The voices, Nuriel decided, were not going to stop. They had been mumbling on, barely audible, for three straight days. Occasionally approaching coherence, but always slipping back into senile whimsy. Last night, the voices had counted ducks for two hours, pausing periodically to argue about the count.
It had taken Nuriel the first six hours to discover that the voices did not have a source. She had searched from noon until sunset trying to find a source, before giving up and trying to sleep. The voices would have none of it. Their chatter seemed to swell whenever she was about to drift off. The worst part, she thought, was that their chorus hovered just slightly below a b-flat, so that Nuriel found herself humming the true note in an effort to correct them.
She did not sleep that night. The next day she realized that her horse was completely unfazed by the commotion, if it even heard it. She resolved to put in as many miles as possible, and simply leave the voices behind. After a hard days riding, with no slackening of the incessant chatter, Nuriel tried once more to sleep. And once more failed. That had been over a day ago, and still no sleep.
Nuriel had ridden her horse to exhaustion (and almost to death) before she once more tried to rest. This time she managed to drift off. Only to wake, seconds later, to find that the voices had stopped chattering and begun to scream. Their was no mistaking it now, the noise came from inside her head (and still just below a b-flat).
The next morning dawned to find Nuriel a shadow of her former self. Their were deep gouges on her ears and cheeks from trying to stop the noise and the blood had caked in her hair, forming gruesome dreadlocks. Her eyes were blood shot and moved constantly. She was muttering incoherently to herself, in a perfect b-flat.
When the horse sought her out for its breakfast, she did not notice him until he bit her shoulder gently, then she leaped on his back, startling into trying to buck her off. She rode him hard for most of the morning.
Then, around noon, she crossed a mountain stream, and the voices stopped as though cut off by a knife. Nuriel was so startled that she fell of her horse and into the freezing water. When she had caught her horse again, she pulled out her map and circled a large section of the forest. Inside the circle, in large letters, she wrote one word: no.
She was still chuckling to herself at this little witticism when she fell asleep. Chuckling just a little below a b-flat.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
"Come out!" the figure cried from the hill. "Come out and face your doom, for I will accept no other recompense."
The king shuddered in his hall and sent forth his champion to do battle.
"Come out!" the figure cried again, "Your fate cannot be passed to another."
The king sent out his picked men, next, and they went happily. They had never known defeat at his orders, and if his temper had brought him to (and past) the edge of brutality, they were richer men for it.
"Come out!" the figure cried. "No army will save you, no other will come to your aid."
The king remembered his youth, and his hand felt strong as it grasped the hilt on the wall. But his arm felt week when he lifted.
The figure was no longer on the hill, but there were screams outside. Then the gate flew open, and a shadow filled the hall.
The king shuddered in his hall and sent forth his champion to do battle.
"Come out!" the figure cried again, "Your fate cannot be passed to another."
The king sent out his picked men, next, and they went happily. They had never known defeat at his orders, and if his temper had brought him to (and past) the edge of brutality, they were richer men for it.
"Come out!" the figure cried. "No army will save you, no other will come to your aid."
The king remembered his youth, and his hand felt strong as it grasped the hilt on the wall. But his arm felt week when he lifted.
The figure was no longer on the hill, but there were screams outside. Then the gate flew open, and a shadow filled the hall.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Spiders
As a rule, Mark was not afraid of spiders. Sure, they made him nervous (and he killed them whenever he could) but some people have a genuine terror of ocotopods that Mark simply did not share.
The spider that he found in the hall closet, one morning, was a stark exception. He had gone to get the bleach, and there it was: at least a foot across, huge and hairy. Later, all he could remember of it were its fangs, or pincers, or whatever you wanted to call the things that stuck out from its mouth. They were at least an inch long, barbed and jagged. They looked wet and if you watched them, you could see them slowly closing and opening.
Mark jerked when he first saw it, then froze, tense. He tried to convince himself that it was a joke, that he was being taped, until it started to come forward in a series of staccato bursts, its movement punctuated by the clicking on the floor. Mark grabbed for the broom and swung it. The spider skipped to the side and started to climb up the broom. Mark jumped back (dropping the broom) then recovered his dignity and backed slowly into the kitchen, reaching for the phone. Then the spider was gone. He looked around the room, poked his head into the hallway while he dialed 911. No spider. He looked up.
On the hall ceiling, the spider crouched and glared down at Mark. The pincers, stilling moving in and out, dripped once onto the rug floor.
Mark backed into the kitchen, again. The spider followed him, skittering back and forth across the kitchen ceiling. Never moving in a predictable direction, but always closer to Mark. Then it paused and moved to the corner.
It began to weave a web. Mark couldn't believe the intricacy and speed with which it worked. The strands were large and the web was bigger than Mark's torso. It was round and perfect and materialized with a mechanical speed.
Mark broke out of his stupor and dialed 911. He was transferred to animal control where a woman explained to him in a condescending tone that he was panicking. There were no spiders of that size in this area. He was probably, she explained with poorly pretended patience, seeing a wolf spider. They were not dangerous and he should not worry.
Mark looked again at the spider. He convinced the woman to send out an Animal Control agent, then climbed out the kitchen window.
When the Animal Control agent arrived, Mark followed him inside. The spider was gone. The agent, not even bothering to hide a snear, repeated the woman's spiel about wolf spiders and then drove away while Mark watched, dazed, from his porch.
He considered getting a hotel for the night, but the back of his mind wouldn't let him accept the blow to his pride. He stood, undecided, on the porch for a full half-hour, before he heard a kind of shriek from inside the house.
When Mark reached the kitchen, the neighbor's cat was lashing inside a second web on the kitchen counter. The spider circled, throwing out more webbing. Mark jumped forward, grabbed the cat, and fled the house. He returned the neighbors cat and went to get a hotel.
He called a real estate agent.
