you. She was annoyed, and trying not to let it show. Maybe he hadn't just let it slip. Maybe.
[By the way, Farmer is based loosely on me. More to come.]
I must have told someone, she thought to herself. At one of the office parties. For a cover story. Something.
Singer zipped up her thick leather flight jacket and stepped onto the patio. She looked down at the park, where the risers were already up and ready. She sighed and pulled on her helmet.
It had taken her a couple extra weeks to find an apartment on the right floor, but it was worth it. From her balcony, she could get into traffic easily. She tapped in the password for the gate and stepped through, off the edge. Mind buzzing though it was with the mystery at hand, she still have more than enough focus to fly. Singer slipped easily from a walk to a drift, floating out from her apartment until she heard the gate click.
Maybe it was Farmer.
She lowered her head and streaked forward, cutting through the faintly flickering yellow field into the stream of fliers. Other telekinetics made up the bulk of the traffic flow, but there was the occasional winged dragon-breed flapping along, clearing his or herself a wide berth with their high profile. One person, she saw, was standing on the safety net, the force screen coalescing around their feet and glowing bright. They straightened their helmet, strapped it tight, and took off again, regaining the fifteen foot gap back into traffic.
It had to be Farmer, now that she thought of it. He'd cornered her at the last holiday party, the previous winter. She knew he'd had a crush on her for as long as they'd worked together, and she thought he knew she wasn't interested. Something, apparently, was unclear. Farmer was an all right guy, but too eager. He'd poured out to her more awkward detail about his life than was fair, and she must have told him the story out of some misguided sense of justice.
Singer floated to a stop, the field ahead lit red. As the cross-traffic unspooled from its cluster and began to flow again, she remembered that Farmer had just gotten back to the office yesterday, from his assignment in Red Bridge. She'd actually heard him griping about the long trip back north in the hall.
The red field dissipated, and Singer rounded the corner, coming into view of her office. The Psionic Solutions, Inc. tower was an elegant steel-fiber and polyglass affair, mostly black, with the impression of a highly polished onyx shard. Human forms darted in and out at skylane level as couriers delivered packages and consultants made their way to and from their assignments.
In essence, the Corporation was a psychic guild, providing consulting services to individuals and organizations, or so Public Relations said. At some point, everyone had a use for a telepath or a telekinetic. Collective bargaining had just quieted down for the season, and they now had to rely on other contracts for their income. This was usually Singer's favorite time of year. Last year she had worked one private investigation – the executive was cheating and embezzling, it turned out – and two big projects, both of which she had loved.
She alighted on the entrance nearest her office, unstrapping her helmet and turning her focus to the small box embedded in the wall. With a thought, the door opened. Singer shook her head, thinking of what price that little box would fetch on the open market. Just a little vial of psychoreactive fluid in a vial, hooked up to a computer with some very proprietary security software. The first step towards a psionic computer interface. As yet, all they could get the system to do was recognize people and open doors.
As usual, the office inside was nearly silent. The occasional drift of music or talk show hovered around someone's console, but no conversation filled the air. Singer stepped through the sliding glass door, which slid shut with a hiss.
-Morning, Singer, came the telepathic voice of Derek Baker, one of the trainees she supervised. He was nowhere in sight. Must have been waiting for her.
-Hey, Derek. Lemme guess. Fletcher's waiting.
-Good guess.
Singer walked straight past the kitchen and its inviting coffee-and-spiced-tea smell, on toward her boss's office.
-Morning, Elaine. How's your morning going?
That was Terrence Farmer. Singer stopped in front of his cubicle. He had turned around, hoping to get a glance at her, and now he was smiling as she actually stopped. His skin was a few shades darker than hers, more the average human brown than her pale pink. His eyes were a light brown, almost tan, and betrayed his eagerness to please people. Not un-handsome, and not a bad guy. Just tended toward desperate more often than not.
She narrowed her focus, quieting her telepathy to avoid eavesdroppers.
-Terry, hey. Got a question for you. She was annoyed, and trying not to let it show. Maybe he hadn't just let it slip. Maybe.
[By the way, Farmer is based loosely on me. More to come.]
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Heartbreaker: Enticement
Technically, due to the order in which I've posted the exerpts, today's story chunk is a flashback. I think this one is a little rougher than the others, but hey, it's a first draft. If you were wondering about the message Telfeyan sent so elaborately, read on.
-
Singer entered the 14-digit password from memory on the second attempt. Case-sensitive. She then stared at the kitchen table, frowning as the document failed to appear. She glanced back at the kitchen to see the text window on the kitchen wall, where Suq's call had come in. Singer sighed. "Over here." The window immediately blinked to the kitchen table. That's what she got for using a little-known, ill-supported notebook program, even if it was better than the mainstream software.
Singer glanced over what she had so far. Not much left to be said, really. The meeting had gone worse than she had expected - at least, worse for the Schwartzsten Group. Great for the Corporation's client, who was trying to find a way out of the negotiations. Which reminded her.
“Attach a note for Fletcher. Audio only. Set password as 'hedgehog milkshake.'” She snickered at the inside joke. “Record.” The waveform graph popped into being, fluctuating with her voice. “Hey, Fletch. Possible mode of approach for the meeting. Don't directly advise Gorok to back out, just keep suggesting that Schwartzsten is less than honest. Their rep has a crazy temper just below the surface. Keep pecking at him, and he'll blow, guaranteed, and Gorok will have all the excuse he needs to pull out. You can thank me later. Get pictures.” She had looked up the dwarf's name after the meeting, and was hardly surprised to find out that Roter meant “red.” Red he had been.
Singer was about to begin her work on the report itself when the new message chime sounded, and the floating envelope icon popped to the left. She'd forgotten to silence it before getting to work, which usually ended up costing her an extra half our. That icon was awfully hard to resist. She reached over and tapped it, rolling her eyes at her own predictability.
A text-only window scrolled open, revealing two short paragraphs. The sender was identified only as Secondshadow. No one she knew.
I hope this note finds you well. It was certainly an effort to find you in the first place, and, I pray, a worthwhile effort. An opportunity of untold magnitude awaits you. If such a grandiose but dreadfully general statement does not entice you, perhaps this statement will: my kingdom for a knight who hears me.
Her eyes stuck in place. A singular rush of cold recognition froze her. Those were her grandmother's words to her when she was nine years old. They were at the end of a fable she never forgot. They were how she knew she would marry Suqarin. She hadn't told that story to anyone except him.
If you are at all curious, contact me.
“Reply,” she ordered. A blank message appeared, with Secondshadow as the recipient. “Who are you? Send. Yes.” She barked the commands, anticipating the inevitable confirmation prompt. What she didn't anticipate was the error message.
[Error: Secondshadow is not a valid recipient.]
Singer glared at the box and stood up. The account obviously existed ten seconds ago. “Search network for Secondshadow, one word. Include Corporation.” No one knew that story. She hated mysteries.
[No results found. Did you mean second shadow?]
“Display properties for message.” A separate box appeared with statistics on the message itself. At the bottom was a series of network addresses the tiny digital parcel had been routed through. Singer slid her finger diagonally across the bottom of the box, drawing a selection rectangle around the information. She simultaneously tapped the right and bottom edges and dragged away a copy of the selection. “Call Dana Baker.”
Dana in IT answered a moment later, her small, dark face appearing on the kitchen table. “Hey, Singer. Mail problems?”
“Kinda,” Singer grumbled. “How'd you guess?”
“I don't wanna talk about it. Just found out this morning someone actually hacked through to our mail list last week.”
Oh, really. That was no small task. The Corporation had written their own proprietary operating system based almost entirely on the principle of data security. Their entire network was under layer upon layer of encryption, and was all but shut off to outside access.
“Funny you should mention. I just got an odd message and was hoping you could trace it back.”
“Yes. Forward it on.” Dana's game face was firmly in place. She was after the guy.
No sense in muddying the waters. “How about just the relay information?” She dragged and dropped the image onto the video feed, and watched as Dana reached offscreen to tap at the control surface.
“Mmm-hmm. That's all I need.” Her eyes had drifted away from the camera, and were flicking between several open windows. “Thought so. This address looks like it came from the Midlands.”
“Seriously? I thought their net access was junk out there.”
“Oh, it's enough. I'll let you know what I find out. So, what did the note say?”
“Nothing anyone in the Midlands needs to be saying to me.”
“Ksh. All right. I'll get back to you.” Dana flicked shut the window.
Singer glowered at the note. Contact me. The game was on.
Singer also hated games. Mostly because she couldn't resist them.
She thought of something else, and flicked the video window back open. “Hey, Dana?”
Dana looked up. “Aye?”
“I tried replying, but it said the account doesn't exist. And the search didn't turn up anything.”
“It said 'not valid,' right?”
Singer glanced over at the still-open dialog box. “Yeah.”
“Put that together with the Midlands network address, and you've got a flicker. Someone made a new account, sent you the message, and cut the network connection. The message would have gone through if they were still on the net.”
Singer knew how hard it was to get off the net here in the north. It had to be easier in the Midlands, where the tech was decades behind.
“Thanks, Dana.” Singer flicked the window closed and leaned on the table, scowling at the wall. She dragged her finger back and forth, waving the mystery message. Trying to shake the secrets loose.
[more to come.]
Singer entered the 14-digit password from memory on the second attempt. Case-sensitive. She then stared at the kitchen table, frowning as the document failed to appear. She glanced back at the kitchen to see the text window on the kitchen wall, where Suq's call had come in. Singer sighed. "Over here." The window immediately blinked to the kitchen table. That's what she got for using a little-known, ill-supported notebook program, even if it was better than the mainstream software.
Singer glanced over what she had so far. Not much left to be said, really. The meeting had gone worse than she had expected - at least, worse for the Schwartzsten Group. Great for the Corporation's client, who was trying to find a way out of the negotiations. Which reminded her.
“Attach a note for Fletcher. Audio only. Set password as 'hedgehog milkshake.'” She snickered at the inside joke. “Record.” The waveform graph popped into being, fluctuating with her voice. “Hey, Fletch. Possible mode of approach for the meeting. Don't directly advise Gorok to back out, just keep suggesting that Schwartzsten is less than honest. Their rep has a crazy temper just below the surface. Keep pecking at him, and he'll blow, guaranteed, and Gorok will have all the excuse he needs to pull out. You can thank me later. Get pictures.” She had looked up the dwarf's name after the meeting, and was hardly surprised to find out that Roter meant “red.” Red he had been.
Singer was about to begin her work on the report itself when the new message chime sounded, and the floating envelope icon popped to the left. She'd forgotten to silence it before getting to work, which usually ended up costing her an extra half our. That icon was awfully hard to resist. She reached over and tapped it, rolling her eyes at her own predictability.
A text-only window scrolled open, revealing two short paragraphs. The sender was identified only as Secondshadow. No one she knew.
I hope this note finds you well. It was certainly an effort to find you in the first place, and, I pray, a worthwhile effort. An opportunity of untold magnitude awaits you. If such a grandiose but dreadfully general statement does not entice you, perhaps this statement will: my kingdom for a knight who hears me.
Her eyes stuck in place. A singular rush of cold recognition froze her. Those were her grandmother's words to her when she was nine years old. They were at the end of a fable she never forgot. They were how she knew she would marry Suqarin. She hadn't told that story to anyone except him.
If you are at all curious, contact me.
“Reply,” she ordered. A blank message appeared, with Secondshadow as the recipient. “Who are you? Send. Yes.” She barked the commands, anticipating the inevitable confirmation prompt. What she didn't anticipate was the error message.
[Error: Secondshadow is not a valid recipient.]
Singer glared at the box and stood up. The account obviously existed ten seconds ago. “Search network for Secondshadow, one word. Include Corporation.” No one knew that story. She hated mysteries.
[No results found. Did you mean second shadow?]
“Display properties for message.” A separate box appeared with statistics on the message itself. At the bottom was a series of network addresses the tiny digital parcel had been routed through. Singer slid her finger diagonally across the bottom of the box, drawing a selection rectangle around the information. She simultaneously tapped the right and bottom edges and dragged away a copy of the selection. “Call Dana Baker.”
Dana in IT answered a moment later, her small, dark face appearing on the kitchen table. “Hey, Singer. Mail problems?”
“Kinda,” Singer grumbled. “How'd you guess?”
“I don't wanna talk about it. Just found out this morning someone actually hacked through to our mail list last week.”
Oh, really. That was no small task. The Corporation had written their own proprietary operating system based almost entirely on the principle of data security. Their entire network was under layer upon layer of encryption, and was all but shut off to outside access.
“Funny you should mention. I just got an odd message and was hoping you could trace it back.”
“Yes. Forward it on.” Dana's game face was firmly in place. She was after the guy.