The spider that he found in the hall closet, one morning, was a stark exception. He had gone to get the bleach, and there it was: at least a foot across, huge and hairy. Later, all he could remember of it were its fangs, or pincers, or whatever you wanted to call the things that stuck out from its mouth. They were at least an inch long, barbed and jagged. They looked wet and if you watched them, you could see them slowly closing and opening.
Mark jerked when he first saw it, then froze, tense. He tried to convince himself that it was a joke, that he was being taped, until it started to come forward in a series of staccato bursts, its movement punctuated by the clicking on the floor. Mark grabbed for the broom and swung it. The spider skipped to the side and started to climb up the broom. Mark jumped back (dropping the broom) then recovered his dignity and backed slowly into the kitchen, reaching for the phone. Then the spider was gone. He looked around the room, poked his head into the hallway while he dialed 911. No spider. He looked up.
On the hall ceiling, the spider crouched and glared down at Mark. The pincers, stilling moving in and out, dripped once onto the rug floor.
Mark backed into the kitchen, again. The spider followed him, skittering back and forth across the kitchen ceiling. Never moving in a predictable direction, but always closer to Mark. Then it paused and moved to the corner.
It began to weave a web. Mark couldn't believe the intricacy and speed with which it worked. The strands were large and the web was bigger than Mark's torso. It was round and perfect and materialized with a mechanical speed.
Mark broke out of his stupor and dialed 911. He was transferred to animal control where a woman explained to him in a condescending tone that he was panicking. There were no spiders of that size in this area. He was probably, she explained with poorly pretended patience, seeing a wolf spider. They were not dangerous and he should not worry.
Mark looked again at the spider. He convinced the woman to send out an Animal Control agent, then climbed out the kitchen window.
When the Animal Control agent arrived, Mark followed him inside. The spider was gone. The agent, not even bothering to hide a snear, repeated the woman's spiel about wolf spiders and then drove away while Mark watched, dazed, from his porch.
He considered getting a hotel for the night, but the back of his mind wouldn't let him accept the blow to his pride. He stood, undecided, on the porch for a full half-hour, before he heard a kind of shriek from inside the house.
When Mark reached the kitchen, the neighbor's cat was lashing inside a second web on the kitchen counter. The spider circled, throwing out more webbing. Mark jumped forward, grabbed the cat, and fled the house. He returned the neighbors cat and went to get a hotel.
He called a real estate agent.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The Prayer
Long ago, a man decided to remove himself from the world of men in order to dedicate himself wholly to the worship of his God. He traveled to the farthest countries across the widest seas and built himself a cottage atop the highest mountain. Then, he settled himself for prayer.
He had only just settled his mind to worship, when he heard a scratching at his door. At first he was annoyed, thinking that someone had followed him to his mountain refuge, but when he opened the door, he found only a small lynx whose leg had been crushed by a rock.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." He carefully tended the lynx, washing the cuts and scrapes and setting the leg. For a whole month he tended to the lynx's every need while its leg healed. Then one day, the cast came off and the lynx ran off down the side of the mountain.
The man sighed happily and settled himself for prayer. He had not been at it for five minutes when he heard a noise at his window. He ignored it for several minutes, but when it continued he strode purposefully to the window and flung it open. There on the sill was a little wren with a broken wing.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." Just like the lynx, the man brought the wren inside, cared for its wounds, saw to its health, and set it free.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, the man lived on top of his mountain, but each time he would begin to pray another injured animal would find its way to his door. Each time, he would welcome the animal into his home and into his heart.
The man grew old, as man will, and eventually died. So much of his time had been spent caring for the animals, that in all of his years living on top of the mountain, only a few precious hours had been spent in prayer. Upon dying, the man found himself outside of a great palace. Through the window he could see a figure that was somehow both terrifyingly unknowable and comfortingly familiar.
The figure was concentrating deeply on something, but the man could not understand the words and symbols that the figure wrote. This work, the man knew, was of supreme importance. This work mattered more than anything that had ever been done or would ever be done. Deciding not to bother this great figure from its great work, the man looked around for some other shelter to protect him from the elements.
The figure paused and looked at the man, then strode to the great gate of the palace. "Come in," the figure said "I will not turn away anyone seeking my help."
He had only just settled his mind to worship, when he heard a scratching at his door. At first he was annoyed, thinking that someone had followed him to his mountain refuge, but when he opened the door, he found only a small lynx whose leg had been crushed by a rock.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." He carefully tended the lynx, washing the cuts and scrapes and setting the leg. For a whole month he tended to the lynx's every need while its leg healed. Then one day, the cast came off and the lynx ran off down the side of the mountain.
The man sighed happily and settled himself for prayer. He had not been at it for five minutes when he heard a noise at his window. He ignored it for several minutes, but when it continued he strode purposefully to the window and flung it open. There on the sill was a little wren with a broken wing.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." Just like the lynx, the man brought the wren inside, cared for its wounds, saw to its health, and set it free.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, the man lived on top of his mountain, but each time he would begin to pray another injured animal would find its way to his door. Each time, he would welcome the animal into his home and into his heart.
The man grew old, as man will, and eventually died. So much of his time had been spent caring for the animals, that in all of his years living on top of the mountain, only a few precious hours had been spent in prayer. Upon dying, the man found himself outside of a great palace. Through the window he could see a figure that was somehow both terrifyingly unknowable and comfortingly familiar.
The figure was concentrating deeply on something, but the man could not understand the words and symbols that the figure wrote. This work, the man knew, was of supreme importance. This work mattered more than anything that had ever been done or would ever be done. Deciding not to bother this great figure from its great work, the man looked around for some other shelter to protect him from the elements.
The figure paused and looked at the man, then strode to the great gate of the palace. "Come in," the figure said "I will not turn away anyone seeking my help."
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Hey
I want to apologize to my loyal readers ;0. I have been at a conference for a few days and got behind on my posting. I have put up several days worth of stories, today.
The child Jesus
I was wondering the other day about the child Jesus.
Imaging growing up as a God, omnipotent and omniscient. The defining characteristic of early childhood is frustration, an inability to control your environment. Most of our psychology seems to emerge from our early inability to exert control.
Without any barrier between wish and fulfillment, the ego and superego would never form. Every whim would be met by an immediate and instinctual gratification.
Imagine the self-control that would be required to live in a world without any barrier to your desires.
Such an experience would not be, in any way, human.
So... I guess it didn't work like that.
Imaging growing up as a God, omnipotent and omniscient. The defining characteristic of early childhood is frustration, an inability to control your environment. Most of our psychology seems to emerge from our early inability to exert control.
Without any barrier between wish and fulfillment, the ego and superego would never form. Every whim would be met by an immediate and instinctual gratification.
Imagine the self-control that would be required to live in a world without any barrier to your desires.
Such an experience would not be, in any way, human.
So... I guess it didn't work like that.
Uninhibited
Jim had spent his entire life learning to deal with his size. Other people could afford to bump into tables or other people, but Jim had 300 lbs of momentum and knocked people flat if he didn't notice them. He never relaxed in a crowded room and could barely shop in stores with cramped aisles.
The crowd pressed around him. He caught glimpses of her from time time, but could not find a path through the crowd. He bumped into someone in his frustration and turned to help them to their feet. He stopped. He started forward, shoving his way through the crowd. It was easy. Much easier than he thought. There were cries of outrage in his wake, but no one really wanted to interfere with him after they saw the look in his eyes.
He started to move faster. Slamming into people, watching them fly out of his way. He heard a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a scream of fury and never registered that this horrifying sound was coming from his own throat. He began to run now, as the crowd began to part before him. More afraid of this raging barbarian then the terrors behind.
She was in sight now, being dragged forward dazed and bloody by her three captors. They had half turned at the commotion behind them when he hit them. Two of them were thrown to the floor as he barreled into them, and she fell with them. The third, he grabbed by his shoulders and threw into the wall. The man's cry was cut short as his back snapped and contoured around a dumpster. The two men on the floor, he dispatched one at a time, their heads popping like cherries under the heel of his boot.
He felt good, powerful. For the first time in his life, he felt uninhibited. The crowd still streamed away from the destruction, but they left a semicircle around him and the raw violence that he now found himself capable of producing.
The crowd pressed around him. He caught glimpses of her from time time, but could not find a path through the crowd. He bumped into someone in his frustration and turned to help them to their feet. He stopped. He started forward, shoving his way through the crowd. It was easy. Much easier than he thought. There were cries of outrage in his wake, but no one really wanted to interfere with him after they saw the look in his eyes.
He started to move faster. Slamming into people, watching them fly out of his way. He heard a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a scream of fury and never registered that this horrifying sound was coming from his own throat. He began to run now, as the crowd began to part before him. More afraid of this raging barbarian then the terrors behind.
She was in sight now, being dragged forward dazed and bloody by her three captors. They had half turned at the commotion behind them when he hit them. Two of them were thrown to the floor as he barreled into them, and she fell with them. The third, he grabbed by his shoulders and threw into the wall. The man's cry was cut short as his back snapped and contoured around a dumpster. The two men on the floor, he dispatched one at a time, their heads popping like cherries under the heel of his boot.
He felt good, powerful. For the first time in his life, he felt uninhibited. The crowd still streamed away from the destruction, but they left a semicircle around him and the raw violence that he now found himself capable of producing.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Forging of the Sword
Beginning a sword was not a small task for Verigan. A lesser smith could turn out a dozen swords every day, every one of them identical, but for Verigan a sword was something more. When you came away from Verigan, your sword was an extension of your self. Even the fabled smith-mages of Atlantis had not understood that a GreatSword could not simply be quickened with a piece of its user’s soul. This creates a bond between sword and warrior to be sure, but for the bond to be perfect, the form of the sword had to be an extension of the man.
The Atlantean smiths had never even imagined the artistry that Verigan instilled in the least of his creations. And this could hardly be the least of his creations.
This sword had to be remembered for a thousand years. This sword had to be a legend, as the man who would wield it already was.
A hundred sketches and designs were created and discarded before Verigan found one that felt right. Then it had to be refined and perfected over a dozen more revisions before Verigan pushed his way from his desk and stepped up to his forge.
The fires roared, as if to welcome him.
The Atlantean smiths had never even imagined the artistry that Verigan instilled in the least of his creations. And this could hardly be the least of his creations.
This sword had to be remembered for a thousand years. This sword had to be a legend, as the man who would wield it already was.
A hundred sketches and designs were created and discarded before Verigan found one that felt right. Then it had to be refined and perfected over a dozen more revisions before Verigan pushed his way from his desk and stepped up to his forge.
The fires roared, as if to welcome him.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Nuriel
The beasts were all around Nuriel now and they began to inch closer. Their claws were sharp and their eyes were red and their teeth were yellow. At first they hovered at the edge of the clearing, darting in and out of sight, but as time passed they grew bolder. Nuriel shuddered at their grotesquery.
When they began to get so close that she could almost feel their hot breath on her skin, Nuriel began to sing. At first her song wavered, as though in fear, then suddenly grew stronger. The beasts hesitated. Nuriel’s song burst forth like a sunrise. It rang out triumphant and strong and the beasts howled their terror. Then it changed and thundered of justice and a righteous fury and the beasts fell back as though struck by a mighty blow.
When the sun rose, Nuriel fixed herself breakfast, packed her bags, and went on her way.