No sense in muddying the waters. “How about just the relay information?” She dragged and dropped the image onto the video feed, and watched as Dana reached offscreen to tap at the control surface.
“Mmm-hmm. That's all I need.” Her eyes had drifted away from the camera, and were flicking between several open windows. “Thought so. This address looks like it came from the Midlands.”
“Seriously? I thought their net access was junk out there.”
“Oh, it's enough. I'll let you know what I find out. So, what did the note say?”
“Nothing anyone in the Midlands needs to be saying to me.”
“Ksh. All right. I'll get back to you.” Dana flicked shut the window.
Singer glowered at the note. Contact me. The game was on.
Singer also hated games. Mostly because she couldn't resist them.
She thought of something else, and flicked the video window back open. “Hey, Dana?”
Dana looked up. “Aye?”
“I tried replying, but it said the account doesn't exist. And the search didn't turn up anything.”
“It said 'not valid,' right?”
Singer glanced over at the still-open dialog box. “Yeah.”
“Put that together with the Midlands network address, and you've got a flicker. Someone made a new account, sent you the message, and cut the network connection. The message would have gone through if they were still on the net.”
Singer knew how hard it was to get off the net here in the north. It had to be easier in the Midlands, where the tech was decades behind.
“Thanks, Dana.” Singer flicked the window closed and leaned on the table, scowling at the wall. She dragged her finger back and forth, waving the mystery message. Trying to shake the secrets loose.
[more to come.]
Monday, December 08, 2008
Heartbreaker Excerpt: Telfeyan's Entrance
Who is Telfeyan Crowflock? Today's snippet has blatant exposition!
If you're reading this, drop me a quick "ooh!" or "meh" in the comments section. Lemme know you're out there!
-
“My Queen, if I may be so bold-”
“I fear, Lord Eoderyn, that you would be bold with or without my leave.” Queen Leikalani fixed her cold, dark eyes on the elven noble, her gaze threatening to freeze him in place. His hand had paused in mid gesture, and his face betrayed only a hint of fear. Eoderyn's poise broke; his words ran out. The Queen allowed him a moment to sweat. “Come to your request.”
Despite his opulent attire, and immaculate courtly manner, Eoderyn managed to look genuinely timid. It somewhat diminished the effect of his wardrobe, complete with ages-old platinum earcuffs, a sharp-edged gray vest and robe of the latest fashion, and the cravat, bursting with reds and yellows. He was almost too old to pull off the look properly, but his face remained smooth enough to trim a few years from his appearance. His head bowed, and his tightly-braided blond ponytail rolled to one side. Eoderyn cleared his throat, and spoke, although in a smaller voice than before. “In order to complete the task at hand in the time you request, more resources will be required. In particular-”
The Queen threw up her hand, cutting him off again. “Tell me nothing of the particulars.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You have at your disposal all that you need. You have only to use it. You may ask my headservant for access to any particulars. Return tomorrow with your demands.”
Eoderyn bowed low, with great flourish. “It is with honor that I serve, my Queen. Your generosity is magnificent.” He lifted his head. “Let it be known that am ready and willing to offer you any...” He stopped at the sound of flapping wings and the rustling of the great, thick drapes covering the fifteen-foot window to his left. Eoderyn suppressed a snarl.
The Queen, on the other hand, allowed herself a smirk and looked to the window. “Is that you, Crowflock?”
Telfeyan shoved aside the thick red curtain and stepped into view. Telfeyan Crowflock, the Queen's spy and trusted agent. Who was once a man, and now was not. His rough canvas hands rustled against the curtain fabric. A tuft of straw poked out from his left wrist, which he surreptitiously, and automatically, tucked back in. Telfeyan smiled, the jagged white patch of material shifting in size and shape, bright against the black-dyed canvas of his face. He removed his black felt hat and bowed.
“My Queen.”
He straightened, and bowed shallowly to Lord Eoderyn. Not shallow enough to slight, but only just. “M'lord.” Telfeyan replaced the hat on his head and leaned against the ancient polished stone wall.
Eoderyn, as was his custom, gave Telfeyan a hard look. “Whenever you present yourself, Crowflock, I wonder to myself what I have said in the presence of crows.”
“You flatter me, M'lord. Certainly I cannot be everywhere at once.” He winked one triangular white eye at the noble.
One of Eoderyn's sharply pointed ears twitched. He inclined his head once again to the Queen. “By your leave, Your Majesty, I will continue the work at hand.”
“Go with my blessing, Lord Eoderyn,” the Queen said, without the usual ice in her voice.
The noble smiled at the Queen, turned and exited the tower room. Queen Leikalani watched Eoderyn go, then turned to her spy. “You do make him uncomfortable.”
Telfeyan stood casually and meandered into the center of the room. “Perhaps I remind him of someone he doesn't like. And isn't it curious, Your Majesty,” he continued abruptly, “that he would insist on meeting you in the least convenient of your meeting rooms, at the hour normally reserved for your afternoon rites in the gardens?”
The Queen stood from the sculpted iron throne on which she sat, and walked past Telfeyan to the door. Her form-fitting red dress, a darker maroon than the curtains, rustled slightly. Though his face had no nose to speak of, Telfeyan caught her scent – it brought to mind an image of blue water running over snow. “It bothers you when I refuse to include you in my plans.” She brushed a thin, pale finger over the softly glowing runes on the door, deactivating the magical silence placed on the room.
“I have no desire to be personally involved in all your plans, my Queen,” Telfeyan replied. “If I had any complaint, it would be simply that I do not know about all your plans. Perhaps you can sympathize with a spy's plight.”
“Do you have anything to report, spy?” The Queen was using her business voice, but was shamelessly smiling to herself.
You do enjoy toying with me, don't you? “Nothing, my Queen, to report. Except that your kingdom is unusually quiet and peaceful.”
“Then I might have to cause a stir, mightn't I?”
[oh, that sneaky Queen. more to come.]
If you're reading this, drop me a quick "ooh!" or "meh" in the comments section. Lemme know you're out there!
“My Queen, if I may be so bold-”
“I fear, Lord Eoderyn, that you would be bold with or without my leave.” Queen Leikalani fixed her cold, dark eyes on the elven noble, her gaze threatening to freeze him in place. His hand had paused in mid gesture, and his face betrayed only a hint of fear. Eoderyn's poise broke; his words ran out. The Queen allowed him a moment to sweat. “Come to your request.”
Despite his opulent attire, and immaculate courtly manner, Eoderyn managed to look genuinely timid. It somewhat diminished the effect of his wardrobe, complete with ages-old platinum earcuffs, a sharp-edged gray vest and robe of the latest fashion, and the cravat, bursting with reds and yellows. He was almost too old to pull off the look properly, but his face remained smooth enough to trim a few years from his appearance. His head bowed, and his tightly-braided blond ponytail rolled to one side. Eoderyn cleared his throat, and spoke, although in a smaller voice than before. “In order to complete the task at hand in the time you request, more resources will be required. In particular-”
The Queen threw up her hand, cutting him off again. “Tell me nothing of the particulars.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You have at your disposal all that you need. You have only to use it. You may ask my headservant for access to any particulars. Return tomorrow with your demands.”
Eoderyn bowed low, with great flourish. “It is with honor that I serve, my Queen. Your generosity is magnificent.” He lifted his head. “Let it be known that am ready and willing to offer you any...” He stopped at the sound of flapping wings and the rustling of the great, thick drapes covering the fifteen-foot window to his left. Eoderyn suppressed a snarl.
The Queen, on the other hand, allowed herself a smirk and looked to the window. “Is that you, Crowflock?”
Telfeyan shoved aside the thick red curtain and stepped into view. Telfeyan Crowflock, the Queen's spy and trusted agent. Who was once a man, and now was not. His rough canvas hands rustled against the curtain fabric. A tuft of straw poked out from his left wrist, which he surreptitiously, and automatically, tucked back in. Telfeyan smiled, the jagged white patch of material shifting in size and shape, bright against the black-dyed canvas of his face. He removed his black felt hat and bowed.
“My Queen.”
He straightened, and bowed shallowly to Lord Eoderyn. Not shallow enough to slight, but only just. “M'lord.” Telfeyan replaced the hat on his head and leaned against the ancient polished stone wall.
Eoderyn, as was his custom, gave Telfeyan a hard look. “Whenever you present yourself, Crowflock, I wonder to myself what I have said in the presence of crows.”
“You flatter me, M'lord. Certainly I cannot be everywhere at once.” He winked one triangular white eye at the noble.
One of Eoderyn's sharply pointed ears twitched. He inclined his head once again to the Queen. “By your leave, Your Majesty, I will continue the work at hand.”
“Go with my blessing, Lord Eoderyn,” the Queen said, without the usual ice in her voice.
The noble smiled at the Queen, turned and exited the tower room. Queen Leikalani watched Eoderyn go, then turned to her spy. “You do make him uncomfortable.”
Telfeyan stood casually and meandered into the center of the room. “Perhaps I remind him of someone he doesn't like. And isn't it curious, Your Majesty,” he continued abruptly, “that he would insist on meeting you in the least convenient of your meeting rooms, at the hour normally reserved for your afternoon rites in the gardens?”
The Queen stood from the sculpted iron throne on which she sat, and walked past Telfeyan to the door. Her form-fitting red dress, a darker maroon than the curtains, rustled slightly. Though his face had no nose to speak of, Telfeyan caught her scent – it brought to mind an image of blue water running over snow. “It bothers you when I refuse to include you in my plans.” She brushed a thin, pale finger over the softly glowing runes on the door, deactivating the magical silence placed on the room.
“I have no desire to be personally involved in all your plans, my Queen,” Telfeyan replied. “If I had any complaint, it would be simply that I do not know about all your plans. Perhaps you can sympathize with a spy's plight.”
“Do you have anything to report, spy?” The Queen was using her business voice, but was shamelessly smiling to herself.
You do enjoy toying with me, don't you? “Nothing, my Queen, to report. Except that your kingdom is unusually quiet and peaceful.”
“Then I might have to cause a stir, mightn't I?”
[oh, that sneaky Queen. more to come.]
Friday, December 05, 2008
Another excerpt
Here's another piece of Heartbreaker, from a little further into the story. Anyone recognize our second main character?
-
The text scrolled into place on the device's tiny screen, and Telfeyan smiled crookedly. “Paragraph. If you are... at all curious, contact me.” He stared at the glowing letters for a long moment. That was adequate. He set the handheld device next to him on the great rock on which he sat, and took up his stylus. With a brush of his rough finger, the sharped tip of the ancient wood lit with a green haze, bright white at its source. Leaning over in his cross-legged position, he set the point to the rock, drawing the final rune with a slow, steady, practiced hand. The stone furrowed, tiny pebbles rolling away from the point as Telfeyan drew it effortlessly through, leaving a shallow but definite score mark with every stroke.
He completed the formation and carefully reviewed each component before laying aside his stylus and pressing his hand to the cluster of runes. He had taken the extra time to add two redundant esphera runes for power and route them through three innite each. All that for the sake of quickness. Once again, it was time to test his runecraft.
The magic was already seeping into the formation through his palm. A good sign. Out of habit, he went through the motion of taking a deep breath and slowly opened the gate, allowing the magic to leak steadily through himself and prime the diagram. The green aura spread, filling out the subtle contours in the rock. Telfeyan watched its progress with unblinking eyes. And the moment the central rune began to show white, he dropped the gate and flooded the formation.
A blast of hot air whipped over Telfeyan's face as the portal opened. He looked out over the city of Edge, over a thousand miles north. Hundreds of feet below the magical aperture, mid-morning traffic was comprised of rapidly aging northern vehicles and, much more impressive, custom transports made from northern scraps. In the distance, a lone road stretched away to the north through the amber dunes. A minor sandstorm was gathering to the northeast, a dark swath in an otherwise blue sky.
He took only a second to enjoy the view, then grabbed the PDA and examined the indicator in the upper left of the screen. The antenna icon was, as he had been told to expect, blinking. His thumb scraped the Send button, and the device chirped a pleasant-sounding chime of denial. Telfeyan chuckled. This northern technology was polite even when it wasn't working.
Then, the antenna solidified, and was immediately replaced by five green bars. Telfeyan tapped the Send button again, and the message disappeared. Sent.
He immediately slammed shut the gate, and with it, the portal. The warm wind and blue desert sky disappeared with a hissing snap. As Telfeyan watched, the antenna icon reappeared on the PDA's screen, blinking three times before displaying instead a small red circle.
“Sorry,” he said to the device. “We are somewhat out of range, aren't we?” Laid the handheld computer in the center of the portal runes, then grabbed and re-energized his stylus. With broad strokes, he connected the main focus points, channeling them into the center. He cut off each of the outlets, and added three more oversized esphera. His left hand clenched into a fist, and he gathered a pool of energy there, a stopped gate. With his stylus, he traced a single connector a few feet long, ending in a simple spiral. A magical fuse. Over this he placed his left hand, and released. The spiral ignited bright white, and the green haze began to spread along the groove in the rock.