When they began to get so close that she could almost feel their hot breath on her skin, Nuriel began to sing. At first her song wavered, as though in fear, then suddenly grew stronger. The beasts hesitated. Nuriel’s song burst forth like a sunrise. It rang out triumphant and strong and the beasts howled their terror. Then it changed and thundered of justice and a righteous fury and the beasts fell back as though struck by a mighty blow.
When the sun rose, Nuriel fixed herself breakfast, packed her bags, and went on her way.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Glory
I was one of the first to fall at Torvean. I had ridden in that first great charge that drove the enemy back from the gates and made us think that victory could be more than just a dream. That’s what finally broke me. I had spent days preparing myself for death. I had convinced myself that I was ready, but when we made that first charge and the enemy fell before us like blades of grass a life-wish rose up inside me and grabbed at my throat. Then an arrow struck my charger mid stride. I remember a sick terror, and then nothing.
When I woke, I was covered in blood. There was a dead body lying across me (to this day I do not know if he was friend or foe) and his blood had covered me. I had landed clear of my horse but my leg was broken and my head throbbed. My first reaction was panicked escape, but when I saw the brutality of the battle raging around me, I froze in terror. I told myself that a man with a broken leg could not make one iota of difference in a battle this large.
I watched for hours, lying under a dead man, as my countrymen died.
Eventually, I could see only death. Then the sounds faded into the distance. Finally I raised my head to look for a way to escape and survive. And I saw them.
There were 12 of them, back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder. The city had been breached long ago by siege tower and malvoisin, but these 12 had the gate from attackers within and without. These 12 held the gate against thousands.
I have heard great fighters described as being like dancers, but here was nothing of a dance in what these men did. Over and over, then enemy would press in on them, trying to bury them with sheer numbers and time and again the enemy would hit their line and collapse before it. From where I stood, their swords looked like fire. Nothing could stand before them.
There was no hope this time. No chance at victory. Theirs was not a sprint to a destination, but a journey towards the horizon. They fought only to continue fighting. I lay, with only a broken leg, and I wept.
Searching around me, I was able to find the tools and materials for a splint. I set the bone and passed out again. When I woke, the battle was over. (Actually, I found out later that the twelve had become eight before pushing their way into the gatehouse. Eventually, they passed out of thirst and were taken unawares.) I had plenty of time and space to get the splint to my satisfaction. Then I rose painfully to my feet and roared my challenge.
In retrospect, I must have looked a damn fool. A single man, in so much pain that his run was more hop than hobble, charging across a sea of the dead and dying. I think the first man that I met was more curious than afraid. His death made the second and third cautious. The fourth, fifth, and sixth came together. After that I lost count.
Eventually, I stood surrounded. A ring of incredulous faces around me. I would try to charge, but they would simply move the ring. Then a man with a quarterstaff stepped forward and, blowing past my guard, struck me a rap to my broken leg. I passed out again.
When I awoke I was the honored guest of “the most glorious leader of the fifth legion of the undying armies”. Such bravery, he said, would honor his tent. So I ate him and talked with him and learned his heathen ways. Later, when they retreated back to their homelands, I was returned with all ceremony to my home and kingdom.
Three of the eight men from the gatehouse had survived starvation and thirst and wounds and infection. I told their story to the king and he gave them title and land. Then they told him of my mad charge on the gates of Torvean. Nobody laughed and I was granted title and lands as well.
My leg healed straight and true.
When I woke, I was covered in blood. There was a dead body lying across me (to this day I do not know if he was friend or foe) and his blood had covered me. I had landed clear of my horse but my leg was broken and my head throbbed. My first reaction was panicked escape, but when I saw the brutality of the battle raging around me, I froze in terror. I told myself that a man with a broken leg could not make one iota of difference in a battle this large.
I watched for hours, lying under a dead man, as my countrymen died.
Eventually, I could see only death. Then the sounds faded into the distance. Finally I raised my head to look for a way to escape and survive. And I saw them.
There were 12 of them, back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder. The city had been breached long ago by siege tower and malvoisin, but these 12 had the gate from attackers within and without. These 12 held the gate against thousands.
I have heard great fighters described as being like dancers, but here was nothing of a dance in what these men did. Over and over, then enemy would press in on them, trying to bury them with sheer numbers and time and again the enemy would hit their line and collapse before it. From where I stood, their swords looked like fire. Nothing could stand before them.
There was no hope this time. No chance at victory. Theirs was not a sprint to a destination, but a journey towards the horizon. They fought only to continue fighting. I lay, with only a broken leg, and I wept.
Searching around me, I was able to find the tools and materials for a splint. I set the bone and passed out again. When I woke, the battle was over. (Actually, I found out later that the twelve had become eight before pushing their way into the gatehouse. Eventually, they passed out of thirst and were taken unawares.) I had plenty of time and space to get the splint to my satisfaction. Then I rose painfully to my feet and roared my challenge.
In retrospect, I must have looked a damn fool. A single man, in so much pain that his run was more hop than hobble, charging across a sea of the dead and dying. I think the first man that I met was more curious than afraid. His death made the second and third cautious. The fourth, fifth, and sixth came together. After that I lost count.
Eventually, I stood surrounded. A ring of incredulous faces around me. I would try to charge, but they would simply move the ring. Then a man with a quarterstaff stepped forward and, blowing past my guard, struck me a rap to my broken leg. I passed out again.
When I awoke I was the honored guest of “the most glorious leader of the fifth legion of the undying armies”. Such bravery, he said, would honor his tent. So I ate him and talked with him and learned his heathen ways. Later, when they retreated back to their homelands, I was returned with all ceremony to my home and kingdom.
Three of the eight men from the gatehouse had survived starvation and thirst and wounds and infection. I told their story to the king and he gave them title and land. Then they told him of my mad charge on the gates of Torvean. Nobody laughed and I was granted title and lands as well.