Telfeyan stood and brushed himself off. Walking a few paces away to the edge of the rock, he only looked back at the device once. If he had any way of using a PDA in the far south, he would be even more tempted to purchase one. That would raise some eyebrows at the royal court. Telfeyan snickered to himself and stepped off the edge of the mountain.
Cold mountain air rushed past his unblinking eyes. In the distance, he could see a large farm. They might hear the noise, but the flash would be lost in the late morning gloom.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the detonation sounded from the cliff above, as the magic essence reached the clogged, overpowered tangle of runes and exploded, tearing away the entire surface of rock on which it was etched and blowing the northern device to shreds.
Satisfied, Telfeyan took another deep breath. His form unwound, changing texture and warping, splitting. As he had a hundred times before, he burst apart, a hundred wings catching the rushing wind in a dive, then flapping into formation.
In the far distance, a farmer looked up at a rumbling echo, and saw only a flock of crows flying south toward Castle Stonewynd.
[more to come.]
The text scrolled into place on the device's tiny screen, and Telfeyan smiled crookedly. “Paragraph. If you are... at all curious, contact me.” He stared at the glowing letters for a long moment. That was adequate. He set the handheld device next to him on the great rock on which he sat, and took up his stylus. With a brush of his rough finger, the sharped tip of the ancient wood lit with a green haze, bright white at its source. Leaning over in his cross-legged position, he set the point to the rock, drawing the final rune with a slow, steady, practiced hand. The stone furrowed, tiny pebbles rolling away from the point as Telfeyan drew it effortlessly through, leaving a shallow but definite score mark with every stroke.
He completed the formation and carefully reviewed each component before laying aside his stylus and pressing his hand to the cluster of runes. He had taken the extra time to add two redundant esphera runes for power and route them through three innite each. All that for the sake of quickness. Once again, it was time to test his runecraft.
The magic was already seeping into the formation through his palm. A good sign. Out of habit, he went through the motion of taking a deep breath and slowly opened the gate, allowing the magic to leak steadily through himself and prime the diagram. The green aura spread, filling out the subtle contours in the rock. Telfeyan watched its progress with unblinking eyes. And the moment the central rune began to show white, he dropped the gate and flooded the formation.
A blast of hot air whipped over Telfeyan's face as the portal opened. He looked out over the city of Edge, over a thousand miles north. Hundreds of feet below the magical aperture, mid-morning traffic was comprised of rapidly aging northern vehicles and, much more impressive, custom transports made from northern scraps. In the distance, a lone road stretched away to the north through the amber dunes. A minor sandstorm was gathering to the northeast, a dark swath in an otherwise blue sky.
He took only a second to enjoy the view, then grabbed the PDA and examined the indicator in the upper left of the screen. The antenna icon was, as he had been told to expect, blinking. His thumb scraped the Send button, and the device chirped a pleasant-sounding chime of denial. Telfeyan chuckled. This northern technology was polite even when it wasn't working.
Then, the antenna solidified, and was immediately replaced by five green bars. Telfeyan tapped the Send button again, and the message disappeared. Sent.
He immediately slammed shut the gate, and with it, the portal. The warm wind and blue desert sky disappeared with a hissing snap. As Telfeyan watched, the antenna icon reappeared on the PDA's screen, blinking three times before displaying instead a small red circle.
“Sorry,” he said to the device. “We are somewhat out of range, aren't we?” Laid the handheld computer in the center of the portal runes, then grabbed and re-energized his stylus. With broad strokes, he connected the main focus points, channeling them into the center. He cut off each of the outlets, and added three more oversized esphera. His left hand clenched into a fist, and he gathered a pool of energy there, a stopped gate. With his stylus, he traced a single connector a few feet long, ending in a simple spiral. A magical fuse. Over this he placed his left hand, and released. The spiral ignited bright white, and the green haze began to spread along the groove in the rock.
Telfeyan stood and brushed himself off. Walking a few paces away to the edge of the rock, he only looked back at the device once. If he had any way of using a PDA in the far south, he would be even more tempted to purchase one. That would raise some eyebrows at the royal court. Telfeyan snickered to himself and stepped off the edge of the mountain.
Cold mountain air rushed past his unblinking eyes. In the distance, he could see a large farm. They might hear the noise, but the flash would be lost in the late morning gloom.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the detonation sounded from the cliff above, as the magic essence reached the clogged, overpowered tangle of runes and exploded, tearing away the entire surface of rock on which it was etched and blowing the northern device to shreds.
Satisfied, Telfeyan took another deep breath. His form unwound, changing texture and warping, splitting. As he had a hundred times before, he burst apart, a hundred wings catching the rushing wind in a dive, then flapping into formation.
In the far distance, a farmer looked up at a rumbling echo, and saw only a flock of crows flying south toward Castle Stonewynd.
[more to come.]
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Gasp! Novel excerpt!
In November, I participated in National Novel Writing Month, further damaging my claims to sanity. The idea behind NaNo is to start on November 1 with a blank page, and finish the month with 50,000 words of a novel. I made a weak start, gained some momentum mid-month, and, well...
I'm quite pleased with what I did accomplish, though. I don't know if I've ever written this much for a given story. Ever. I plan on finishing the story, too, once I've planned it out a little better. I haven't been writing new material for it for the past few days, but I will be.
In celebration, I'm posting excerpts from what I managed to crank out during NaNo. These represent the roughest of rough drafts, but that's a lot of what gets posted here anyway. Heh. As yet, the story has no title, and will henceforth be referred to by its codename, Heartbreaker. A few of you will recognize a character, a name, or a setting, here and there.
Please enjoy, and feel free to comment.
-
A gentle swelling of light, and a gradual crescendo of harp music, and Elaine Singer awoke. The soft white light of the wall panels spread over the room, soaking the coffee-and-milk tan covers, the small lampstand, the many-colored ensembles just visible through the slightly ajar closet door. It took her a solid ten seconds to realize she was awake, ten seconds of staring at the red behind her eyelids. Subtle, embedded speakers in the wall above her futon grew slowly louder, insistently spreading the mystic sound of plucked strings. A vague memory of dream drifted away from her on a mental breeze, replaced quickly by another image.
In her mind, she was choking a harpist. Singer half-growled, half-groaned, rolling onto her stomach and burying her quickly-waking eyes in the pillow. A strand of her short red hair flipped into her ear. Itchy.
Have to minimize movement. We're not waking up. Not right now. Just gotta... oh, hell. She reached up at swatted at her own rebellious hair, knowing the battle was lost. Singer rolled over with a huff, tugging the covers off half the bed. Her voice was groggy when she spoke. “House. What time is it?”
The harp music quieted for the house computer's response, in a factual, but pleasant male voice. “It is 8:45 am.”
“Why would I get up at 8:45 am?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying to remember. Right. She had to finish her report on Schwartzsten for Fletcher before the meeting today. Because she had put it off until this morning so she and Suq wouldn't miss The Judicator last night. And it hadn't been that great an episode. She had no idea what they were doing with Starlight this season. He was supposed to become the next Judicator, they said that in the last season finale, but they kept-
She had almost fallen asleep again when she caught herself. “Mmn.” She had to get up. With one last sigh, she gathered her thoughts. Her mental focus slid into place, though a little slower than usual, since it was morning. Singer turned one hand palm-up under the covers. With a little ripple out from her hand, the covers lifted, nearly flat, until they were nearly grazing the ceiling. Singer sat up, popped her neck, and stood, slumping toward the bathroom. She let go her focus, and the blankets drifted down to the futon with a flop.
If she had a more consistent morning routine, maybe her mind wouldn't take so long to warm up. One of her mentors had insisted that was critical: being able to wake from a deep sleep and be at her telekinetic threshold a second later. Thus far, that ability hadn't exactly been mission-critical. Thus far, Elaine Singer had thoroughly enjoyed taking mid-afternoon and late-night assignments and letting the mornings drift away like fog.
The harp music was still going, and had followed her into the bathroom. The waterproof speakers were a little tinnier. If she had to be awake, she was going to actually wake up. “House. Playlist “punching the walls,” on random. Play.”
Per her settings, the volume ratcheted up three levels, and thundering drums and distorted electric cellos hammered the walls. That intro she knew. “Rending the Gates” by Praxis Maleficus. Good stuff.
One lingering shower later, Singer padded into the kitchen in her loose, broken-in jeans and a tank top that had once been black, and was now faded gray. Outside, only minimal traffic sounds, since the commuters had been at their desks for a little over an hour. The woosh-pop of flash welders echoed from the construction yard down the block into her apartment. The charged glass door leading to the minuscule patio was halfway opaque, tinting the bright city light down to a manageable shade. She peered out into the world and saw, ten stories down and eight blocks away, they were setting up for some sort of big event in Koral'ia Park.
Oh, right. Carpenter's rally. Knowing Carpenter's following, she'd probably be able to hear them across the distance. The man new how to draw a rabble. Which wasn't why she was voting against him, but it certainly didn't help his case with her.
A familiar, soft guitar line filled the kitchen, and the wallscreen by the cutting board lit up with an alert. Singer smiled. “House, answer it.”
A video window sprung open. On the other end of the call was a scaled blue face, with a line of tiny horns running up the nose ridge and over the hairless head. The eyes were a yellow-orange, with vertical pupils. It had the beginnings of a snout, which smiled with pointed carnivore teeth. It was wearing, she noticed, the t-shirt she had bought him last week.
“Morning, love,” said Suq. Suqarin Myssir. Her fiancé.
[more to come. thanks for reading.]
I'm quite pleased with what I did accomplish, though. I don't know if I've ever written this much for a given story. Ever. I plan on finishing the story, too, once I've planned it out a little better. I haven't been writing new material for it for the past few days, but I will be.
In celebration, I'm posting excerpts from what I managed to crank out during NaNo. These represent the roughest of rough drafts, but that's a lot of what gets posted here anyway. Heh. As yet, the story has no title, and will henceforth be referred to by its codename, Heartbreaker. A few of you will recognize a character, a name, or a setting, here and there.
Please enjoy, and feel free to comment.
A gentle swelling of light, and a gradual crescendo of harp music, and Elaine Singer awoke. The soft white light of the wall panels spread over the room, soaking the coffee-and-milk tan covers, the small lampstand, the many-colored ensembles just visible through the slightly ajar closet door. It took her a solid ten seconds to realize she was awake, ten seconds of staring at the red behind her eyelids. Subtle, embedded speakers in the wall above her futon grew slowly louder, insistently spreading the mystic sound of plucked strings. A vague memory of dream drifted away from her on a mental breeze, replaced quickly by another image.
In her mind, she was choking a harpist. Singer half-growled, half-groaned, rolling onto her stomach and burying her quickly-waking eyes in the pillow. A strand of her short red hair flipped into her ear. Itchy.
Have to minimize movement. We're not waking up. Not right now. Just gotta... oh, hell. She reached up at swatted at her own rebellious hair, knowing the battle was lost. Singer rolled over with a huff, tugging the covers off half the bed. Her voice was groggy when she spoke. “House. What time is it?”
The harp music quieted for the house computer's response, in a factual, but pleasant male voice. “It is 8:45 am.”
“Why would I get up at 8:45 am?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying to remember. Right. She had to finish her report on Schwartzsten for Fletcher before the meeting today. Because she had put it off until this morning so she and Suq wouldn't miss The Judicator last night. And it hadn't been that great an episode. She had no idea what they were doing with Starlight this season. He was supposed to become the next Judicator, they said that in the last season finale, but they kept-
She had almost fallen asleep again when she caught herself. “Mmn.” She had to get up. With one last sigh, she gathered her thoughts. Her mental focus slid into place, though a little slower than usual, since it was morning. Singer turned one hand palm-up under the covers. With a little ripple out from her hand, the covers lifted, nearly flat, until they were nearly grazing the ceiling. Singer sat up, popped her neck, and stood, slumping toward the bathroom. She let go her focus, and the blankets drifted down to the futon with a flop.
If she had a more consistent morning routine, maybe her mind wouldn't take so long to warm up. One of her mentors had insisted that was critical: being able to wake from a deep sleep and be at her telekinetic threshold a second later. Thus far, that ability hadn't exactly been mission-critical. Thus far, Elaine Singer had thoroughly enjoyed taking mid-afternoon and late-night assignments and letting the mornings drift away like fog.
The harp music was still going, and had followed her into the bathroom. The waterproof speakers were a little tinnier. If she had to be awake, she was going to actually wake up. “House. Playlist “punching the walls,” on random. Play.”
Per her settings, the volume ratcheted up three levels, and thundering drums and distorted electric cellos hammered the walls. That intro she knew. “Rending the Gates” by Praxis Maleficus. Good stuff.
One lingering shower later, Singer padded into the kitchen in her loose, broken-in jeans and a tank top that had once been black, and was now faded gray. Outside, only minimal traffic sounds, since the commuters had been at their desks for a little over an hour. The woosh-pop of flash welders echoed from the construction yard down the block into her apartment. The charged glass door leading to the minuscule patio was halfway opaque, tinting the bright city light down to a manageable shade. She peered out into the world and saw, ten stories down and eight blocks away, they were setting up for some sort of big event in Koral'ia Park.
Oh, right. Carpenter's rally. Knowing Carpenter's following, she'd probably be able to hear them across the distance. The man new how to draw a rabble. Which wasn't why she was voting against him, but it certainly didn't help his case with her.
A familiar, soft guitar line filled the kitchen, and the wallscreen by the cutting board lit up with an alert. Singer smiled. “House, answer it.”
A video window sprung open. On the other end of the call was a scaled blue face, with a line of tiny horns running up the nose ridge and over the hairless head. The eyes were a yellow-orange, with vertical pupils. It had the beginnings of a snout, which smiled with pointed carnivore teeth. It was wearing, she noticed, the t-shirt she had bought him last week.
“Morning, love,” said Suq. Suqarin Myssir. Her fiancé.
[more to come. thanks for reading.]
Monday, December 25, 2006
and Omega.
His words will be full of ancient wisdom and boundless mercy.
But first,
he must learn to speak.
He shall strain against His cross, carrying up to Golgotha all our burdens.
But first,
he much learn to walk.
He shall live a perfect life, and die a perfect sacrifice.
Bur first,
he must be born.
One day, He shall cry out
"It is finished!"
and it shall be true.
But on this day,
this Christmas Day,
it begins.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
I have also reposted a certain Christmas story I wrote a few years ago on Nightsawake. Please enjoy.
And may God's immeasurable grace be always before you.
But first,
he must learn to speak.
He shall strain against His cross, carrying up to Golgotha all our burdens.
But first,
he much learn to walk.
He shall live a perfect life, and die a perfect sacrifice.
Bur first,
he must be born.
One day, He shall cry out
"It is finished!"
and it shall be true.
But on this day,
this Christmas Day,
it begins.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
I have also reposted a certain Christmas story I wrote a few years ago on Nightsawake. Please enjoy.
And may God's immeasurable grace be always before you.
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Juggler
"Do you know the difference between a jester and a clown?"
A trickle of blood dripped into Zippy's eye. He winced at the stinging pain, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. "Um... the clown's tied to a chair, and the jester's pacing back and forth, holding a knife?"
Arvhad halted in his tracks and threw Zippy a hard look. His left hand tossed and caught one of Zippy's throwing knives, casually. A heavy truck rumbled past the warehouse, awkward in the silence.
"I was referring to a more general sense," Arvhad said at last.
Zippy shook his head, leaning his head down. The blood dribbled, slowly and steadily, from the gash on his forehead to the concrete floor. The red, ink-like streak stood out starkly against Zippy's paper white skin.
"A jester," Arvhad began, resuming his pacing, "is a trusted advisor in disguise. He can say things to a king that no one else can. He can hide truth in jest, and say it straight into the king's ear. He has influence, but he wears a foolish mask."
"Or hat," Zippy smirked.
The bells on Arvhad's jester's cap rattled as he turned to his captive. "Precisely." Then, he took two swift steps forward and kicked Zippy in the chest. Zippy's breath left him in a whoosh as he tilted backwards, teetering past the point of balance and crashing to the floor. He flexed just in time to land on his elbows rather than his wrists. Bone-deep pain shot into his shoulders, and he clenched his teeth, straining against the zip-ties on his wrists and ankles.
"Now stop interrupting."
"Sorry. Please go on," Zippy wheezed.
The ratty black scarf hiding Arvhad's mouth shifted as he grinned, his eyes narrowing. "Thank you. So, a jester has influence on kings. A clown, however, has influence only on the handful of peasants that buy a ticket to the circus."
“See, I don't sell tickets, though,” Zippy said from the floor. He shifted his weight to avoid aggravating his bruises. “So I can reach a wider audience.”
“Very true,” said Arvhad, turning his pacing around the back of the chair. He stood over Zippy, looking upside down at his captive, still tossing and catching the dagger. Then, he stopped. Slowly, Arvhad shifted the dagger in his gloved hand, pinching the grip between his thumb and forefinger. He stretched out his arm, dangling the knife above his head, over the bridge of Zippy's nose. Zippy's eyes locked on the point of the blade.
“Perhaps,” said Arvhad, “you're more of a daredevil with clown makeup.”
Zippy's eyes never left the dagger. “Uh... maybe.”
“There are two things I associate with a daredevil, Zippy. The need to impress people...” Arvhad's hand drifted back and forth, the knife swiveling in his loose grip. “...and a death wish.” And as he said the words, he looked up from his captive, spread his fingers wide, and let go.
Zippy darted his head to the right, scooting the chair inches to the side. The dagger landed point-first, digging a chip from the concrete and clattering onto the floor. Arvhad looked down, unsurprised, as the dagger landed. Twisting his neck, Zippy could see the knife laying a few inches from his eye. He found himself breathing hard.
“And yet,” Arvhad was saying, “your survival instincts preserve you.”
Zippy craned his neck up, and could only barely see the jester. “I get a lot of practice.” His voice was unsteady when he spoke.
“Exactly. Exactly my point.” Arvhad folded his hands neatly in front of him and stared back at the clown. “Your life is in near-constant danger, because of choices you yourself make.”
“I...” Zippy realized he was breathing even harder, through gritted teeth. Angry, and getting angrier at the sound of the jester's voice. Shut up, he thought.
Arvhad turned as though he was about to start pacing again, then paused. He looked back toward his captive, clearly grinning behind his scarf. “It makes me wonder....”
Zippy's pulse raced. He looked over at the knife, and a thought occurred to him. He flexed his arms.
“My question is this,” said Arvhad, leaning forward subtly. “Why, O Razorclown, do you want to die so badly?”
The surge in adrenaline served him well. With a hard shove of his hands and a kick of his bound legs, Zippy rolled himself backwards, thrusting with his neck and shoulders to propel him over. He landed hard on his knees, gritting his teeth with the pain. Arvhad only had time to take a single running step before Zippy popped his hips. He rolled, chair and all, over his left shoulder, in perfect position for one hand up snatch up knife as he bowled into Arvhad's shins.
The jester toppled over the chair and landed hard on the blood-slick floor. Zippy rolled to a stop on his side, but only long enough to spin the knife in his fingers and saw twice at his bonds, cutting free his hands. Arvhad regained his feet and looked up just as Zippy, snarling with animal rage, with his ankles still bound to the chair, crouched on the toes of his boots and leapt forward, arms outstretched. The Razorclown's tackle drove Arvhad to the cold slab, stealing his wind. A loud jangle hit the air as the jester's head smashed against the concrete.
It was the last sound Arvhad heard before the blackness.
* * *
“Sir!” Kenzo was kneeling next to him.
Arvhad sat up sharply, and immediately saw spots. He clutched his head, blood-encrusted and sore at the back. “Nnn. Where is he?”
“The Razorclown, sir? Escaped. Jumped across the roofs.”
Arvhad stood, scooping up his hat and replacing it carefully on his head, covering his short blond hair. “Right. Who tied him up?”
“Sir, he-”
“Initially.”
“Oh, yes.” Kenzo thought for a moment, frowning. “Rocco.”
“Teach him how to restrain someone properly. Then have him train the rest of the men.” He looked over at the group of thugs just returning from their failed chase. Arvhad took a single, deep breath, then reached down and grabbed the chair, setting it upright. Calmly, he said to the men, “Get to your secondary assignments for the night. Training session later this week. Go.” And they went.
Kenzo sighed. “You want some guys after him?”
Gingerly, Arvhad touched the back of his head, wincing very slightly at the pain. “No. No, not tonight. May as well give him some time to stew.” The hidden smile came to his face again. “I touched a nerve.” He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and removed a small digital recorder. He pushed the button.
“Profile update. Zippy the Razorclown. Physically stronger and more capable even than expected. Aggressive response when probed about death wish. Given his background, likely candidate for childhood abuse... or... a-ha.
“Survivor's guilt.”
A trickle of blood dripped into Zippy's eye. He winced at the stinging pain, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. "Um... the clown's tied to a chair, and the jester's pacing back and forth, holding a knife?"
Arvhad halted in his tracks and threw Zippy a hard look. His left hand tossed and caught one of Zippy's throwing knives, casually. A heavy truck rumbled past the warehouse, awkward in the silence.
"I was referring to a more general sense," Arvhad said at last.
Zippy shook his head, leaning his head down. The blood dribbled, slowly and steadily, from the gash on his forehead to the concrete floor. The red, ink-like streak stood out starkly against Zippy's paper white skin.
"A jester," Arvhad began, resuming his pacing, "is a trusted advisor in disguise. He can say things to a king that no one else can. He can hide truth in jest, and say it straight into the king's ear. He has influence, but he wears a foolish mask."
"Or hat," Zippy smirked.
The bells on Arvhad's jester's cap rattled as he turned to his captive. "Precisely." Then, he took two swift steps forward and kicked Zippy in the chest. Zippy's breath left him in a whoosh as he tilted backwards, teetering past the point of balance and crashing to the floor. He flexed just in time to land on his elbows rather than his wrists. Bone-deep pain shot into his shoulders, and he clenched his teeth, straining against the zip-ties on his wrists and ankles.
"Now stop interrupting."
"Sorry. Please go on," Zippy wheezed.
The ratty black scarf hiding Arvhad's mouth shifted as he grinned, his eyes narrowing. "Thank you. So, a jester has influence on kings. A clown, however, has influence only on the handful of peasants that buy a ticket to the circus."
“See, I don't sell tickets, though,” Zippy said from the floor. He shifted his weight to avoid aggravating his bruises. “So I can reach a wider audience.”
“Very true,” said Arvhad, turning his pacing around the back of the chair. He stood over Zippy, looking upside down at his captive, still tossing and catching the dagger. Then, he stopped. Slowly, Arvhad shifted the dagger in his gloved hand, pinching the grip between his thumb and forefinger. He stretched out his arm, dangling the knife above his head, over the bridge of Zippy's nose. Zippy's eyes locked on the point of the blade.
“Perhaps,” said Arvhad, “you're more of a daredevil with clown makeup.”
Zippy's eyes never left the dagger. “Uh... maybe.”
“There are two things I associate with a daredevil, Zippy. The need to impress people...” Arvhad's hand drifted back and forth, the knife swiveling in his loose grip. “...and a death wish.” And as he said the words, he looked up from his captive, spread his fingers wide, and let go.
Zippy darted his head to the right, scooting the chair inches to the side. The dagger landed point-first, digging a chip from the concrete and clattering onto the floor. Arvhad looked down, unsurprised, as the dagger landed. Twisting his neck, Zippy could see the knife laying a few inches from his eye. He found himself breathing hard.
“And yet,” Arvhad was saying, “your survival instincts preserve you.”
Zippy craned his neck up, and could only barely see the jester. “I get a lot of practice.” His voice was unsteady when he spoke.
“Exactly. Exactly my point.” Arvhad folded his hands neatly in front of him and stared back at the clown. “Your life is in near-constant danger, because of choices you yourself make.”
“I...” Zippy realized he was breathing even harder, through gritted teeth. Angry, and getting angrier at the sound of the jester's voice. Shut up, he thought.
Arvhad turned as though he was about to start pacing again, then paused. He looked back toward his captive, clearly grinning behind his scarf. “It makes me wonder....”
Zippy's pulse raced. He looked over at the knife, and a thought occurred to him. He flexed his arms.
“My question is this,” said Arvhad, leaning forward subtly. “Why, O Razorclown, do you want to die so badly?”
The surge in adrenaline served him well. With a hard shove of his hands and a kick of his bound legs, Zippy rolled himself backwards, thrusting with his neck and shoulders to propel him over. He landed hard on his knees, gritting his teeth with the pain. Arvhad only had time to take a single running step before Zippy popped his hips. He rolled, chair and all, over his left shoulder, in perfect position for one hand up snatch up knife as he bowled into Arvhad's shins.
The jester toppled over the chair and landed hard on the blood-slick floor. Zippy rolled to a stop on his side, but only long enough to spin the knife in his fingers and saw twice at his bonds, cutting free his hands. Arvhad regained his feet and looked up just as Zippy, snarling with animal rage, with his ankles still bound to the chair, crouched on the toes of his boots and leapt forward, arms outstretched. The Razorclown's tackle drove Arvhad to the cold slab, stealing his wind. A loud jangle hit the air as the jester's head smashed against the concrete.