My leg healed straight and true.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Fly Me to the Moon
John took a leap and drew in a shallow breath. He fucking hated it here. Leap, breath, leap, leap, breath in an endless fucking cycle. He looked around. It was still gray. He fucking hated fucking gray. Everyone else had talked about how beautiful it was, how alien, how untouched, but all he saw was fucking gray sand fucking everywhere.
Back home, people always talked about such and such a place had been really great until the tourists showed up. What this place needed, John decided, was a few fucking tourists. A hotel, a gift show, a fucking bar for Christ's sake.
He stopped, looked up, and shuddered. "Fragile my ass," he muttered. In a picture, maybe. In a picture it MIGHT look fragile, but from up here it looked really fucking intimidating. It looked like you were about to die. Some days it was a monstrosity in the air that was going to fall and crush you, but the worst days were when you realized that YOU were the one in the air. That there was nothing between you and the ground but so many miles of emptiness.
Back home, people always talked about such and such a place had been really great until the tourists showed up. What this place needed, John decided, was a few fucking tourists. A hotel, a gift show, a fucking bar for Christ's sake.
He stopped, looked up, and shuddered. "Fragile my ass," he muttered. In a picture, maybe. In a picture it MIGHT look fragile, but from up here it looked really fucking intimidating. It looked like you were about to die. Some days it was a monstrosity in the air that was going to fall and crush you, but the worst days were when you realized that YOU were the one in the air. That there was nothing between you and the ground but so many miles of emptiness.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The World Burned
It started in China, far from him, in a place he did not know. In the beginning the flames were cool compared to what they would become. They licked across forests and cities and it was several minutes before the mountains melted down, leaving a flat mass, shimmering in the heat.
He walked outside her house, ignoring the rain. His brain would not work properly for the first several minutes. All he could feel was a weight that seemed to hint at future disaster or pain so great that the body will not accept it.
It moved across the oceans and they were vaporized. By the time it made it to Australia and the eastern reaches of Europe, it had reached its full fury.
He began to replay the last several months in his mind. His jokes and her silence. He had known that something was wrong, but he had not imagined the unimaginable.
It began to pick up speed now. Germany, France, England, and Spain never even saw it coming. They had just enough time to feel a flicker of heat and then nothing at all.
He started to ask himself why and then cursed himself roundly. He knew why. He knew EXACTLY why. He had thought that she was above such things, that he had found someone who could look past it, but he had always sensed his mistake.
In the end, there was a brief moment where the whole of existence was her smallish house, alone on a hulking wreck. She even had time to notice that she had lost power before it all rolled on her. It was done.
He walked outside her house, ignoring the rain. His brain would not work properly for the first several minutes. All he could feel was a weight that seemed to hint at future disaster or pain so great that the body will not accept it.
It moved across the oceans and they were vaporized. By the time it made it to Australia and the eastern reaches of Europe, it had reached its full fury.
He began to replay the last several months in his mind. His jokes and her silence. He had known that something was wrong, but he had not imagined the unimaginable.
It began to pick up speed now. Germany, France, England, and Spain never even saw it coming. They had just enough time to feel a flicker of heat and then nothing at all.
He started to ask himself why and then cursed himself roundly. He knew why. He knew EXACTLY why. He had thought that she was above such things, that he had found someone who could look past it, but he had always sensed his mistake.
In the end, there was a brief moment where the whole of existence was her smallish house, alone on a hulking wreck. She even had time to notice that she had lost power before it all rolled on her. It was done.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Mercy
The five companions moved well together. They had come together only recently, and motivated by purely economic considerations, but they moved with the coordination of a team with years of experience. The elven ranger skipped from shadow to shadow, his arrows singing through the darkness to drop enemies. The Eladrin wizard chanted and flame exploded across the field, scorching enemies and leaving them reeling in confusion. Those who managed to push through, slammed into the shield of the Dwarven warrior and were cut down by the human warlord. The Half-Elven cleric healed his companion’s wounds and boosted their strength. Paid to bring down a tribe of goblins, they had fought they were through a series of caves with a growing sense of dread. There was clearly more at work here than simple goblins.
Nonetheless, their goal was near. The elf appeared suddenly behind the dwarf after scouting the next corridor to report that the leader of the goblins was just ahead and he was asleep. They crept into the room with the sleeping goblin lord. As they moved to position themselves to strike the Dwarf tripped on a rock his armor setting off echoes in the sprawling cave. As the goblin sat up the elf leaped forward, his longsword flicking out faster than the eye could follow only to be blocked by an iron bracer. The other companions sprung to attack and the battle was joined. The goblin fought with speed and fury, but he was badly outnumbered and unprepared. When a strike from the elf left a trail of blood along his cheek he threw down his weapons and raised his hands.
"Please!" he squealed, "I killed, but I just wanted to lead my tribe in the ways of war! To show them that I was a great warrior! Then HE came! I don't want to fight for Him anymore! Please, let me live!"
"Very well," said the wizard. "Swear not to follow us and we will let you go."
The elf spun to face him, astonishment in his eyes. "You can't be serious!"
"What? He surrendered. We can't just kill him!"
"Like Hell we can't! He KILLED people! He ADMITTED to killing people! What we can't do is let him go."
"But he surrendered!"
There followed a hasty debate. The ranger and dwarf (chagrined to find themselves in agreement for once) wanted to see the goblin killed. The warlord and the wizard wanted to let him go. Neither side wanted to back down.
Finally, the cleric stepped in. "We have him in our power. To kill him now would not be an act of justice. Rather, we shall tie him up and leave him here. We can come back for him later, and bring him before the proper authorities."
Though no one was happy with this plan, it was agreed upon. The elf trussed him up and hung him on the wall and left to scout the next room. It was a long hallway with a curtained portal at the end showing light and leaking the sounds of revelry. As the companions moved into position, the wizard turned back and stared at the goblin. He flicked his wrist and muttered under his breath, then turned to the business at hand.