It was the last sound Arvhad heard before the blackness.
* * *
“Sir!” Kenzo was kneeling next to him.
Arvhad sat up sharply, and immediately saw spots. He clutched his head, blood-encrusted and sore at the back. “Nnn. Where is he?”
“The Razorclown, sir? Escaped. Jumped across the roofs.”
Arvhad stood, scooping up his hat and replacing it carefully on his head, covering his short blond hair. “Right. Who tied him up?”
“Sir, he-”
“Initially.”
“Oh, yes.” Kenzo thought for a moment, frowning. “Rocco.”
“Teach him how to restrain someone properly. Then have him train the rest of the men.” He looked over at the group of thugs just returning from their failed chase. Arvhad took a single, deep breath, then reached down and grabbed the chair, setting it upright. Calmly, he said to the men, “Get to your secondary assignments for the night. Training session later this week. Go.” And they went.
Kenzo sighed. “You want some guys after him?”
Gingerly, Arvhad touched the back of his head, wincing very slightly at the pain. “No. No, not tonight. May as well give him some time to stew.” The hidden smile came to his face again. “I touched a nerve.” He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and removed a small digital recorder. He pushed the button.
“Profile update. Zippy the Razorclown. Physically stronger and more capable even than expected. Aggressive response when probed about death wish. Given his background, likely candidate for childhood abuse... or... a-ha.
“Survivor's guilt.”
Saturday, November 11, 2006
The Razorclown Returns
Brainstorm:
[something with Zippy. setting?
(medieval/fantasy) (modern/urban fantasy) (futuristic/cyberpunk)
maybe a series of short stories of his different incarnations. that could be cool. but where to start? at the beginning, surely. so, fantasy it is.
doing what?
start en medias res. that's more fun than not.
but still, what's he doing? ooh! got one. fighting a dracolich and its zombie minions. and he takes it out with [edit for suspense]. heh.
probably wanna start with him in midair. having been whacked? dodging?
how long has he been fighting? i'm seeing it underground. that could work. ooh! a tomb with a big central chamber. perfect.
game on.]
Okay. No sword. No magic carpet. A few knives, a few dried herring, ten flasks of lamp oil, and the Gloves of Fish Ignition. And no one knows I'm here.
He lowered his shoulder, ramming past the shambling corpse blocking the narrow walk. A cloud of dust and dried skin puffed from the zombie as it spun about and tumbled stiffly over the edge. Zombies everywhere... Zippy shuddered and checked over his right shoulder, the path before him clear for ten paces. He squeaked and dived onto his stomach. The colossal, rotting claws swept over his head, scraping deep grooves in the stone wall behind him.
And that thing.
The dracolich roared in frustration, lurching forward to attack again. "Die, you accursed clown!"
"No!" Zippy shouted back. The undead dragon's half-decayed talons swept down from overhead, and he had half an instant to consider. And as he contemplated the thirty foot drop to the solid rock below, his instincts rolled him over and off the edge of the catwalk. The dracolich knocked a five-foot section of the wooden walkway into splinters, and Zippy spun sharply about in midair, raising an arm as the dragon's arm slammed into him. Zippy's head jerked hard, glancing of the monster's exposed bone. His vision sparking and his arm numb from the impact, he smashed against the dracolich's thigh and dropped the remaining ten feet to the ground, feet down. Expertly, the tucked and rolled, snapping back up to his feet and looking up at his enemy. His eyes blurred and the room swirled.
Naw, it's not worth the risk, he decided three seconds too late.
The dracolich swung its gray-black head about, looking for its quarry. Dizzily, Zippy realized he had landed in a crowd of undead. No fewer than eight zombies stumbled toward him, dead arms outstretched. He shook his head, and only got dizzier.
The dracolich caught sight of him, and the two locked eyes.
Probably should have planned a little better, he thought for the thousandth time.
Even as he thought it, a zombie latched on to his backpack from behind. Zippy tugged, and its grip held firm.
"Perhaps you should have thought ahead, fool," the dracolich rumbled, smiling a jagged, malevolent smile.
"I was just thinking the - oh, no," Zippy said as he saw the dragon's mouth open wide, its head driving down for the fatal chomp. For the merest fraction of a moment, Zippy froze. Then, he swung his arms back and lunged forward, leaping out of his backpack's straps. The dracolich snapped shut its jaws, catching only the zombie and the backpack.
Zippy rolled over his right shoulder, springing back to a low, ready stance. The remaining zombies slowly turned toward him, and the dracolich whipped its reptile head about to face him, a broken shin bone protruding from its mouth. It ground its carnivore teeth together once, and, staring straight at Zippy, swallowed its mouthful.
To the dracolich's amazement, the clown's jaw dropped - not in fear, but in delight. "Wow," Zippy said, lifting one leather-gloved hand. "Thanks." And he snapped his fingers.
~
The Razorclown grinned and grabbed another biscuit, stuffing the entire pastry in his mouth. The barmaids waited as he chewed, eager to hear the rest of the story. After half a minute of chewing, he took a swig of coffee from his tankard and gulped down the lot. He turned back to his audience, smiling.
Silence.
"...what?" he asked.
"Well?" the farmer in the corner said. "How'd you beat the dragon?"
"I told you! I snapped my fingers!" Zippy said, holding up his hand. He wore leather gloves with the middle finger and the thumb cut off, along with an open patch on the palm. Emblazoned on the back was a curious design of a flaming fish with Xs for eyes.
The barkeep snapped his fingers. "There! I done the same! Sure ain't killed me no zombie dragon!"
Zippy shook his head. "Oh, simple townsfolk. Don't you remember? It ate my backpack!"
Silence.
"...which was full of fish..."
A gasp from the dark-haired barmaid, who nearly spilled the mug she was carrying. "And lamp oil!"
Zippy clapped his hands and pointed to her. "Someone buy her a cookie!"
The farmer in the back got it, and burst into racous laughter.
The barkeep lifted an eyebrow at Zippy, and finally, the Razorclown caved. He reached into his new backpack and pulled out a small salted fish with one hand. The other he held up for all to see.
"Behold, the Gloves of Fish Ignition, my second..." he thought for a moment, "...yeah, second most prized possession. One snap of the fingers, and any fish... bursts into flame!" And he snapped. The herring in his opposite hand was instantly engulfed in blue fire, sizzling and popping with heat. Zippy calmly dropped the fish into a nearby mug of beer, which emitted a short burst of steam and a very unpleasant odor.
"Now," Zippy continued, dusting off his hands, "What happens when ten flasks of lamp oil are suddenly ignited by ten pickled herring in a dracolich's throat?"
The laughter had already begun. The light-haired barmaid lifted a fair eyebrow, smirking. "You don't mean..."
"Yup." Zippy smirked back.
~
The dracolich barely had time to register its surprise before its head was propelled forcefully from its neck. Zippy yelped and leapt to the side as the smoking skull hurtled past him, crashing into the wall with an echoing crack! He looked back to see the dracolich's dead left eye staring at him. A glutteral sound escaped, somehow, from its mouth, and the head crumbled to dust. The dracolich's decapitated body fell to the stone floor, disintegrating on impact. A collective moan filled the cavern as the entire throng of zombies collapsed, the unclean magic animating them dispelled by the death of the caster.
Zippy stood still for a moment, surrounded by dust and corpses. The echoes faded, and the catacomb was silent.
Maybe, he thought, this story will get me some free goodies at the tavern.
He sneezed at the dust.
[something with Zippy. setting?
(medieval/fantasy) (modern/urban fantasy) (futuristic/cyberpunk)
maybe a series of short stories of his different incarnations. that could be cool. but where to start? at the beginning, surely. so, fantasy it is.
doing what?
start en medias res. that's more fun than not.
but still, what's he doing? ooh! got one. fighting a dracolich and its zombie minions. and he takes it out with [edit for suspense]. heh.
probably wanna start with him in midair. having been whacked? dodging?
how long has he been fighting? i'm seeing it underground. that could work. ooh! a tomb with a big central chamber. perfect.
game on.]
Okay. No sword. No magic carpet. A few knives, a few dried herring, ten flasks of lamp oil, and the Gloves of Fish Ignition. And no one knows I'm here.
He lowered his shoulder, ramming past the shambling corpse blocking the narrow walk. A cloud of dust and dried skin puffed from the zombie as it spun about and tumbled stiffly over the edge. Zombies everywhere... Zippy shuddered and checked over his right shoulder, the path before him clear for ten paces. He squeaked and dived onto his stomach. The colossal, rotting claws swept over his head, scraping deep grooves in the stone wall behind him.
And that thing.
The dracolich roared in frustration, lurching forward to attack again. "Die, you accursed clown!"
"No!" Zippy shouted back. The undead dragon's half-decayed talons swept down from overhead, and he had half an instant to consider. And as he contemplated the thirty foot drop to the solid rock below, his instincts rolled him over and off the edge of the catwalk. The dracolich knocked a five-foot section of the wooden walkway into splinters, and Zippy spun sharply about in midair, raising an arm as the dragon's arm slammed into him. Zippy's head jerked hard, glancing of the monster's exposed bone. His vision sparking and his arm numb from the impact, he smashed against the dracolich's thigh and dropped the remaining ten feet to the ground, feet down. Expertly, the tucked and rolled, snapping back up to his feet and looking up at his enemy. His eyes blurred and the room swirled.
Naw, it's not worth the risk, he decided three seconds too late.
The dracolich swung its gray-black head about, looking for its quarry. Dizzily, Zippy realized he had landed in a crowd of undead. No fewer than eight zombies stumbled toward him, dead arms outstretched. He shook his head, and only got dizzier.
The dracolich caught sight of him, and the two locked eyes.
Probably should have planned a little better, he thought for the thousandth time.
Even as he thought it, a zombie latched on to his backpack from behind. Zippy tugged, and its grip held firm.
"Perhaps you should have thought ahead, fool," the dracolich rumbled, smiling a jagged, malevolent smile.
"I was just thinking the - oh, no," Zippy said as he saw the dragon's mouth open wide, its head driving down for the fatal chomp. For the merest fraction of a moment, Zippy froze. Then, he swung his arms back and lunged forward, leaping out of his backpack's straps. The dracolich snapped shut its jaws, catching only the zombie and the backpack.
Zippy rolled over his right shoulder, springing back to a low, ready stance. The remaining zombies slowly turned toward him, and the dracolich whipped its reptile head about to face him, a broken shin bone protruding from its mouth. It ground its carnivore teeth together once, and, staring straight at Zippy, swallowed its mouthful.
To the dracolich's amazement, the clown's jaw dropped - not in fear, but in delight. "Wow," Zippy said, lifting one leather-gloved hand. "Thanks." And he snapped his fingers.
The Razorclown grinned and grabbed another biscuit, stuffing the entire pastry in his mouth. The barmaids waited as he chewed, eager to hear the rest of the story. After half a minute of chewing, he took a swig of coffee from his tankard and gulped down the lot. He turned back to his audience, smiling.
Silence.
"...what?" he asked.
"Well?" the farmer in the corner said. "How'd you beat the dragon?"
"I told you! I snapped my fingers!" Zippy said, holding up his hand. He wore leather gloves with the middle finger and the thumb cut off, along with an open patch on the palm. Emblazoned on the back was a curious design of a flaming fish with Xs for eyes.
The barkeep snapped his fingers. "There! I done the same! Sure ain't killed me no zombie dragon!"
Zippy shook his head. "Oh, simple townsfolk. Don't you remember? It ate my backpack!"
Silence.
"...which was full of fish..."
A gasp from the dark-haired barmaid, who nearly spilled the mug she was carrying. "And lamp oil!"
Zippy clapped his hands and pointed to her. "Someone buy her a cookie!"
The farmer in the back got it, and burst into racous laughter.
The barkeep lifted an eyebrow at Zippy, and finally, the Razorclown caved. He reached into his new backpack and pulled out a small salted fish with one hand. The other he held up for all to see.
"Behold, the Gloves of Fish Ignition, my second..." he thought for a moment, "...yeah, second most prized possession. One snap of the fingers, and any fish... bursts into flame!" And he snapped. The herring in his opposite hand was instantly engulfed in blue fire, sizzling and popping with heat. Zippy calmly dropped the fish into a nearby mug of beer, which emitted a short burst of steam and a very unpleasant odor.
"Now," Zippy continued, dusting off his hands, "What happens when ten flasks of lamp oil are suddenly ignited by ten pickled herring in a dracolich's throat?"
The laughter had already begun. The light-haired barmaid lifted a fair eyebrow, smirking. "You don't mean..."