This next room, though, was beyond anything they had faced so far. These goblins were organized and numerous. They were strong and well trained. They were prepared. The wizard let loose a wall of fire the engulfed the entire room in flames. The elf set loose a rain of arrows and the cleric set of bursts of radiant light that burned the wicked and comforted the holy. The dwarf and the warlord charged, the dwarf slamming into enemies and the warlord dancing death with his blade.
Suddenly the cleric spun around, just in time to see the goblin king escaping back the way they had come. None of the companions had ever seen him move so fast. None of them had ever seen ANYONE move so fast. With a shout to his God he sent a blast of holy force at the fleeing goblin's back. The goblin fled, but the cleric followed energy pouring from his fingers in an almost continuous stream.
Cleric and goblin were 50 yards away before the others even noticed. The elf shouted a curse and danced after him. The wizard continued to rain fire and the fighters continued their assault, but without the healing power of the cleric, they were rapidly wearing down. The goblins kept coming, pouring into the room like ants. They fought now, on the retreat, backing slowly into a corner so they could defend.
The wizard was the first to fall. A secret door fell open behind him and his powerful magics were no match for the swarm of steel that rushed at him. On his death, an explosion shot forth from his mangled corpse, incinerating all in its path. The dwarf slammed his enemies aside, bulling toward his fallen comrade, trying desperately to preserve him for a later revival. But even his mighty charge was not invincible. A small slip in a pool of blood left him vulnerable and he was quickly dispatched.
The warlord seemed to slow for a second, and then to explode into motion. His sword was faster than lightning. His feet danced a complicated waltz. He was death incarnate and none could stand before his blade. Warriors came at him and then they died, piling at his feet until they almost seemed to form a wall around him. Then the goblin clerics struck, and he was frozen in mid swing, helpless, as he too was cut down.
The cleric sped after the fleeing goblin king. They were running through territory that the cleric knew, ground that he had already seen, and he ran without hesitation. He caught glimpses of his prey and raw force flowed from his God, to his hands, and then at the goblin. They begun to descend stairs into a lower level when the goblin suddenly turned. He shrugged off a bolt of force, seized a knife from one of his fallen guards and flung it at the cleric. The cleric clutched at his stomach and stumbled backwards from the shock of the blow. The goblin king seized another weapon, a sword this time, and charged at the cleric swinging with all his might. As his sword cleft the cleric’s skull, two arrows seemed to grow out of his chest, sprouting twin red flowers. The elf had avenged his comrade, but with no armor and no companions to guard his back he fell quickly to the mob that now pursued him. The lords of death ruled once more.
Nonetheless, their goal was near. The elf appeared suddenly behind the dwarf after scouting the next corridor to report that the leader of the goblins was just ahead and he was asleep. They crept into the room with the sleeping goblin lord. As they moved to position themselves to strike the Dwarf tripped on a rock his armor setting off echoes in the sprawling cave. As the goblin sat up the elf leaped forward, his longsword flicking out faster than the eye could follow only to be blocked by an iron bracer. The other companions sprung to attack and the battle was joined. The goblin fought with speed and fury, but he was badly outnumbered and unprepared. When a strike from the elf left a trail of blood along his cheek he threw down his weapons and raised his hands.
"Please!" he squealed, "I killed, but I just wanted to lead my tribe in the ways of war! To show them that I was a great warrior! Then HE came! I don't want to fight for Him anymore! Please, let me live!"
"Very well," said the wizard. "Swear not to follow us and we will let you go."
The elf spun to face him, astonishment in his eyes. "You can't be serious!"
"What? He surrendered. We can't just kill him!"
"Like Hell we can't! He KILLED people! He ADMITTED to killing people! What we can't do is let him go."
"But he surrendered!"
There followed a hasty debate. The ranger and dwarf (chagrined to find themselves in agreement for once) wanted to see the goblin killed. The warlord and the wizard wanted to let him go. Neither side wanted to back down.
Finally, the cleric stepped in. "We have him in our power. To kill him now would not be an act of justice. Rather, we shall tie him up and leave him here. We can come back for him later, and bring him before the proper authorities."
Though no one was happy with this plan, it was agreed upon. The elf trussed him up and hung him on the wall and left to scout the next room. It was a long hallway with a curtained portal at the end showing light and leaking the sounds of revelry. As the companions moved into position, the wizard turned back and stared at the goblin. He flicked his wrist and muttered under his breath, then turned to the business at hand.
This next room, though, was beyond anything they had faced so far. These goblins were organized and numerous. They were strong and well trained. They were prepared. The wizard let loose a wall of fire the engulfed the entire room in flames. The elf set loose a rain of arrows and the cleric set of bursts of radiant light that burned the wicked and comforted the holy. The dwarf and the warlord charged, the dwarf slamming into enemies and the warlord dancing death with his blade.
Suddenly the cleric spun around, just in time to see the goblin king escaping back the way they had come. None of the companions had ever seen him move so fast. None of them had ever seen ANYONE move so fast. With a shout to his God he sent a blast of holy force at the fleeing goblin's back. The goblin fled, but the cleric followed energy pouring from his fingers in an almost continuous stream.
Cleric and goblin were 50 yards away before the others even noticed. The elf shouted a curse and danced after him. The wizard continued to rain fire and the fighters continued their assault, but without the healing power of the cleric, they were rapidly wearing down. The goblins kept coming, pouring into the room like ants. They fought now, on the retreat, backing slowly into a corner so they could defend.
The wizard was the first to fall. A secret door fell open behind him and his powerful magics were no match for the swarm of steel that rushed at him. On his death, an explosion shot forth from his mangled corpse, incinerating all in its path. The dwarf slammed his enemies aside, bulling toward his fallen comrade, trying desperately to preserve him for a later revival. But even his mighty charge was not invincible. A small slip in a pool of blood left him vulnerable and he was quickly dispatched.