"Yup." Zippy smirked back.
The dracolich barely had time to register its surprise before its head was propelled forcefully from its neck. Zippy yelped and leapt to the side as the smoking skull hurtled past him, crashing into the wall with an echoing crack! He looked back to see the dracolich's dead left eye staring at him. A glutteral sound escaped, somehow, from its mouth, and the head crumbled to dust. The dracolich's decapitated body fell to the stone floor, disintegrating on impact. A collective moan filled the cavern as the entire throng of zombies collapsed, the unclean magic animating them dispelled by the death of the caster.
Zippy stood still for a moment, surrounded by dust and corpses. The echoes faded, and the catacomb was silent.
Maybe, he thought, this story will get me some free goodies at the tavern.
He sneezed at the dust.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
A song isn’t just a song when it’s attached to a story.
People didn’t think of that when the first exiles arrived. They didn’t have much with them – didn’t have time to get anything together. We’d heard stories of how rich they were. How much money they spent on things they didn’t even need. “They’re fat and lazy,” my brother-in-law said once, “and they don’t even work for it.”
They definitely worked hard when they got to the city. Within the first two days, one family had a fruit stand up and running. I found out later that my aunt helped them find an old farmer to work with, a guy who needed help getting to the city and back. For the wage they got, they were doing him a favor.
I stopped by the fruit stand that first morning on the way to work. Bought an orange. Two things I’ll always remember about that first time I talked to them: one, the look on the mother’s face. I looked her in the eye as she handed me my change, and I could tell that she had been crying. But she smiled at me all the same, and wished me a good day.
Second, they were playing the radio.
Seemed like every time I went by a group of exiles, the radio was going. Our stations played their music a lot. It was more popular then than it is now. So they listened constantly. It’s like they drank it in, like they needed it. Once I saw an exile kid wearing these little headphones, and trying to hide something in his pocket, but he kept fiddling with it. It was one of those little pocket radios, an MP3. One of the guys from my work saw him and asked him what he had, and he took off.
I was walking back from work two weeks after the first exiles arrived, and the younger sister was running the fruit stand. Little brother was unloading crates of berries from the old farmer’s truck. She looked at me when I walked up, and tried to smile, but then, out of nowhere, she just broke down and started weeping. Mom rushed out and tried to calm her down, and then she was crying too. And then I realize, the song was playing on the radio.
I’d seen it happen before. That stupid song comes on, the one with the whiny girl singing about how bad she wants some guy back, the one with the thumpy bass and the annoying synth noises, and the exiles just break down. They can’t handle it. We made fun of them for it.
I had to know. “What is it,” I asked, “about that song?”
They both looked at me, for a moment, like they were going to come across the counter and strangle me. Then they realized that I just didn’t know. Mom put her arm around her daughter and looked me in the eye. Her voice was steady enough that I could understand her through her accent.
She said, “That song was playing when the city fell.”
People didn’t think of that when the first exiles arrived. They didn’t have much with them – didn’t have time to get anything together. We’d heard stories of how rich they were. How much money they spent on things they didn’t even need. “They’re fat and lazy,” my brother-in-law said once, “and they don’t even work for it.”
They definitely worked hard when they got to the city. Within the first two days, one family had a fruit stand up and running. I found out later that my aunt helped them find an old farmer to work with, a guy who needed help getting to the city and back. For the wage they got, they were doing him a favor.
I stopped by the fruit stand that first morning on the way to work. Bought an orange. Two things I’ll always remember about that first time I talked to them: one, the look on the mother’s face. I looked her in the eye as she handed me my change, and I could tell that she had been crying. But she smiled at me all the same, and wished me a good day.
Second, they were playing the radio.
Seemed like every time I went by a group of exiles, the radio was going. Our stations played their music a lot. It was more popular then than it is now. So they listened constantly. It’s like they drank it in, like they needed it. Once I saw an exile kid wearing these little headphones, and trying to hide something in his pocket, but he kept fiddling with it. It was one of those little pocket radios, an MP3. One of the guys from my work saw him and asked him what he had, and he took off.
I was walking back from work two weeks after the first exiles arrived, and the younger sister was running the fruit stand. Little brother was unloading crates of berries from the old farmer’s truck. She looked at me when I walked up, and tried to smile, but then, out of nowhere, she just broke down and started weeping. Mom rushed out and tried to calm her down, and then she was crying too. And then I realize, the song was playing on the radio.
I’d seen it happen before. That stupid song comes on, the one with the whiny girl singing about how bad she wants some guy back, the one with the thumpy bass and the annoying synth noises, and the exiles just break down. They can’t handle it. We made fun of them for it.
I had to know. “What is it,” I asked, “about that song?”
They both looked at me, for a moment, like they were going to come across the counter and strangle me. Then they realized that I just didn’t know. Mom put her arm around her daughter and looked me in the eye. Her voice was steady enough that I could understand her through her accent.
She said, “That song was playing when the city fell.”
Thursday, December 29, 2005
For me, every day is Christmas. Though the official feast day has passed, Jesus continues to invade.
Today, a repost of a story I composed and put up last year. I hope it will remind you of miracles.
The First Noel, 2004
The Hanukkah travel rush was over, and Bethlehem was quiet again. Hence, the corner where Ben Simon worked the graveyard shift hadn’t seen a car pass in ten minutes. He looked up from his English textbook and peered across the street, to the small booth where his friend Isaiah worked. They had both gotten late-night jobs at gas stations at about the same time, and frequently used faux company loyalty as an excuse to pick on each other. Diagonally across the intersection from Ben was a third gas station manned by Mordecai Steinberg. While Ben and Isaiah had the occasional squeegee fight in the middle of the empty road, Mo usually stuck to his booth dutifully, reading the Torah.
Tonight was too cold for squeegee fighting, and the batteries had just run out in Ben’s Game Boy. His parents were mad at him for working on the Sabbath, and he had homework due on Monday.
Ben was all but dozing off when someone knocked on his Plexiglas window. He started and sat up on his shop stool.
“Sorry. What do you need?” Ben rubbed one eye with his palm as he looked up.
Outside the window stood a young woman wearing a military dress uniform. She was all straight lines – vertical spine, squared shoulders, and perfect uniform creases. And yet her face was gentle, hinting at a smile. Ben had no doubt she could take him apart in a hand-to-hand fight, and no one would make fun of him for getting beaten up by a girl afterwards.
Her eyes grabbed his, very pale and very clear, and she smiled. “What are you doing here?”
All at once, the world burst open. Light poured through the dingy windows of the gas station, and left no shadow. Ben Simon’s ears popped, his eyes widened, and he threw up his hands in terror. The woman outside the window threw light like a pure white sun, her smile only growing wider.
“Don’t be afraid!” she whispered to Ben. “I bring good news. The best news the world has ever heard. An hour ago, right here in Bethlehem, a Savior was born. The Messiah, Ben. Right here.”
At her words, the fear began to drain away. Ben lowered his hands and looked at her. Her eyes were bright and full of joy, and they stole his breath away.
The Messiah. Here.
He found his breath, struggled to pull it in. “Wh-“
“Not five blocks away. Down the street,” she said, lifting her arm to point, “you’ll find a newborn, wrapped in cloth. He’s in the laundry room of the hotel, lying in the sink.”
Ben barely had time to picture the King of Kings in his makeshift cradle before the angel looked over her shoulder, laughing. A battalion of soldiers in the same uniform, burning brighter than the day, swept in on wings of gold and silver, filling the intersection and the surrounding streets. Their voices shook the walls of Ben’s booth as they shouted, “Hallelujah in the highest! Peace on Earth to the favored of God!” There voices were as joyous laughter, filled with love and zeal.
The angel looked back to Ben, her wings unfolding like the sunrise. “Go, go!” she shouted giddily, and he lifted herself from the ground. Behind her followed the rest of the brilliant soldiers, shouting their chorus again and again. Moments later, the night was quiet again, and Ben could hear only his own riotous pulse. He stumbled out of his booth, staring at the sky, until he finally looked down to see Isaiah and Mordecai standing next to him.
“You... you heard that. You saw it,” Ben stammered.
“I know which hotel she meant,” Isaiah started, stealing glances at the stars. “We should... I mean, we’ve gotta- Mo! Wait!”
Mordecai Steinberg had turned and run headlong back toward his gas station, pumping his arms like an Olympian. He spun about breathlessly and shouted back:
“I’m getting my car! Don’t move!”
* * *
“Fernando! Is it refreshing?”
“Crap, I’ve got no bars. We hit a dead pocket... no! Wait, there it goes. What does it say?”
“Turn around! Shaun, turn around!”
The van halted sharply, and the young man and woman in the back braced themselves as best they could. Bina Zarafshar clutched at the notebook computer on her lap as the monitor swung forward and down. The cord running from the computer to their team’s cell phone snapped taught, and Bina caught her breath.
“Ai!”
Fernando noticed at the last second and pulled down his hand, slackening the cord. He chuckled nervously and sat down. “That was bad. Almost tugged it right off your lap.”
“It’s okay. It’s fine. Wait. Did we-“
“Yes, yes, we got dropped. But we’ve got good reception here. Good spot to reconnect.”
Shaun parked the van and climbed into the back.
“How close are we?”
Bina looked to the chart. The latest data from the feed had been factored in, and the numbers were huge. Monumental.
“Oh, we’re close.” She couldn’t help but laugh. They were almost on top of it. “Try turning right back at that last intersection.”
Fernando nodded and grinned eagerly. “This is too good. Too good. You should redial now.”
“Oh! Right.” Bina double-clicked the link to her ISP, and the cell phone began dialing. None of them considered the absurd charges they were racking up, connecting to the Internet through an international call. The signal shot through the atmosphere, and a few moments later, the connection was up again.
“Good,” said Shaun. “You let me know if we get dropped again, okay?” His eyes grinned every bit as much as his mouth. He hopped back into the driver’s seat.
“Of course. Just brake easier!” Bina looked back to her screen. She logged back into the University network, and the feed began again. “All right, we’re receiving data... yes, definitely turn right back at that intersection. The stream was almost off the chart right there.”
“Let me see,” Fernando said, leaning in to see the screen. Bina turned it toward him, and he laughed aloud. The graph, which read “Divine Particle Density,” showed a spike in an already remarkably high, steady level at about the time they had passed the intersection.
“When we show this to the Nobel committee,” Fernando smirked, “do you think they’ll mind the name ‘divine particle?’”
“It’s as good a name as any for what they are,” Shaun shouted from the front, putting the van back in gear. He swung the vehicle around as fast as he dared and headed back along the road. “Tell me the convergence hasn’t moved.”
Bina shouted back, “No, it hasn’t moved for hours! And it has to be in this town... where are we?”
“Bethlehem!”
“No, what country?”
They all laughed. For all they sleep they had gotten in the past week of tracking and traveling, they should have been exhausted. But sleep was far from their minds.
* * *
No one was doing laundry this late, thankfully. There was a slight draft from under the door, but other than that, the room was warm enough. Joseph leaned on the wall by the sink, sleeves rolled up, looking down at his son. He hadn’t stopped grinning for hours. He couldn’t help but think that there was a better place to put him, but he had dried out the basin well enough. And besides, the child had been sleeping peacefully since the doctor had left.
Joseph sighed happily and threw a glance at Mary, who stirred on her cot. A few thin, dark curls still stuck to her wet forehead, and her face was still ever so slightly flushed. Joseph knelt by her side, by his wife’s side, and let himself just stare at her face. Her mouth was barely open, her breath steady and calm. A nice change of pace from... had it only been an hour ago? He shook his head in awe and smoothed Mary’s hair back from her face.
“My God,” he breathed, “you’re amazing.”
Her breath drew in sharply, and her eyes flickered open.
“Oh! Did I wake you up? I’m sorry...”
“No, no, it’s okay,” she said sleepily, squinting her eyes and stretching. “Is the baby still...”
Joseph nodded. “Yeah. Still asleep in the... sink.” He chuckled despite himself.
Mary smirked, shaking her head from her prone position. “The sink. Oi.” She slipped her hand into her husband’s, catching his eye. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Joseph squeezed her hand and held her gaze. He merely nodded, and leaned in to kiss her.
It was then that the doorknob turned. The couple looked up sharply as a young man poked his head into the room.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hello,” Mary replied. There was suddenly no sleep in her voice, and she sat up on her cot.
The young man was jostled forward by someone behind him. He stepped through the door, and two other teenagers followed, all scanning the room expectantly. They all wore blue uniforms with the logos of three different gas stations on their breast pockets. Their eyes settled on the sink in the corner at the same time. The one in the back gasped. “Is that... is the baby...?”
Joseph threw his wife a confused look, and found her doing the same. “How do you...”