The warlord seemed to slow for a second, and then to explode into motion. His sword was faster than lightning. His feet danced a complicated waltz. He was death incarnate and none could stand before his blade. Warriors came at him and then they died, piling at his feet until they almost seemed to form a wall around him. Then the goblin clerics struck, and he was frozen in mid swing, helpless, as he too was cut down.
The cleric sped after the fleeing goblin king. They were running through territory that the cleric knew, ground that he had already seen, and he ran without hesitation. He caught glimpses of his prey and raw force flowed from his God, to his hands, and then at the goblin. They begun to descend stairs into a lower level when the goblin suddenly turned. He shrugged off a bolt of force, seized a knife from one of his fallen guards and flung it at the cleric. The cleric clutched at his stomach and stumbled backwards from the shock of the blow. The goblin king seized another weapon, a sword this time, and charged at the cleric swinging with all his might. As his sword cleft the cleric’s skull, two arrows seemed to grow out of his chest, sprouting twin red flowers. The elf had avenged his comrade, but with no armor and no companions to guard his back he fell quickly to the mob that now pursued him. The lords of death ruled once more.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Pool
I have always liked heat on my feat. The sand, gravel, anything that gives me a little hop in my step from the warmth. Today, it was whitewashed concrete that made hop. I had just moved up to DC from Blacksburg, VA and was still very much caught up in the culture shock. I was about to discover that I was allergic to air pollution.
I had been living in cheap duplexes of one kind or another for about 8 years, most recently as part of a real estate venture with my dad, so the reality of apartment buildings with on location weight rooms and swimming pools had just set in for me. As hot as it was, it seemed like the perfect time to try out the pool. Had donned a bathing suit, thrown off my shirt and minced my way toward the pool.
I have always empathized with children, so as I got closer to the pool and the screams and shouts began to fill the air my heart started to beat a little faster. I knew that reality would bring me down but I let myself get carried away in the excitement of it all. Until the security guard stopped me.
The pool, he explained, was only for residents.
I replied cheerfully that I had just moved up yesterday and was looking forward to a good swim to de-stress.
The security guard looked me up and down once and explained that he would be happy to let me in if I came back with a drivers license showing my current address.
The lifeguard was much younger than me and very pretty. She was beginning to watch the excitement.
I exclaimed to the guard that only an idiot brings his drivers license to a community pool, and anyway I hadn't gotten around to changing my address yet. The guard was unsympathetic.
Over the next few hours I made no less than six attempts to sneak into the pool room. They ranged from the simple (slipping in while the guard was in the john) to the absurd (the super market was out of jello for a week). Finally, the guard called the police. The police called the rental agency, who verified my story and fired the guard for harassing the tenants.
A month later the guard kicked my door down in a drunken furor. In the ensuing struggle, I stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife. I was cleared at trial, but only after first having to hear a cancer-stricken girl explain how I had first gotten her daddy fired and had then killed him. In my guilt, I turned first to drink and then later to heroin. I lost my job and was evicted from my apartment. With no residency the pool was denied to me forever more.
I took a deep breath, let it slide through my pursed lips, and unclenched my jaw. Maybe I could wait till Monday, I thought, to go swimming.
I had been living in cheap duplexes of one kind or another for about 8 years, most recently as part of a real estate venture with my dad, so the reality of apartment buildings with on location weight rooms and swimming pools had just set in for me. As hot as it was, it seemed like the perfect time to try out the pool. Had donned a bathing suit, thrown off my shirt and minced my way toward the pool.
I have always empathized with children, so as I got closer to the pool and the screams and shouts began to fill the air my heart started to beat a little faster. I knew that reality would bring me down but I let myself get carried away in the excitement of it all. Until the security guard stopped me.
The pool, he explained, was only for residents.
I replied cheerfully that I had just moved up yesterday and was looking forward to a good swim to de-stress.
The security guard looked me up and down once and explained that he would be happy to let me in if I came back with a drivers license showing my current address.
The lifeguard was much younger than me and very pretty. She was beginning to watch the excitement.
I exclaimed to the guard that only an idiot brings his drivers license to a community pool, and anyway I hadn't gotten around to changing my address yet. The guard was unsympathetic.
Over the next few hours I made no less than six attempts to sneak into the pool room. They ranged from the simple (slipping in while the guard was in the john) to the absurd (the super market was out of jello for a week). Finally, the guard called the police. The police called the rental agency, who verified my story and fired the guard for harassing the tenants.
A month later the guard kicked my door down in a drunken furor. In the ensuing struggle, I stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife. I was cleared at trial, but only after first having to hear a cancer-stricken girl explain how I had first gotten her daddy fired and had then killed him. In my guilt, I turned first to drink and then later to heroin. I lost my job and was evicted from my apartment. With no residency the pool was denied to me forever more.
I took a deep breath, let it slide through my pursed lips, and unclenched my jaw. Maybe I could wait till Monday, I thought, to go swimming.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Dragon of Southwick
Delevar peered around the corner of the house again and sighed. "Never in thirteen years..." he muttered to himself, but he knew it was wishful thinking. It had happened in Smithfield and in Candlewick and... well, it happened a lot. He looked around the side of the house again.
Southwick was a small village, just a dozen houses along an old road, with a lawn in the center for livestock. Currently that livestock consisted of about a dozen sheep who were running back and forth across the lawn. The lawn had a luxurious growth of grass, clover, and heather that was only broken in a few places by small burnt out circles where the greenery still smoldered.
The source of this disturbances was a small dragon, about six inches tall and a foot long from the tip of his snout to his forked tail. As Delevar watched, the dragon gave a cry and leaped at one of the sheep. The dragon clung to its back and tried to secure a grip with his teeth, but the thick wool stymied his efforts. With a startled bleat, the sheep shock off the dragon and ran to the other side of the lawn. The dragon hit the ground with enough force to knock away his wind, but with the wind came a puff of flame and another smoldering section of greenery.