“This way! It’s got to be right here!” came a woman’s voice from outside, speaking English.
A moment later, three Americans burst into the laundry room, carrying a laptop hooked up to a cellular phone. They all wore wrinkled, lived-in shirts and jeans, and were watching the screen of the laptop with awe in their eyes. The only light-skinned one of the three, who had nothing in his hands, looked urgently to all those assembled in the small room.
“Please, tell me one of you speaks English.”
The three gas station attendants, Mary, and Joseph, all began speaking at the same time, in English.
“Oh, thank God. Look, there’s a completely unique quantum event happening in this room, right here! We’ve been tracking it from America for the last nine months, and... what is it?”
Bina had set down the laptop and walked over to the sink, almost in step with Ben. Joseph took a step toward them, but Mary put a hand on his arm. The Jew and the gentile peered over the edge of the basin.
And there, wrapped in three of his father’s old t-shirts, was the child, his breath whistling softly through his nose. If peace were a child, it could be none other than this. Ben’s breath caught in his throat, and Bina’s eyes lit up.
“It’s him.”
“It’s a child,” Bina gasped.
Joseph breathed deeply, still uncertain. “How did you know we...?”
And all at once, the rest of the new arrivals realized that they had found what they were seeking. Suddenly they were all laughing in delight. Ben knelt by the sink, eyes locked on the Anointed One. Shaun grabbed Fernando by the shoulders, tears in his eyes. “A child! Of course it’s a child!” He turned to Mary and Joseph to explain just as Mo Steinberg did the same, and they launched into their stories as one.
“Wait, wait, wait!” It was Ben, who only now looked back up from the sink-turned-cradle. He held up a hand for silence, and turned reverently to Mary and Joseph. “What is his name?”
Mary met his gaze, slowly beginning to smile again. “His name is Joshua.”
They all took in the name in silence. Fernando grinned and nodded in approval. “Joshua. Jésus in Spanish. It means...” His voice trailed off.
Mary nodded with him. “The Lord saves.”
Today, a repost of a story I composed and put up last year. I hope it will remind you of miracles.
The Hanukkah travel rush was over, and Bethlehem was quiet again. Hence, the corner where Ben Simon worked the graveyard shift hadn’t seen a car pass in ten minutes. He looked up from his English textbook and peered across the street, to the small booth where his friend Isaiah worked. They had both gotten late-night jobs at gas stations at about the same time, and frequently used faux company loyalty as an excuse to pick on each other. Diagonally across the intersection from Ben was a third gas station manned by Mordecai Steinberg. While Ben and Isaiah had the occasional squeegee fight in the middle of the empty road, Mo usually stuck to his booth dutifully, reading the Torah.
Tonight was too cold for squeegee fighting, and the batteries had just run out in Ben’s Game Boy. His parents were mad at him for working on the Sabbath, and he had homework due on Monday.
Ben was all but dozing off when someone knocked on his Plexiglas window. He started and sat up on his shop stool.
“Sorry. What do you need?” Ben rubbed one eye with his palm as he looked up.
Outside the window stood a young woman wearing a military dress uniform. She was all straight lines – vertical spine, squared shoulders, and perfect uniform creases. And yet her face was gentle, hinting at a smile. Ben had no doubt she could take him apart in a hand-to-hand fight, and no one would make fun of him for getting beaten up by a girl afterwards.
Her eyes grabbed his, very pale and very clear, and she smiled. “What are you doing here?”
All at once, the world burst open. Light poured through the dingy windows of the gas station, and left no shadow. Ben Simon’s ears popped, his eyes widened, and he threw up his hands in terror. The woman outside the window threw light like a pure white sun, her smile only growing wider.
“Don’t be afraid!” she whispered to Ben. “I bring good news. The best news the world has ever heard. An hour ago, right here in Bethlehem, a Savior was born. The Messiah, Ben. Right here.”
At her words, the fear began to drain away. Ben lowered his hands and looked at her. Her eyes were bright and full of joy, and they stole his breath away.
The Messiah. Here.
He found his breath, struggled to pull it in. “Wh-“
“Not five blocks away. Down the street,” she said, lifting her arm to point, “you’ll find a newborn, wrapped in cloth. He’s in the laundry room of the hotel, lying in the sink.”
Ben barely had time to picture the King of Kings in his makeshift cradle before the angel looked over her shoulder, laughing. A battalion of soldiers in the same uniform, burning brighter than the day, swept in on wings of gold and silver, filling the intersection and the surrounding streets. Their voices shook the walls of Ben’s booth as they shouted, “Hallelujah in the highest! Peace on Earth to the favored of God!” There voices were as joyous laughter, filled with love and zeal.
The angel looked back to Ben, her wings unfolding like the sunrise. “Go, go!” she shouted giddily, and he lifted herself from the ground. Behind her followed the rest of the brilliant soldiers, shouting their chorus again and again. Moments later, the night was quiet again, and Ben could hear only his own riotous pulse. He stumbled out of his booth, staring at the sky, until he finally looked down to see Isaiah and Mordecai standing next to him.
“You... you heard that. You saw it,” Ben stammered.
“I know which hotel she meant,” Isaiah started, stealing glances at the stars. “We should... I mean, we’ve gotta- Mo! Wait!”
Mordecai Steinberg had turned and run headlong back toward his gas station, pumping his arms like an Olympian. He spun about breathlessly and shouted back:
“I’m getting my car! Don’t move!”
“Fernando! Is it refreshing?”
“Crap, I’ve got no bars. We hit a dead pocket... no! Wait, there it goes. What does it say?”
“Turn around! Shaun, turn around!”
The van halted sharply, and the young man and woman in the back braced themselves as best they could. Bina Zarafshar clutched at the notebook computer on her lap as the monitor swung forward and down. The cord running from the computer to their team’s cell phone snapped taught, and Bina caught her breath.
“Ai!”
Fernando noticed at the last second and pulled down his hand, slackening the cord. He chuckled nervously and sat down. “That was bad. Almost tugged it right off your lap.”
“It’s okay. It’s fine. Wait. Did we-“
“Yes, yes, we got dropped. But we’ve got good reception here. Good spot to reconnect.”
Shaun parked the van and climbed into the back.
“How close are we?”
Bina looked to the chart. The latest data from the feed had been factored in, and the numbers were huge. Monumental.
“Oh, we’re close.” She couldn’t help but laugh. They were almost on top of it. “Try turning right back at that last intersection.”
Fernando nodded and grinned eagerly. “This is too good. Too good. You should redial now.”
“Oh! Right.” Bina double-clicked the link to her ISP, and the cell phone began dialing. None of them considered the absurd charges they were racking up, connecting to the Internet through an international call. The signal shot through the atmosphere, and a few moments later, the connection was up again.
“Good,” said Shaun. “You let me know if we get dropped again, okay?” His eyes grinned every bit as much as his mouth. He hopped back into the driver’s seat.
“Of course. Just brake easier!” Bina looked back to her screen. She logged back into the University network, and the feed began again. “All right, we’re receiving data... yes, definitely turn right back at that intersection. The stream was almost off the chart right there.”
“Let me see,” Fernando said, leaning in to see the screen. Bina turned it toward him, and he laughed aloud. The graph, which read “Divine Particle Density,” showed a spike in an already remarkably high, steady level at about the time they had passed the intersection.
“When we show this to the Nobel committee,” Fernando smirked, “do you think they’ll mind the name ‘divine particle?’”
“It’s as good a name as any for what they are,” Shaun shouted from the front, putting the van back in gear. He swung the vehicle around as fast as he dared and headed back along the road. “Tell me the convergence hasn’t moved.”
Bina shouted back, “No, it hasn’t moved for hours! And it has to be in this town... where are we?”
“Bethlehem!”
“No, what country?”
They all laughed. For all they sleep they had gotten in the past week of tracking and traveling, they should have been exhausted. But sleep was far from their minds.
No one was doing laundry this late, thankfully. There was a slight draft from under the door, but other than that, the room was warm enough. Joseph leaned on the wall by the sink, sleeves rolled up, looking down at his son. He hadn’t stopped grinning for hours. He couldn’t help but think that there was a better place to put him, but he had dried out the basin well enough. And besides, the child had been sleeping peacefully since the doctor had left.
Joseph sighed happily and threw a glance at Mary, who stirred on her cot. A few thin, dark curls still stuck to her wet forehead, and her face was still ever so slightly flushed. Joseph knelt by her side, by his wife’s side, and let himself just stare at her face. Her mouth was barely open, her breath steady and calm. A nice change of pace from... had it only been an hour ago? He shook his head in awe and smoothed Mary’s hair back from her face.
“My God,” he breathed, “you’re amazing.”
Her breath drew in sharply, and her eyes flickered open.
“Oh! Did I wake you up? I’m sorry...”
“No, no, it’s okay,” she said sleepily, squinting her eyes and stretching. “Is the baby still...”
Joseph nodded. “Yeah. Still asleep in the... sink.” He chuckled despite himself.
Mary smirked, shaking her head from her prone position. “The sink. Oi.” She slipped her hand into her husband’s, catching his eye. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Joseph squeezed her hand and held her gaze. He merely nodded, and leaned in to kiss her.
It was then that the doorknob turned. The couple looked up sharply as a young man poked his head into the room.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hello,” Mary replied. There was suddenly no sleep in her voice, and she sat up on her cot.
The young man was jostled forward by someone behind him. He stepped through the door, and two other teenagers followed, all scanning the room expectantly. They all wore blue uniforms with the logos of three different gas stations on their breast pockets. Their eyes settled on the sink in the corner at the same time. The one in the back gasped. “Is that... is the baby...?”
Joseph threw his wife a confused look, and found her doing the same. “How do you...”
“This way! It’s got to be right here!” came a woman’s voice from outside, speaking English.
A moment later, three Americans burst into the laundry room, carrying a laptop hooked up to a cellular phone. They all wore wrinkled, lived-in shirts and jeans, and were watching the screen of the laptop with awe in their eyes. The only light-skinned one of the three, who had nothing in his hands, looked urgently to all those assembled in the small room.
“Please, tell me one of you speaks English.”
The three gas station attendants, Mary, and Joseph, all began speaking at the same time, in English.
“Oh, thank God. Look, there’s a completely unique quantum event happening in this room, right here! We’ve been tracking it from America for the last nine months, and... what is it?”
Bina had set down the laptop and walked over to the sink, almost in step with Ben. Joseph took a step toward them, but Mary put a hand on his arm. The Jew and the gentile peered over the edge of the basin.
And there, wrapped in three of his father’s old t-shirts, was the child, his breath whistling softly through his nose. If peace were a child, it could be none other than this. Ben’s breath caught in his throat, and Bina’s eyes lit up.
“It’s him.”
“It’s a child,” Bina gasped.
Joseph breathed deeply, still uncertain. “How did you know we...?”
And all at once, the rest of the new arrivals realized that they had found what they were seeking. Suddenly they were all laughing in delight. Ben knelt by the sink, eyes locked on the Anointed One. Shaun grabbed Fernando by the shoulders, tears in his eyes. “A child! Of course it’s a child!” He turned to Mary and Joseph to explain just as Mo Steinberg did the same, and they launched into their stories as one.
“Wait, wait, wait!” It was Ben, who only now looked back up from the sink-turned-cradle. He held up a hand for silence, and turned reverently to Mary and Joseph. “What is his name?”
Mary met his gaze, slowly beginning to smile again. “His name is Joshua.”
They all took in the name in silence. Fernando grinned and nodded in approval. “Joshua. Jésus in Spanish. It means...” His voice trailed off.
Mary nodded with him. “The Lord saves.”
Monday, May 30, 2005
(a second draft of the story i posted last time. i've changed the ending for clarity.)
The young swordsman squinted out at the desert. “What do you think it is, Sir Isaac?” He drained the last of the canteen, then spit the lukewarm water over the edge of the parapet with a grimace.
Isaac was just coming up the stairwell, polishing his sword with a square of cloth. “Should have swallowed that. We’ll be on short rations until we take the oasis.” The knight glanced up at the sun, which was perhaps an hour from its slumber beyond the horizon. Squinting himself, he peered out at the glint of light atop the dune, perhaps a thousand paces outside the fortress wall.
“You see it? Looks like someone left a sword out there. I thought we gathered them all after yesterday’s battle.”
“Apparently not,” Isaac replied coolly. He regarded the younger soldier’s curved scabbard, and the ornate hilt emerging from it. “I see you’ve got yourself a nomad’s blade.”
Grinning, the soldier glanced down at his own sword admiringly. “It’ll hold me over until I get one like yours,” he said, nodding at the knight’s unsheathed blade. Even at this distance, he could see the sky in Isaac’s sword, a reflection creased with the nicks of battle.
“Indeed.” Isaac narrowed his eyes once again at the light in the desert. His left hand still polished the blade with an uneven rhythm, the cloth jumping back and forth across the steel.
“Sir Darren said he’d make me his squire if I made something of myself in the desert campaign,” the soldier said, his eyes distant, his mouth grinning still. “Not bad for a merchant’s kid, and a half-blood at that.” He turned and leaned against the parapet wall, looking back at the single tower of the fortress.
Isaac looked down at his sword for a moment, tilting it in the slowly fading light. Then, the rag moved once again, up and down the blade. “See that you do. This kingdom needs more low-born knights.”
“Amen,” the soldier agreed, turning back to the desert. He went to grab his empty canteen, then remembered. “Right.” With a shrug to himself, he threw Sir Isaac a glance. “I’ve heard that your mother was a nomad too, sir. Like mine.”
“Quite right.” Isaac stuffed the rag into his belt and sheathed his sword with a heavy clink, giving the young soldier a hard look. “Several have made an issue of it, and lived to regret it. I suggest you don’t.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies.” The young man lowered his head, surreptitiously looking back out at the dunes. As he did, the light flickered twice, and disappeared. The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Huh. What do you make of that?”
Isaac flicked his eyes at the missing glint and walked back toward the stairs. “The sun’s setting. It isn’t in the light anymore.”
“Of course, sir,” the soldier repeated. Something in his voice made Isaac pause, turn back to the swordsman. His eyes remained on the desert, averted from the knight. Sir Isaac shook his head and began to descend the stairs.
"My mother taught me the nomads' signaling code, sir."
Isaac stopped. His gaze remained fixed on the stairs, but his hand went slowly to the hilt of his sword. The swordman watched as the knight's fingers wrapped around and gripped the handle. Isaac said nothing, and looked out at the dunes.
The swordsman, with a sigh, drew a dagger from his belt. "You told them when the guard changes." Eyes on Isaac, the swordsman flipped the dagger at the watchman's bell at the corner of the parapet. The dagger took one slow turn and struck the bell, the clatter of its landing on the stone deck lost in the bell's single, reverberating toll.
Down the stairs, the sound of armored men approaching, fast. Isaac slipped his sword from its scabbard and returned to the top of the stairs. The last of the sunset echoed from the blade, bright as a signaling mirror. Hesitantly, the swordsman drew his nomad steel, raising it to guard.
"So, you want to make something of yourself," Isaac sneered, taking the first step forward. The armored boots reached the bottom of the stairs behind him. "You think I'm a traitor, don't you?"
The half-blood swordsman flexed his swordarm. "Not to the enemy."
Dark eyes seething, Isaac stopped halfway across the deck. More than ever, he looked like a nomad raider, scowling fiercely at the swordman and his plundered blade. The soldiers behind him topped the stairs.
"Your mother would be proud," the traitor Isaac spat, the moment before his head left his shoulders.
The young swordsman squinted out at the desert. “What do you think it is, Sir Isaac?” He drained the last of the canteen, then spit the lukewarm water over the edge of the parapet with a grimace.
Isaac was just coming up the stairwell, polishing his sword with a square of cloth. “Should have swallowed that. We’ll be on short rations until we take the oasis.” The knight glanced up at the sun, which was perhaps an hour from its slumber beyond the horizon. Squinting himself, he peered out at the glint of light atop the dune, perhaps a thousand paces outside the fortress wall.
“You see it? Looks like someone left a sword out there. I thought we gathered them all after yesterday’s battle.”
“Apparently not,” Isaac replied coolly. He regarded the younger soldier’s curved scabbard, and the ornate hilt emerging from it. “I see you’ve got yourself a nomad’s blade.”
Grinning, the soldier glanced down at his own sword admiringly. “It’ll hold me over until I get one like yours,” he said, nodding at the knight’s unsheathed blade. Even at this distance, he could see the sky in Isaac’s sword, a reflection creased with the nicks of battle.
“Indeed.” Isaac narrowed his eyes once again at the light in the desert. His left hand still polished the blade with an uneven rhythm, the cloth jumping back and forth across the steel.
“Sir Darren said he’d make me his squire if I made something of myself in the desert campaign,” the soldier said, his eyes distant, his mouth grinning still. “Not bad for a merchant’s kid, and a half-blood at that.” He turned and leaned against the parapet wall, looking back at the single tower of the fortress.
Isaac looked down at his sword for a moment, tilting it in the slowly fading light. Then, the rag moved once again, up and down the blade. “See that you do. This kingdom needs more low-born knights.”
“Amen,” the soldier agreed, turning back to the desert. He went to grab his empty canteen, then remembered. “Right.” With a shrug to himself, he threw Sir Isaac a glance. “I’ve heard that your mother was a nomad too, sir. Like mine.”
“Quite right.” Isaac stuffed the rag into his belt and sheathed his sword with a heavy clink, giving the young soldier a hard look. “Several have made an issue of it, and lived to regret it. I suggest you don’t.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies.” The young man lowered his head, surreptitiously looking back out at the dunes. As he did, the light flickered twice, and disappeared. The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Huh. What do you make of that?”
Isaac flicked his eyes at the missing glint and walked back toward the stairs. “The sun’s setting. It isn’t in the light anymore.”
“Of course, sir,” the soldier repeated. Something in his voice made Isaac pause, turn back to the swordsman. His eyes remained on the desert, averted from the knight. Sir Isaac shook his head and began to descend the stairs.
"My mother taught me the nomads' signaling code, sir."
Isaac stopped. His gaze remained fixed on the stairs, but his hand went slowly to the hilt of his sword. The swordman watched as the knight's fingers wrapped around and gripped the handle. Isaac said nothing, and looked out at the dunes.
The swordsman, with a sigh, drew a dagger from his belt. "You told them when the guard changes." Eyes on Isaac, the swordsman flipped the dagger at the watchman's bell at the corner of the parapet. The dagger took one slow turn and struck the bell, the clatter of its landing on the stone deck lost in the bell's single, reverberating toll.
Down the stairs, the sound of armored men approaching, fast. Isaac slipped his sword from its scabbard and returned to the top of the stairs. The last of the sunset echoed from the blade, bright as a signaling mirror. Hesitantly, the swordsman drew his nomad steel, raising it to guard.
"So, you want to make something of yourself," Isaac sneered, taking the first step forward. The armored boots reached the bottom of the stairs behind him. "You think I'm a traitor, don't you?"
The half-blood swordsman flexed his swordarm. "Not to the enemy."
Dark eyes seething, Isaac stopped halfway across the deck. More than ever, he looked like a nomad raider, scowling fiercely at the swordman and his plundered blade. The soldiers behind him topped the stairs.
"Your mother would be proud," the traitor Isaac spat, the moment before his head left his shoulders.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
The young swordsman squinted out at the desert. “What do you think it is, Sir Isaac?” He drained the last of the canteen, then spit the lukewarm water over the edge of the parapet with a grimace.
Isaac was just coming up the stairwell, polishing his sword with a square of cloth. “Should have swallowed that. We’ll be on short rations until we take the oasis.” The knight glanced up at the sun, which was perhaps an hour from its slumber beyond the horizon. Squinting himself, he peered out at the glint of light atop the dune, perhaps a thousand paces outside the fortress wall.
“You see it? Looks like someone left a sword out there. I thought we gathered them all after yesterday’s battle.”
“Apparently not,” Isaac replied coolly. He regarded the younger soldier’s curved scabbard, and the ornate hilt emerging from it. “I see you’ve got yourself a nomad’s blade.”
Grinning, the soldier glanced down at his own sword admiringly. “It’ll hold me over until I get one like yours,” he said, nodding at the knight’s unsheathed blade. Even at this distance, he could see the sky in Isaac’s sword, a reflection creased with the nicks of battle.
“Indeed.” Isaac narrowed his eyes once again at the light in the desert. His left hand still polished the blade with an uneven rhythm, the cloth jumping back and forth across the steel.
“Sir Darren said he’d make me his squire if I made something of myself in the desert campaign,” the soldier said, his eyes distant, his mouth grinning still. “Not bad for a merchant’s kid, and a half-blood at that.” He turned and leaned against the parapet wall, looking back at the single tower of the fortress.
Isaac looked down at his sword for a moment, tilting it in the slowly fading light. Then, the rag moved once again, up and down the blade. “See that you do. This kingdom needs more low-born knights.”
“Amen,” the soldier agreed, turning back to the desert. He went to grab his empty canteen, then remembered. “Right.” With a shrug to himself, he threw Sir Isaac a glance. “I’ve heard that your mother was a nomad too, sir. Like mine.”
“Quite right.” Isaac stuffed the rag into his belt and sheathed his sword with a heavy clink, giving the young soldier a hard look. “Several have made an issue of it, and lived to regret it. I suggest you don’t.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies.” The young man lowered his head, surreptitiously looking back out at the dunes. As he did, the light flickered twice, and disappeared. The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Huh. What do you make of that?”
Isaac flicked his eyes at the missing glint and walked back toward the stairs. “The sun’s setting. It isn’t in the light anymore.”
“Of course, sir,” the soldier repeated. Something in his voice made Isaac pause, turn back to the swordsman. His eyes remained on the desert, averted from the knight. Sir Isaac shook his head and descended the stairs.
The swordsman waited until the knight was out of sight, then silently drew the dagger from his boot. Lifting it above his head, to catch the light of the setting sun, he signaled to the swordsmen waiting atop the distant dune. Confirm?
Slowly, the reply came. Sir Isaac. Returning to base.
Serrata only nodded and sheathed his dagger. The half-blood swordsman sighed, remembering when his mother had taught him the nomad’s signaling code. He’d used it in childhood games, flashing the signs for attack and retreat to his friends.
It would be only minutes before the men returned with the spyglass and the signaling mirror, and a handwritten copy of the traitor’s message, sent by light of sword.
Isaac was just coming up the stairwell, polishing his sword with a square of cloth. “Should have swallowed that. We’ll be on short rations until we take the oasis.” The knight glanced up at the sun, which was perhaps an hour from its slumber beyond the horizon. Squinting himself, he peered out at the glint of light atop the dune, perhaps a thousand paces outside the fortress wall.
“You see it? Looks like someone left a sword out there. I thought we gathered them all after yesterday’s battle.”
“Apparently not,” Isaac replied coolly. He regarded the younger soldier’s curved scabbard, and the ornate hilt emerging from it. “I see you’ve got yourself a nomad’s blade.”
Grinning, the soldier glanced down at his own sword admiringly. “It’ll hold me over until I get one like yours,” he said, nodding at the knight’s unsheathed blade. Even at this distance, he could see the sky in Isaac’s sword, a reflection creased with the nicks of battle.
“Indeed.” Isaac narrowed his eyes once again at the light in the desert. His left hand still polished the blade with an uneven rhythm, the cloth jumping back and forth across the steel.
“Sir Darren said he’d make me his squire if I made something of myself in the desert campaign,” the soldier said, his eyes distant, his mouth grinning still. “Not bad for a merchant’s kid, and a half-blood at that.” He turned and leaned against the parapet wall, looking back at the single tower of the fortress.
Isaac looked down at his sword for a moment, tilting it in the slowly fading light. Then, the rag moved once again, up and down the blade. “See that you do. This kingdom needs more low-born knights.”
“Amen,” the soldier agreed, turning back to the desert. He went to grab his empty canteen, then remembered. “Right.” With a shrug to himself, he threw Sir Isaac a glance. “I’ve heard that your mother was a nomad too, sir. Like mine.”
“Quite right.” Isaac stuffed the rag into his belt and sheathed his sword with a heavy clink, giving the young soldier a hard look. “Several have made an issue of it, and lived to regret it. I suggest you don’t.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies.” The young man lowered his head, surreptitiously looking back out at the dunes. As he did, the light flickered twice, and disappeared. The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Huh. What do you make of that?”
Isaac flicked his eyes at the missing glint and walked back toward the stairs. “The sun’s setting. It isn’t in the light anymore.”
“Of course, sir,” the soldier repeated. Something in his voice made Isaac pause, turn back to the swordsman. His eyes remained on the desert, averted from the knight. Sir Isaac shook his head and descended the stairs.
The swordsman waited until the knight was out of sight, then silently drew the dagger from his boot. Lifting it above his head, to catch the light of the setting sun, he signaled to the swordsmen waiting atop the distant dune. Confirm?
Slowly, the reply came. Sir Isaac. Returning to base.
Serrata only nodded and sheathed his dagger. The half-blood swordsman sighed, remembering when his mother had taught him the nomad’s signaling code. He’d used it in childhood games, flashing the signs for attack and retreat to his friends.
It would be only minutes before the men returned with the spyglass and the signaling mirror, and a handwritten copy of the traitor’s message, sent by light of sword.
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