Delevar sighed again. He had gotten into the dragon slaying businnes for the glory, but nine jobs out of ten were clearing out a dragon the size of a pig and at least once a year you got a call like this. "Still," he thought, "they all pay the bills." The bills were certainly piling up, so Delevar drew his sword and strode purposefully toward the lawn.
Usually dragons this size stayed away from people. Dragon's were physically mature from the time they left the egg, but they wouldn't reach a size where they would be a threat to humans until they were at least two centuries old and they wouldn't get a human level intelligence for twice that long.
THIS dragon had apparently been caught in the woods by someone's cat. The cat had brought the dragon as a present to a pair of newly weds. The newly weds were less than pleased, especially since their new house was now a burnt shell.
"Maybe I can get this over quick."
Delevar lunged for the dragon, but the dragon skipped away at the last second and launched itself at another sheep. This dance continued for 30 minutes: Delevar chasing the dragon, who was chasing the sheep. Finally Delevar, out of breath, leaned against the fence and slid down to the ground. Dragon slaying was a job for the young, and maybe 35 was just too old. He laid his head back against the fence post and closed his eyes. He hadn't been there for much more than a minute when he heard a chirrup near his hand. The dragon had managed to pull loosed a mass of wool and mud and was tearing off chunks and swallowing them whole.
The dragon dropped a sizeable chunk by Delevar's hand and stared expectantly at him. It chirped again.
"What am I going to do with you?" Delevar sighed.
Southwick was a small village, just a dozen houses along an old road, with a lawn in the center for livestock. Currently that livestock consisted of about a dozen sheep who were running back and forth across the lawn. The lawn had a luxurious growth of grass, clover, and heather that was only broken in a few places by small burnt out circles where the greenery still smoldered.
The source of this disturbances was a small dragon, about six inches tall and a foot long from the tip of his snout to his forked tail. As Delevar watched, the dragon gave a cry and leaped at one of the sheep. The dragon clung to its back and tried to secure a grip with his teeth, but the thick wool stymied his efforts. With a startled bleat, the sheep shock off the dragon and ran to the other side of the lawn. The dragon hit the ground with enough force to knock away his wind, but with the wind came a puff of flame and another smoldering section of greenery.
Delevar sighed again. He had gotten into the dragon slaying businnes for the glory, but nine jobs out of ten were clearing out a dragon the size of a pig and at least once a year you got a call like this. "Still," he thought, "they all pay the bills." The bills were certainly piling up, so Delevar drew his sword and strode purposefully toward the lawn.
Usually dragons this size stayed away from people. Dragon's were physically mature from the time they left the egg, but they wouldn't reach a size where they would be a threat to humans until they were at least two centuries old and they wouldn't get a human level intelligence for twice that long.
THIS dragon had apparently been caught in the woods by someone's cat. The cat had brought the dragon as a present to a pair of newly weds. The newly weds were less than pleased, especially since their new house was now a burnt shell.
"Maybe I can get this over quick."
Delevar lunged for the dragon, but the dragon skipped away at the last second and launched itself at another sheep. This dance continued for 30 minutes: Delevar chasing the dragon, who was chasing the sheep. Finally Delevar, out of breath, leaned against the fence and slid down to the ground. Dragon slaying was a job for the young, and maybe 35 was just too old. He laid his head back against the fence post and closed his eyes. He hadn't been there for much more than a minute when he heard a chirrup near his hand. The dragon had managed to pull loosed a mass of wool and mud and was tearing off chunks and swallowing them whole.
The dragon dropped a sizeable chunk by Delevar's hand and stared expectantly at him. It chirped again.
"What am I going to do with you?" Delevar sighed.
Democracy in Failure
Recently read this:
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5gcjZtRmovjWgMk7ejIoMmap6aN-AD9EL64EO0
It may be cliched but:
"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break the bonds of our affection. The mystic cords of memory stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land will yet swell the chorus of the union when again touched as surely they will be by the better angels of our nature."
-Abraham Lincoln
The cost of our political opinions must not outweigh the gains. We must not tear ourselves apart to make a point.
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5gcjZtRmovjWgMk7ejIoMmap6aN-AD9EL64EO0
It may be cliched but:
"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break the bonds of our affection. The mystic cords of memory stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land will yet swell the chorus of the union when again touched as surely they will be by the better angels of our nature."
-Abraham Lincoln
The cost of our political opinions must not outweigh the gains. We must not tear ourselves apart to make a point.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Vengeful Felines
Three cats strolled into an alley. A girl in a short red dress tried to fight off a man with a scar above his left eye.
Three cats strolled into a house. A young girl tried to look away from the man who was not her father.
Three cats strolled down a dusty street. A Jewish man looked at a gun and saw only his daughter.
Three cats strolled out of an alley. A man with deep cuts on his arms and face slumped against a dumpster. The blood covered the scar above his eye.
Three cats strolled out of a house. A young girl tried to stroke the last one, but he scornfully skipped away. The man who was not her father tried to stop the bleeding from a bite on his neck.
Three cats strolled down a dusty street. A Jewish man muttered prayers to himself and tried not to see what was behind him.
Three cats strolled into a house. A young girl tried to look away from the man who was not her father.
Three cats strolled down a dusty street. A Jewish man looked at a gun and saw only his daughter.
Three cats strolled out of an alley. A man with deep cuts on his arms and face slumped against a dumpster. The blood covered the scar above his eye.
Three cats strolled out of a house. A young girl tried to stroke the last one, but he scornfully skipped away. The man who was not her father tried to stop the bleeding from a bite on his neck.
Three cats strolled down a dusty street. A Jewish man muttered prayers to himself and tried not to see what was behind him.
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